Footboy Tales 1: Psychic Foot Love

Middletown, New York - not exactly a Times Square shopping Mecca or a Rodeo Drive, but the Crystal Run Galleria there is quite a decent little shopping mall that would make any town proud. On weekends it bustles with activity and it's many stores attract a plastic-wielding herd of shoppers eager to swipe that plastic through encrypted billing devices and part with their hard-earned cash.

Every late spring, summer and fall (as soon as the weather warms up and those flip-flops and sexy open-toed shoes come out of the closets) for the last few years Jim Sutherland has gotten into his car and made the thirty mile trip to the Crystal Run Galleria for a day of what he calls "foot shopping." Oh, he might visit a store or two, maybe plunk down some bucks for an item now and again, but his priorities lie elsewhere. Having exhausted all other options for connecting with a Foot Goddess who could appreciate his many talents and enjoy his thorough and satisfying attentions, he was reduced to hanging out in the mall food court and looking under nearby tables to ogle the pretty feet of various women His unwavering hope was that one of them would notice and approve of his admiration for their feet and claim him as her personal foot pamperer, instantly whisking him off to begin his long and happy life at her feet. Oh, the power of hope.

But Jim was no longer a spring chicken. His years of hard work, coupled with health issues, had taken their toll. While he was a big man and maybe a bit depressed by life's disappointments, he still felt he had a lot to offer. In his mid-fifties, he might not be able to play middle linebacker anymore, but he knew he could please a woman who enjoyed having her feet properly tended to. And at this point in his life, it was the one joy that had always escaped him, to literally worship a woman's feet. That was all he wanted, to adore and spoil those lovely soles and wiggling digits for hours on end and make a woman squeal with pleasure as he made her feet feel brand new whenever he was allowed to service their every need. And what was so wrong with that?

He knew what was wrong with that. He, and other foot worshippers like himself, could never understand why all women didn't like their feet being adored - fondled reverently, kissed passionately, massaged and pleased in every way imaginable. Oh, sure, many women love having their feet massaged. And they like when men want to comfort them that way. But if a man wants to do more for their feet, or if he himself gets pleasure from her feet, well then he's immediately labeled a pervert. Women dress up their feet in sexy shoes and paint their toenails and wear toe rings and ankle bracelets, all rendering their feet even more appealing to the eye. But if a man admires all that hard work and good taste, the woman runs for the hills, usually calling for help as she's racing off.

All of that has made it hard for Jim to connect with the Foot Goddess of his dreams. And all he asks for is the honor of worshipping a woman's feet - and thereby the woman herself - in the hopes of making her feel adored, desired and truly worshipped. Now, many foot fetishists want to get their hands on a woman's feet and suck on them and drool all over them until they get their rocks off. Those men don't deserve to worship a woman's feet, because they make that act about themselves instead of about the woman. If a man is allowed to worship a woman's feet, she is giving him an honor that should not be cheapened by lust. Men who want to suck toes and ejaculate give the rest of us a bad name, and maybe that's part of the stigma that foot lovers have to deal with. If one foot fetishist rips off a woman's shoes and runs off drooling, then women think we all do that. It holds us all back. Those of us who truly desire to worship a woman's feet, regardless of whether there's sexual gratification involved or not, suffer because of the out of control actions of a few. This fact is something that's been stuck in Jim's craw for a long, long time - that a woman's concept of him as a foot lover could be tainted by the reckless actions of others. Jim's desires are much more of a giving nature. But women don't see that. And thus he, like most foot admirers, are forced to keep their desires secret, buried deep within their hearts, never able to admit them to a woman they love for fear of rejection.

So it has come to this. When exactly Jim became so pathetic as to have to troll mall food courts to sneak peeks under tables at lovely painted toes or soft arches, hoping for a woman to kick off her shoes when he's lucky enough to be nearby, is beyond him. But all other methods of meeting women into foot worship (as rare as such enlightened creatures are) have failed, and this is how low he had sunk. Gazing at women's feet while they sit sipping coffee or eating a meal. Lord, what HAD he come to? But still, any port in a storm as they say. When one has needs or desires, one has to find some way of getting them met.

