As promised, here’s the Last Hurrah column about foot fetishism that Wick spiked. It was supposed to run in the July issue of D, but he didn’t think it was appropriate for the pages of the magazine (if you want a fuller explanation, you’ll have to ask him for it). No worries, though. The replacement column is probably funnier.
After attending a foot fetishism party, this little piggy went wee, wee, wee, all the way home. by Tim Rogers
As it turns out, a foot fetishism party does not resemble a chess club meeting. That’s how one of the foot guys had described the party to me. But I’ve attended a few chess club meetings, and at not one of them did I see a man nearly swallow a woman’s foot. No, I’d say foot fetishism parties, at least judging from the one I went to, are more like middle-school dances. Allow me to explain.
I arrived at Iniquity fashionably late, around 11:30. Ever heard of Iniquity? No? It’s a private club over on Composite Drive, two doors down from Trail Dust, that bills itself as “the finest lifestyle club for couples in Dallas/Fort Worth.” Let’s agree to call it a swingers’ club–albeit a high-toned one. But this was a Tuesday night, when Iniquity is normally closed. So no swingers. Just men who like feet and women who have them.
For me, the $65 cover was waived. You know, because I was a member of the Fourth Estate doing the people’s business. Inside, the place wasn’t exactly hopping. Eminem’s “8 Mile” played at a volume low enough to make conversation possible. Disco lights flashed across an empty dance floor. Roughly 47 people milled about. Okay, maybe it was 48. Here and there, a foot session was underway, where a guy was snuggling up with a woman’s feet or kissing her toes. But I also saw a few groups of women sitting at tables by themselves, their feet going unappreciated by guys in Dockers who were clearly too shy to approach them (the women or the feet).
I caught up with our host, Steve Savage, at the bar, where I appeared to be the only one drinking, since Iniquity doesn’t sell alcohol and I was the only one who’d had enough sense to bring a six-pack of Shiner and I wasn’t sharing. Savage is a barrel-chested connoisseur of feet from South Africa (he’s from South Africa; he likes feet of every nationality). Savage lives in Las Vegas, where he threw his first Footnight party three years ago. Now he holds regularly scheduled Footnights all over the country.
Savage said that 90 guys had RSVPed for this, the inaugural Footnight in Dallas, but only 24 had shown up. He said that was to be expected. The guys get cold feet (sorry). Some even drive to the venue, circle the block a couple times, then leave.
Savage lit a cigarette and started reminiscing about the time he had seven women stand on his face. “It was amazing,” he said. “They had to be helped up, feet on top of feet. I’ll admit it was a little extreme. I wouldn’t do it again. Someone explained to me that my skull could just pop like an egg.”
The DJ played J-Kwon’s “Tipsy,” which I think is a pretty catchy song, but still no one got up to dance. Savage excused himself, and I sidled over to a woman standing by herself at the end of the bar. She was wearing fishnet hose and high-heeled shoes that looked more like sculpture than footwear. In Footnight promotional material, I had read that Footnight models are “the type of girls that you see at the mall, the bank, or your local Starbucks that make you turn your head and think to yourself, Damn, she is HOT! Would I love to worship those feet!!!!” In the interest of journalism, I wanted to see if this claim was true.
The woman’s name was Jenny, and I can confirm that, depending on where you live, you could indeed see Jenny at your local Starbucks. She looked to be in her late 20s. She’d heard about Footnight from a “help wanted” ad on Craig’s List. A foot session costs $20, and Jenny had only made $40, but that was fine with her, she said. By day, Jenny is a part-time accountant. When she isn’t accounting, she sells “high quality” porn, a business she got into only because her friends kept telling her that she had good taste in the genre. Something else I found interesting about Jenny: she owns 300 pairs of shoes, and she, like me, does not have cable television. Though her reception is worse than mine. She only gets channels 23 and 4.
But the most curious thing about Jenny was that nearly her entire foot, up to the arch, fit into Steve Savage’s mouth. I learned this fact shortly before the party ended. Savage came up, asked Jenny for a session, and the next thing I knew, I was watching him tear through her fishnet hose with his teeth (and with permission).
So do you see what I’m saying? Except for the obvious differences–it was held in a swingers’ club, and guys were paying to canoodle with and/or devour girls’ feet–Footnight was just like a grade-school dance. Many of the attendees were too shy to approach each other, and you had to bring your own hooch. And just like in grade school, when the lights came up, I was ready to go home.