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.