Anyone who knows me knows I have a massive hatred of feet. I do not want you touching me with your feet, nor will I ever give you a foot massage. I find feet to be soldiers of repulsion and wish to be nowhere near your wiggling nubs of disgusting.
Cue my next date, who says to me virtually out of nowhere: “I bet you have nice feet.”
Mind you, it is cold out, I am wearing jeans and boots, and unless this guy has X-ray vision, there is absolutely no way he could predict this.
“Actually, I don’t,” was my response, hoping it would wipe the fetish-loving grin off of his face.
I take that opportunity to talk about my nightmarish paws, sparing no detail on the bunion size and freakishly long second toes. The smile quickly faded into a scowl of disgust, resulting in the date coming to its conclusion.
I am a freak. I know this. I, at the very least, TRY to fly my freak flag at half mast for at least one date or two. Do you see me on a first date whipping out pictures of my lover Rick Astley as I rub my inner thighs gently?
Airing your sexual fetishes on a first date is creepy. You are 36, balding and you don’t exactly have a six pack. Do you really have room to dismiss me based on my jacked up feet alone? At least wait for me to get caught stealing the half drank dusty bottle of rum (blasphemy!) from your grandmother’s house before dismissing me.