Hence Jim's warm weather excursions to the Galleria to hopefully catch a few glimpses of feet that he can worship from afar if nothing else. A sad state of affairs, but better than nothing. And every now and again he would spy an exceptionally lovely pair of feet that would inspire many satisfying fantasies. Not the ideal situation, but hey, it's better to see beautiful feet and lose them, then to never have seen them at all. Or... something like that.

And so it was that on this bright, late spring day that the lovely weather inspired our poor, unwanted foot worshipper to get himself out of the house and do a little "foot shopping" for those pretty feet in their skimpy

summer footwear.

Jim was actually trembling with anticipation as he rifled through his closet for his favorite t-shirt, his red Bazinga! Big Bang Theory shirt with Sheldon's geeky puss plastered on it. But then he spotted his It's Clobberin' Time! t-shirt with the Thing on it and hesitated. Maybe that one instead. Or Stinky's Pub or the one with the cover of X-Men #1 on it. He laughed. He wondered who was the bigger geek, Sheldon or himself. In the end, he went with the Bazinga! shirt. He put it on, tucked it into his ever-present blue jeans and belted up. Then he put on his white athletic socks and black New Balance sneakers and topped everything off with his New York Giants Super Bowl XLVI Champions baseball cap. He was as debonair as he was ever going to get. Look out, ladies, here comes your heartthrob geek foot worshipper! Prepare to be swooned!

The drive to the mall was excruciating. He was so foot horny that his mind was racing with all sorts of fantasies of women catching him ogling their feet and then whipping off their shoes just for him, teasing him with their luscious tootsies and winking at him for him to come over and give their pretty toes a big kiss. The erection stretching the crotch of his jeans was achingly persistent. It would be satisfied with nothing less than two soft, sexy feet wiggling their toes under his quivering chin. Jim sighed and stepped on the gas. He just couldn't wait to see if there were any gorgeous peds slipping out of their shoes or plopped up on chairs in the food court. Oh, God, if only one woman noticed him admiring her feet and actually approved, or just giggled, or maybe teased him with her feet, that would make the whole day worthwhile. Come on, God, PLEASE, let this work just once! Let this be the day. Just this one time, that's all I ask. I'll start giving to charity. I'll help old ladies cross the street. I'll stop calling my brother-in-law "the miser." ANYTHING!

Jim parked his car near the mall's movie theater, which was just below the food court. He rushed to the escalator, which wasn't fast enough, and took the rising stairs two at a time anyway. Not bad for an old dude, he thought. Arriving on the upper level, he then made a beeline for the food court. Ah, it was perfect.

It was crowded enough to mean that there might be quite a few opportunities for foot viewing, but not so busy that there was no place to sit. Nice. That's the beauty of going to the mall on weekdays as opposed to the insanity of the weekends. Since he'd taken early retirement, that meant he could come here on weekdays often throughout the summer months, thereby increasing his chances of meeting his one true Foot Goddess... if she existed at all.

Not wanting to look suspicious sitting at a table with no food or drink, Jim bought two slices of pizza and a root beer. He noticed with a frown that Nathan's Hot Dogs had left the food court. That saddened him because he'd always been an avid hotdog lover. What was this world coming to when even a Nathan's can't stay in business?

Carrying his tray, Jim moved to the far rear of the food court, his favorite section. It was a large tabled area that looked almost like a greenhouse. It's three walls and roof were all made of sectioned glass, allowing the maximum sunlight to shine through. There were a couple of large, fake trees around the square bordered bases of which tables were arranged, but that wasn't where Jim liked to sit. He preferred to sit somewhere along the far back glass wall. Here, tables were arranged along the glass outer wall and, about five feet to the side of each, usually along the square borders holding the trees, other tables were lined up, one behind the other. The outer wall tables and the ones running parallel to them along the tree bases were staggered just enough that if you sat at one you could look to your left or right (depending on which seat of the table you sat at) and have a clear view of the legs and feet of whomever sat at the table to the side of yours. It was perfect for "foot shopping." The reason why Jim liked this section best was because the tables mentioned were all small, two-seater tables, and a lot of women sat by themselves at these. After all, if he was going to have any chance whatsoever of meeting his Foot Goddess, she certainly wouldn't be engaging him in teasing or even conversation if she already had company.

