It was as painful as it looks. I had stubbed my big toe a week earlier, but by the time I spanked her, it was already on the mend. It's all better now, thanks.
Showing posts with label foot fetish. Show all posts
Showing posts with label foot fetish. Show all posts
Thursday, August 26, 2010
HNT
It was as painful as it looks. I had stubbed my big toe a week earlier, but by the time I spanked her, it was already on the mend. It's all better now, thanks.
Thursday, August 12, 2010
Thursday, July 29, 2010
HNT
Preparing to take the stage at the Highline Ballroom for last night's Moth GrandSlam, I was nervous that I had chosen a story too awful for the given theme, “the point of no return.”
This was my first time to make it to the Moth’s championship round of storytelling competition. Like the nine other storytellers on the bill, I had won a previous StorySlam before moving to the GrandSlam. Competitors had been provided with the evening’s theme about two weeks prior to the event. Given the five-minute time limit and what I’ve so far ascertained about the audience’s familiarity with subjects I generally address as “Jefferson,” I felt a keen awareness of the challenges in choosing a story and telling it well.
A few days prior to the GrandSlam, I scrapped the story I had chosen in favor of something much more raw. The story went back two decades and yet its new revelations were only days old. As I told my story, I found myself shaking with a mix of emotions—fear, rage, numbness—and the audience’s dead silence as my only feedback.
I came in second place.
It’s not a story I anticipate telling on this blog, so to those who heard it live, thanks for allowing me to share it even as I’m not sure what happens next.
Welcome to those who found me through the Moth. By way of introduction, be aware that my blog isn’t safe for work, as I write graphically about sex. I also write about parenting, dating and relationships—our secret, but these are the real subjects of my sex blog—and each Thursday, you’ll keep up with the ongoing adventures of my right foot.
If your heart aches for stories of love and loss, you might start by reading Old Roads. If hot sex is more to your liking, that all began with my first post nearly six years ago. To keep up with my day-to-day meanderings, follow me on Twitter.
Enjoy.
Thursday, July 22, 2010
HNT
Remains of a spontaneous summer night: depleted condoms, shredded panties, leftover limes, empty tonic and one-third of the feet implicated.
Thursday, July 15, 2010
Thursday, July 08, 2010
HNT
Kay and I watching the sunset in advance of the fireworks display on Independence Day. The photo is a little blurry, but then, so were we.
Our search for a small town in which to celebrate the Fourth took us to the lovely harbor town of Port Jefferson—the friendliness of the village’s name being an additional lure. There, we saw fireworks, watched a parade and fucked in the back of a Hummer. I love this country.
Independence Day is a special holiday for me, in that it the anniversary of the end of my marriage. Following a disagreement about a business trip I made, and after months of bitter feuding and vast silences, my ex wife exiled me to an apartment owned by her father. He encouraged me to go, saying his daughter would never calm down until she had time to get over her rage. I moved out on Independence Day. That was seven years and two custody cases ago. Perhaps, one day, my ex wife get past her rage. Perhaps, by that time, she’ll see that it no longer impresses me.
Kay and I talked about this anniversary as the sun set. “I know the divorce was hard,” she said, “But I’m lucky your ex wife wasted your marriage.”
“Me too, honey,” I smiled. "Independence ain't bad."
Thursday, June 17, 2010
Saturday, April 11, 2009
Ablutions
Three years in, this conversation shows no sign of ending.
No matter the meanderings or dead-ends or cul-de-sacs at which we arrive, there are a never-ending supply of detours in the forms of “yes, but” or “and, also” to get us back on track (or is it off track?) in our determination to try every path afforded by deep insight, mindless observation or the discovery of some story left untold.
If there are brief blips in the conversation—if she crushes on another man or becomes too annoyed by someone I’m dating—the acceleration that follows more than makes up for lost traction.
As the conversation never truly abates, we have no choice, it seems, but to bring it with us when we have other things to do. We converse as I cook, we converse as we write, we converse when we have sex—generally to the amusement of others who may be present—and we converse as I go about housekeeping and errands.
Three years with Cody underfoot, I might have thought we knew pretty much all there was to know about one another’s thoughts and habits.
One morning, she was pursuing a point with me when I interrupted to say that I needed to shower before heading to an appointment. My departure would necessitate a pause in the conversation, so she followed me to the bathroom to talk as she joined me in the shower. I listened as I lathered and rinsed her body before turning to my own. I soaped from top to bottom, as usual, and leaned slightly against the tiles, standing on one leg as I scrubbed the sole of my foot.
Cody watched as water cascaded around her neck. “Oh my God, I can’t believe you still do that,” she said.
“And I can’t believe you still don’t,” I replied, putting down the scrubber and reaching for a pumice.
“But Jefferson, it makes no sense to wash the bottoms of your feet! Look.” She stomped in the water racing to the drain. “See? You’re standing in water. Your feet are automatically clean. That’s just ridiculous and redundant.”
I made a point of washing carefully between each toe. “It’s a part of your body that comes in contact with the floor, with your socks and shoes. You don’t always wear socks with your Chucks, so you should take special care of your feet.” I held my foot to the stream of water leaving her body, stood on the opposite leg and began to clean my other foot.
