that damn twelfth option
If you to any self-respecting porn site, an oxymoron I realize, you will see no less than a hundred categories. I myself visit upwards of ten, perhaps eleven if I am in the mood to see what Housewives are up to.
That leaves eighty nine undiscovered. Which leads me to ask myself if I am just a simple man with simple tastes or if I am a coward, scared to plumb my own sexual subconscious.
I fear it’s the latter.
Because of something that happened years ago but still haunts me.
During an amorous encounter with a girl she started to suck on my toes. Having never put feet on the sexual menu before I began to object… until I realized what was going on with my private parts. They were responding with a great deal of enthusiasm. I realized that whatever she was doing was working.
I did not return the favor however because she had feet like Wilma Flinstone. Too big. Too wide.
Yabba dabba don’t.
I never revisited feet and it only recently occurred to me how different my life would have been if that girl had been sporting adorable little piggies.
I might have developed a foot fetish. A real full-blown fetish. Oh joy!
I might have gotten a job at Famous Footwear.
I might enjoy watching soccer more.
I’ve mentioned this before, but there is a picture I saw as a kid of a pile of amputated feet outside of a doctor’s tent during the Civil War. I can still see it to this day. If I had sucked the toes of that girl would that picture now turn me on? Would I imagine myself strolling casually by the pile and sneaking a few feet into my bag as I walked by to bring home for further use?
Just the fact that feet and feat sound alike seem to indicate I’m missing out on something.
And there are eighty nine other categories.
Schoolgirls and grandmas. Fat and skinny. Asian and Latinas.
And bondage. Rope and masks and rubber balls for fuck’s sake.
I’ve never been tied up. I’ve never wanted to be tied up.
Is there something wrong with me?
I feel like I’m missing out. I would love to be one of those guys with a terrible secret. Leading a seemingly normal life but then slipping out Friday night at 2 a.m. to visit a seedy club or dwelling in the shady part of town. Being led down rickety stairs into a basement somewhere to fulfill some dark need. Dripping pipes overhead (and not just the plumbing).
What if what I was into was illegal?
I can’t imagine anything better.
Perhaps having to move to some distant country where their laws were perhaps a little more flexible in the morality department.
I just feel that girls would know when they met me. They’d look into my eyes and think “Well here’s trouble” and then they’d end up begging me to let them come with me as I fled into the night, the police hot on my trail.
But no, the girl had big feet and I’m still too uptight to walk into an adult bookstore. Even alone at my keyboard, I’m scared to click on anything outside my comfort zone for fear of being watched by some government perv agency.
“We got a hit in Philadelphia. Sick bastard. Send the team to arrest him.”
Then I think maybe …
“We got a hit in Philadelphia. Sick bastard. Send him an invite to our next get-together.”
The eternal ‘might’ or flight scenarios doing battle in my head.
“If little else, the brain is an educational toy. The problem with possessing such an engaging toy is that other people want to play with it, too. Sometime they’d rather play with yours than theirs. Or they object if you play with yours in a different manner from the way they play with theirs. The result is, a few games out of a toy department of possibilities are universally and endlessly repeated. If you don’t play some people’s game, they say that you have “lost your marbles,” not recognizing that, while Chinese checkers is indeed a fine pastime, a person may also play dominoes, chess, strip poker, tiddlywinks, drop-the-soap or Russian roulette with his brain.”
― Tom Robbins, Even Cowgirls Get the Blues
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