Eagerly anticipating what lovely ladies might be sitting back here, and which might be wearing flip-flops or sandals or kicking off their shoes to comfort their feet, Jim looked about with anticipation, hoping to see a woman at least in her forties who might have the feet of an angel. He wasn't even concerned with looks. In his desire to be a woman's foot worshipper, he could overlook a lot for a pretty pair of feet. From past experience he also knew that the sexier the feet, the prettier the woman looked to him. Funny how that worked. He had no explanation for it, but if a woman was willing to offer him her feet for worship, she would look more and more like a true goddess with every kiss she allowed him to plant on her feet. That's just the way his love of feet had trained his mind to see things. She who wants her feet worshipped becomes a goddess in all ways, not just those succulent, playful toes.

But, despite the perfect amount of shoppers present and the gorgeous day, things still didn't seem to be going Jim's way. Of the approximately twenty tables lining the window, about half of them were occupied, which normally would've made for a wonderful selection of possible foot viewings to choose from. But, of the nearly a dozen occupied tables, at least four were occupied by couples. Of the remaining seven or eight, two were occupied by very young girls, probably mall employees. Oh, that would not be a good risk at all. Besides, women under the age of thirty just didn't thrill Jim anymore. Bummer. From a quick glance, that left about five tables. At one sat a man in a business suit. Crap. Now he was down to four. At one was an older woman - probably seventies - with what appeared to be a grandchild. Only three left. All three were occupied by women sitting alone. Okay, well, that was something at least.

Far back by the two community rooms, a woman who appeared to be in her mid fifties sat eating a slice of pizza. She was slightly full-figured, with long, polished fingernails and dressed casually in a loose-fitting blouse and jeans. Her face was devoid of makeup but still pretty, although appearing very tired. Her hair was blonde and just barely made it below her ears, the locks looking as tired as the pretty face. Alas, she wore sneakers, and didn't seem the least bit inclined to kick them off. The next table, about five tables closer, was occupied by a well-dressed woman in a black skirt and red blouse. She, too, was slightly more curvy but had nice legs and wore black flats that could easily be kicked off. But, on closer inspection of her face, she wore a scowl and her mouth attacked her food as if each morsel that went into it had somehow offended her and deserved a crushing, painful revenge.

His last hope turned out to be a pleasant surprise. A very pretty woman in a long, flowing summer dress. She appeared to be maybe mid-twenties to thirty years old. Face done up with an expert hand. Lush lips and big, blue eyes. Long, curly red hair well below her shoulders. Slim and fit, You could both see and feel her energy. And, my oh my, what lovely high heeled slides! Beautiful blue-painted toes. Jim was in love. He wanted to marry her... or at least hug her feet.

Jim made a beeline for the table nearest hers and to the woman's left, trying not to look like he was too anxious to sit there. Just as he sat down the woman in the black skirt and red blouse finished torturing her food and got up, storming off as if someone had just urinated in her Wheaties. Wow, Jim thought, dodged a bullet there.

When the scowler had stomped off, the woman at the table a few tables behind her - the woman in the jeans and sneakers - looked up from her pizza and smiled at Jim. She still looked pretty to Jim, but he was here on a mission, and there was no way he could approach a woman wearing sneakers and tell her how lovely her feet were. So, politely, he smiled back and prepared to eat his own pizza and ogle the feet of his newfound goddess.

Not more than five minutes had passed when the red-haired owner of Jim's heart slowly slid both of her feet out of her shoes, bracing her pretty, blue-lacquered toes on the heels of her shoes and gently rocking the shoes back under her feet. Jim watched this with great interest. Next, the woman slid her feet back down the length of her shoes, but did not put the shoes back on. Instead, she rested her feet on top of her shoes. Jim now had an unobstructed, complete view of both those lovely gems. They were awesome. Slim feet, long slender toes, kissable ankles, heels that looked smooth enough to fall asleep on... they put the "a" in "awesome" all right.

