Feet

"What is it you like to do?" he asked, innocently enough.

Meet Arthur. A lawyer with a blinding smile, a full head of hair and enough wit to keep me interested. It was our first date and what I didn't know was that we walked into this with two very different agendas.

"What do you mean? In general?" I replied.

"Well, sure, but also, sexually?" he answered.

I turned red (it happens more frequently than I would like, and not like a cute, 'I'm blushing' red, but a ripe tomato red that burns up your cheeks). It's not that I'm a prude, and in fact, Arthur and I met during what I would call a sexual walkabout of mine. You know, that period where you've just broken up with somebody and you just sleep with a lot of strangers. Relatable, right? I digress...Arthur's question just caught me off guard because when I had met him at my friend's party, I just assumed that this was going the kind of scenario that has more potential than a one night stand. Finally, I mustered up and replied.

"Pretty much the basics" I answered.

"Oh, no fetishes?" I asked. I thought he was kidding.

"Like what, a foot fetish? Bondage? Furry play?" I laughed as I said each out loud.

"The first." He went silent, and I realized he was not, in fact, kidding.

At this point, I was so red I was sweating. I didn't really know what to say, but in mind a laundry list of things went through my head:
1. I had not clipped my toe nails in a week
2. It was summer, and my feet and had been sweating all day
3. Feet are fucking disgusting

I changed the conversation and started rambling about my job, and then the subway, and then how good the wine was. Basically anything to stop talking about the F word. He let me squirm my way for another 45 minutes before he finally asked if I wanted to go home with him. I did: he was hot. But I just kept thinking about my feet. And then his feet. And then my feet. And him licking my feet. And in a moment of panic, I did the only thing I knew how to do: I spilled wine all over myself. Yes, for some reason I thought this would make it better. And I didn't gently knock the class, I pretty much just dumped it upside down and screamed "OH SHIT THIS IS AN EXPENSIVE SWEATER" and then proceeded to turn more red, and sweat more, and then threw $20 on the table and left.

I never saw Arthur again, but my friend told me he moved to LA. I imagine most people there have nicer feet than I do, so it's probably better for him anyway.

GOOD LUCK!

I had been on 6 dates with Jeff. Smart, funny and one of the most handsome guys I've ever dated, I often found myself wondering how I had managed to make it past the first date, let alone several later. We met up during the week and we began discussing Saturday night plans: I was throwing a birthday party for my friend at my apartment, and he was attending an engagement party. Thus, neither one of us would be free, so we left it by assuming we would each see each other sometime the next week.

Cut to Saturday night, we've both had a bit too much to drink and begin texting each other, planning on how we would meet up. His friend's engagement party was winding down while the birthday party I was hosting was winding up, so it seemed only natural for him to come to my house, to meet 15 of my friends, all while I'm just adding sheets to the wind.

Upon arriving, I announce he cannot take his shoes off because my animal friends have knocked over so many glasses, we can't guarantee we've gotten all the shards off the floor (strike 1). My roommate at the time then grabs him and takes him to the bathroom to "fix his hair" and proceeds to interrogate him while dousing him in hairspray (strike 2). When he arrives back at the party, another friend, thinking she's whispering, begins to tell me how cute he is and how I did a good job picking him out, but I realize she is blatantly pointing at his friend. When I attempt to correct her, she shouts "Oh, well you've made a mistake then" (strike 3).

He makes it about 30 minutes before I suggest we go to a bar to get away from my friends. My roommate will cleanup behind us and they will meet us out. That is, before I shuffle him and his friends out and tell my roommate not to let anyone leave the apartment until I get him 1000 feet away from everyone.

Now, I've never really been one for PDA, so I don't know why I did this, but as we're walking the 5 blocks to the bar, I try to take his hand. Like a hand to the stove, Jeff recoiled so quickly I didn't even know how to react, and this is when I realized the night was not going my way. He proceeds to provide an excuse on how he's just not that into holding hands and he hopes I understand, and I give him the benefit of the doubt.

We enter the bar and I see a friend from California, and I go and say hi without telling Jeff where I was going or who this guy is. Yes, it was totally my mistake, but Jeff got furious with me. After 5 minutes of talking to my long lost friend, Jeff approaches and says he's leaving. When I try to explain myself, he's not having it, and rightfully so. I follow him out of the bar, but he's already leaving and I do the only thing I can think of and text him. But, when I wake up the next morning, I realize all I've managed to text is two simple words: GOOD LUCK! Yes, capital letters and an exclamation point, just to make sure I got the point across. I'm not sure what drunk me meant by it, but I can only imagine from the lack of response from Jeff when I tried to apologize that he interpreted it as a passive aggressive farewell of sorts.

I sometimes see Jeff around the city and while we're always cordial, we've never addressed my text. He often asks, with a smile, how my friends are that he met that night. He seems to be happy with his new love, so I guess he won overall. But I will forever be able to text any of my friends from that night "GOOD LUCK!" and get a knee-slapping laugh out of it. Even if I don't have a boyfriend, and least I have my jokes, right?

...RIGHT?!