“But that’s absurd,” she laughed. “No one does that. You’re absurdly concerned with your feet.”
I stopped and turned my leg. “Well, I do have nice feet, don’t I?”
She splashed me. “You’re ridiculous. Now, what were we talking about?”
I pumiced my heel. “DeLillo, trauma theory, Zac Hanson,” I prompted.
“Oh, right! Baby Zacky, he’s so cute. But seriously, okay, so when Tower Two fell . . .”
That night, Cody reported to her cousin Reynolds that I stubbornly continue to wash the soles of my feet. Reynolds, a fastidious gay teenager, laughed.
“But Cody, did you tell him? No one does that.”
“I know, I told him! Maybe it’s a Southern thing.”
“Could be inbreeding,” Reynolds mused. “Did he have shoes growing up? He might be overcompensating.”
The next morning, Reynolds mentioned to his mother that “Cody’s special friend” washed the soles of his feet when he showered. Cody’s aunt, a well-put-together Manhattanite, scoffed.
“But why would anyone do such a thing, Reynolds? If you’re in a shower, your feet are automatically cleaned.”
“That’s just what Cody told him, and yet he insists on washing them with his hands.”
“With his hands?” His mother grimaced. “Disgusting!”
Reynolds and Cody often enjoyed making fun of his mother’s overreactions. When Reynolds reported his mother’s response, Cody repeated the story to her younger sister. Michelle, a suburban teenager who showers twice daily, once in the morning, again before bed, dropped her jaw.
“Well, our aunt is crazy. But who washes their feet? I mean, come on, that’s gross.”
“It’s so unnecessary!” Cody exclaimed.
“I know!” her sister agreed. “Maybe he has to do it because he’s old. Does he have disgusting old man feet?”
“I don’t think so,” Cody thought. “They just look like, I don’t know, feet.”
Cody began to wonder if maybe taking such care of one’s feet was a special concern as one aged. That evening, as her mother made dinner, Cody mentioned my showering habits. “You don’t wash the soles of your feet, do you, Mom?”
Her mother looked up. “Well no, I don’t think I ever have. The only time my feet are washed like that is when I get a pedicure. But of course, I’m not the one washing them.”
“Well, naturally, those women are paid to wash your feet. It’s their job. Probably some health code thing. But in the shower, your feet are cleaned automatically, right?”
“I never really thought about it,” her mother replied. Cody mentioned that she had asked Reynolds and Michelle about this, and neither of them washed the soles of their feet either. Nor did Reynold’s mother, the sister of Cody’s mother. “And you say Jefferson washes his feet? Soap and water?”
“And some stone thing.” Cody sighed. He says it’s normal. I’m sure it’s not.” She paused. “Is it?”
Her mother thought as she stirred a sauce. “Hang on, just a moment.” She wiped her hand on a paper towel and reached for her phone. She pushed a button. “Hi Mom, it’s me. Yes, just cooking dinner, pasta. Can I ask you a quick question? Do you wash the soles of your feet? . . . Yes, in the shower. Or I guess the bath.” She looked at Cody for confirmation. Cody nodded. “Well yes, that’s what I thought, too. They get cleaned automatically . . . Oh, no reason, just something on television. Okay, look, I need to finish dinner. I’ll call afterward. Love you, too.” She hung up.
“So Grandma doesn’t wash her feet, either?” Cody asked.
“No, she doesn’t.” Her mother placed the phone on the counter and returned to her sauce.
“Huh.” Cody watched her mother’s face, lost in thought. “So, do you think I should ask Dad?”
Her mother furrowed her brow. “No, let’s not. I’m wondering: what if it’s just my side of the family? Maybe your father shouldn’t know about this.”
“Oh my God, Mom!” Cody raised a hand to her mouth. “Were we supposed to be washing our feet, all this time?”
Her mother looked at her. “I really need time to think about this.”
Cody related this story the next time we showered together. I shook my head, clucking my tongue. “Someone should do a study,” I said, offering my pumice. “On the phenomenon of the dirty-footed family.”
Cody stomped her feet near the drain. “Ridiculous,” she asserted uncertainly.
No matter the meanderings or dead-ends or cul-de-sacs at which we arrive, there are a never-ending supply of detours in the forms of “yes, but” or “and, also” to get us back on track (or is it off track?) in our determination to try every path afforded by deep insight, mindless observation or the discovery of some story left untold.
If there are brief blips in the conversation—if she crushes on another man or becomes too annoyed by someone I’m dating—the acceleration that follows more than makes up for lost traction.
As the conversation never truly abates, we have no choice, it seems, but to bring it with us when we have other things to do. We converse as I cook, we converse as we write, we converse when we have sex—generally to the amusement of others who may be present—and we converse as I go about housekeeping and errands.
Three years with Cody underfoot, I might have thought we knew pretty much all there was to know about one another’s thoughts and habits.