Jim stared at those feet with a wistful, almost begging puppydog look on his face. He sighed and started fantasizing. Oh, if only he could just kiss one of those delectable toes. Maybe just rub his cheek along her instep. Run his tongue for just a second along her arch. Put one succulent toe in his mouth and savor its sweetness. Oh, sweet Lord, what perfect feet. He wondered if he should get down on his knees and ask this goddess if he could worship her feet for a century or two. But, suddenly, the feet rushed back into their shoes. Jim's heart broke. He blinked, trying to pull back into focus that lovely vision of those elegant feet fully exposed and resting peacefully on top of the sexy shoes.

And then he happened to look up. His goddess was looking over at him - or, rather, glaring. Her eyes were as crimson as her hair, twin slits of anger. Her lush lips were parted, showing teeth that seemed to want to gnaw on Jim's face. The scowl this sweet-toed beauty blasted at Jim made the food-molesting woman in the black skirt and red blouse look as though she'd been smiling angelically throughout her meal. In short, his goddess was not happy.

Jim immediately looked back at his tray and the half-eaten pizza, fearing the worst. He was sure his former foot goddess was going to clock him upside the head with one of those shoes he so admired just a few minutes earlier. Staring down at his pizza, he waited for the hammer to fall. It didn't. Rolling his eyes as far to his left as he could without moving his head in the slightest, Jim was able to see the former owner of his heart out of the corner of his eye. She was still eating, but she now had the same look on her face as had the woman who seemed to hate her food. What's more, she had moved her feet as far back and to her right as she could, affording Jim only a miniscule, mostly blocked view of them. Jim knew in his heart that she had caught him looking at her feet and definitely did NOT approve. Disappointed, he asked himself why all the women in the world never liked having men admire their feet. That was something he'd never understand even if he lived to be a thousand.

A few minutes later, the red-haired beauty finished her meal, noisily (aka angrily) crumbled up the various wrappers and slammed them and several utensils into the paper bag they'd come in, and stood up as if she were planning to chew someone out. Jim knew who that someone would be. But the chewing out never occurred. Instead, the woman stormed past Jim in a huff. As she passed him, she said, loudly enough for him to hear, "Fuckin' pervert." The breeze of her hasty exit tickled the side of Jim's face. He was too scared to follow her with his eyes. He figured if he did that, and she turned to find him looking at her, she would stomp back and get all ugly in his face. That would be very embarrassing. If she raised enough of a stink, he could even get not only thrown out of the mall, but banned from ever coming back. Discretion was the better part of valor.

Jim didn't feel comfortable again for something like five to ten minutes after the irate woman left. Then he started to relax, and even got up the courage to look around to see if the woman was still around, or maybe heading back to his table with mall security in tow. He sighed when she was nowhere to be found. But he still feared she might bring back security, so he pondered whether or not to leave the mall for that day and try again on another, perhaps when someone above smile down on him rather than sending a flock of birds to drop their last meal on him.

Sitting back in his chair, Jim ran his hands through his hair and collected himself. Some Foot Goddess, he thought. Broomhilda the Utterly Mad is more like it. Geez, you'd think I kidnapped her child or something. All I did was admire her feet. That's all. What's so terrible about that? He sat back in his chair with his eyes looking up through the glass at the blue sky. He wondered why God hated him, why God wouldn't help him find a woman who would give him the one honor he wished for more than anything in the world - the honor of worshipping her feet for hours on end, doing his best to make her feet - and her - feel like the most important things in the universe. Why is it the only women who actually want foot worship from a man are hookers, who only do it for the money? The ones who sell their shoes or socks or stockings, or maybe even their feet themselves for the right price. "Don't you think you should pay tribute to kiss my feet?" they ask, when in reality it's all about the money and not the worship. There are no real women out there who want their feet worshipped. The ones who do are all just prostitutes, selling their feet rather than their pussies. God, this world sucks.

Lamenting yet another dismal failure, and debating whether he was in the mood to try again at a different table, Jim stopped looking at the sky and reached down to snag his last piece of pizza crust. Just as he poked it into his mouth and began to chew, he happened to see the woman at the far table getting up and preparing to leave. He thought she looked like a nice person, someone he wouldn't mind knowing. Yeah, right, he scolded himself, if she knew you like feet, she'd run like hell, too - probably belt you with Louisville Slugger on her way out, too. Jesus, all I want to do is adore one pretty pair of feet. Why is that so much to ask, God? Why?