A friend of mine told me about foot fetish parties where men paid her to let them worship at her feet. After trolling “Adult Gigs” on Craig’s List for a while, I found a dungeon in New York that was hosting a foot party and impulsively went to my first one about six months ago.
The mistress of the dungeon told me to dress sexy. I thought that meant sexy date outfit. She actually meant underwear. Despite the fact you are only selling your feet, maximum exposure of skin is the standard for a foot party. Youthful (teenage, even) appearance is almost always the look of choice – the clients pay for full access to something akin to a girl’s locker room or slumber party.
Men at foot parties can be divided into six overlapping categories: massagers, toe suckers, ticklers, tramplees, foot job guys and sissy boys/voyeurists. Fetishes invariably take on a different coloring when they are transformed into paid services. Everything looks a bit more bizarre under the bordello-red lighting of a dungeon, even a fetish as “tame” as foot worship.
Some foot guys feel more comfortable paying to worship foot models than they do asking their significant other to fulfill their desires to, say, suck toes. This fact became most apparent to me when a client once told me not to trample on his chest too hard in my heels because “his wife would see it.” This made me feel like I was in a bad Lifetime movie, invariably playing the role of the hooker.
The massagers are the kind of guys who would eagerly offer you a backrub at a bar if you looked stiff. Many of these men are themselves the ones who believe their fetish is wrong or weird; they need these parties to accept their fetish as natural. They straddle the fence between acceptance and scorn, and they are willing to believe that at some point they can gain social acceptance.
When a client admits to me that he wants a foot job (and often, it does come out as an admission), it is unsurprising. The secrecy seems an attempt to pretend that foot worship is somehow disconnected from getting off. The existence of foot jobs dispels the myth that, somehow, going to a foot party is different than calling an escort.
The “real money” is made by those workers who will go beyond foot work. In contrast to freelance fetish workers, our financial category is rigid: always $20 for ten minutes, no matter what.
Some girls aren’t even in it for the money. At one recent party, three girlfriends from a college in Pennsylvania showed up wearing matching boy briefs with phrases like “Cheeky” etched on the back. For these girls, foot parties are the moral equivalent of “Girls Gone Wild”: a bit scandalous, but in the end, morally excusable.
Sometimes the atmosphere of house or hotel room parties is so casual that the girls forget they are working. One foot model I work with usually spends most of her night chatting with the same guys, does only a few sessions and leaves with under a hundred bucks.
The foot party environment seems to be based on the foot guys not wanting to be lumped in with other fetishists, though they inevitably are. To them, slave boys, panty sniffers and wusses begging for a spanking are the perverts, but foot guys are “normal” men with “normal” sexual urges who, happen to fantasize about women’s feet.