One morning, she was pursuing a point with me when I interrupted to say that I needed to shower before heading to an appointment. My departure would necessitate a pause in the conversation, so she followed me to the bathroom to talk as she joined me in the shower. I listened as I lathered and rinsed her body before turning to my own. I soaped from top to bottom, as usual, and leaned slightly against the tiles, standing on one leg as I scrubbed the sole of my foot.
Cody watched as water cascaded around her neck. “Oh my God, I can’t believe you still do that,” she said.
“And I can’t believe you still don’t,” I replied, putting down the scrubber and reaching for a pumice.
“But Jefferson, it makes no sense to wash the bottoms of your feet! Look.” She stomped in the water racing to the drain. “See? You’re standing in water. Your feet are automatically clean. That’s just ridiculous and redundant.”
I made a point of washing carefully between each toe. “It’s a part of your body that comes in contact with the floor, with your socks and shoes. You don’t always wear socks with your Chucks, so you should take special care of your feet.” I held my foot to the stream of water leaving her body, stood on the opposite leg and began to clean my other foot.
“But that’s absurd,” she laughed. “No one does that. You’re absurdly concerned with your feet.”
I stopped and turned my leg. “Well, I do have nice feet, don’t I?”
She splashed me. “You’re ridiculous. Now, what were we talking about?”
I pumiced my heel. “DeLillo, trauma theory, Zac Hanson,” I prompted.
“Oh, right! Baby Zacky, he’s so cute. But seriously, okay, so when Tower Two fell . . .”
That night, Cody reported to her cousin Reynolds that I stubbornly continue to wash the soles of my feet. Reynolds, a fastidious gay teenager, laughed.
“But Cody, did you tell him? No one does that.”
“I know, I told him! Maybe it’s a Southern thing.”
“Could be inbreeding,” Reynolds mused. “Did he have shoes growing up? He might be overcompensating.”
The next morning, Reynolds mentioned to his mother that “Cody’s special friend” washed the soles of his feet when he showered. Cody’s aunt, a well-put-together Manhattanite, scoffed.
“But why would anyone do such a thing, Reynolds? If you’re in a shower, your feet are automatically cleaned.”
“That’s just what Cody told him, and yet he insists on washing them with his hands.”
“With his hands?” His mother grimaced. “Disgusting!”
Reynolds and Cody often enjoyed making fun of his mother’s overreactions. When Reynolds reported his mother’s response, Cody repeated the story to her younger sister. Michelle, a suburban teenager who showers twice daily, once in the morning, again before bed, dropped her jaw.
“Well, our aunt is crazy. But who washes their feet? I mean, come on, that’s gross.”
“It’s so unnecessary!” Cody exclaimed.
“I know!” her sister agreed. “Maybe he has to do it because he’s old. Does he have disgusting old man feet?”
“I don’t think so,” Cody thought. “They just look like, I don’t know, feet.”
Cody began to wonder if maybe taking such care of one’s feet was a special concern as one aged. That evening, as her mother made dinner, Cody mentioned my showering habits. “You don’t wash the soles of your feet, do you, Mom?”
Her mother looked up. “Well no, I don’t think I ever have. The only time my feet are washed like that is when I get a pedicure. But of course, I’m not the one washing them.”
“Well, naturally, those women are paid to wash your feet. It’s their job. Probably some health code thing. But in the shower, your feet are cleaned automatically, right?”
“I never really thought about it,” her mother replied. Cody mentioned that she had asked Reynolds and Michelle about this, and neither of them washed the soles of their feet either. Nor did Reynold’s mother, the sister of Cody’s mother. “And you say Jefferson washes his feet? Soap and water?”
“And some stone thing.” Cody sighed. He says it’s normal. I’m sure it’s not.” She paused. “Is it?”
Her mother thought as she stirred a sauce. “Hang on, just a moment.” She wiped her hand on a paper towel and reached for her phone. She pushed a button. “Hi Mom, it’s me. Yes, just cooking dinner, pasta. Can I ask you a quick question? Do you wash the soles of your feet? . . . Yes, in the shower. Or I guess the bath.” She looked at Cody for confirmation. Cody nodded. “Well yes, that’s what I thought, too. They get cleaned automatically . . . Oh, no reason, just something on television. Okay, look, I need to finish dinner. I’ll call afterward. Love you, too.” She hung up.
“So Grandma doesn’t wash her feet, either?” Cody asked.
“No, she doesn’t.” Her mother placed the phone on the counter and returned to her sauce.
“Huh.” Cody watched her mother’s face, lost in thought. “So, do you think I should ask Dad?”
Her mother furrowed her brow. “No, let’s not. I’m wondering: what if it’s just my side of the family? Maybe your father shouldn’t know about this.”
“Oh my God, Mom!” Cody raised a hand to her mouth. “Were we supposed to be washing our feet, all this time?”
Her mother looked at her. “I really need time to think about this.”
Cody related this story the next time we showered together. I shook my head, clucking my tongue. “Someone should do a study,” I said, offering my pumice. “On the phenomenon of the dirty-footed family.”
Cody stomped her feet near the drain. “Ridiculous,” she asserted uncertainly.
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