Footboy Tales 1: Psychic Foot Love

While he chewed and lamented his lot in life, the woman drew nearer, smiling, looking right at him. He was a little taken aback at how she seemed to be looking right into his eyes. She stopped briefly to empty her tray into one of the trash receptacles and then place the used tray on top of it. Then she turned back and headed directly for Jim's table. He wondered why she was coming back this way, and not heading toward the exit. Had she left something at her table? He didn't see anything.

She continued to walk directly toward him. Oh, God, he thought, she saw him staring at the other woman's feet and now she was going to give him a hard time, too. Mob mentality. She was going to jump on the band wagon and call him a pervert, too. If the other woman didn't get security, this one just might. So much for thinking she was a nice person.

The woman strode right up to Jim's table, making no noise at all in her sneakers. She stopped at the chair opposite Jim and looked down at him. He waited for the volley of cannon fire and the threats and name-calling that surely must be coming. He closed his eyes. But then he remember that as she approached she had been smiling. Smiling? Was she some kind of psycho who ENJOYED reaming little footboys a whole new one? After waiting several seconds and not hearing any banshee wails, Jim opened his eyes.

The woman was still standing there. And she did indeed smile down at him. She didn't look the least bit angry. What then? Was she going to tell him she knew he was staring at the other woman's feet and that he should be ashamed? Chastise him like a little boy? He couldn't figure this one out.

She stretched out her hand, still looking him directly in the eye. In that hand she held a small piece of paper, folded in half. She waited for him to take it. Finally he extended his hand to take the paper from her, his eyes likewise locked on hers, still waiting.

"That's for you," the woman said, and then fell silent again.

"What is it?" Jim asked suspiciously, still expecting the worst. Probably anthrax, the way my luck's going, he thought wryly.

"I don't have time to stay and chat," the woman said, "I have a lot to do today. But just read the note when I leave. Promise?"

"Uh, yeah, sure," Jim replied, stunned that no axe had fallen. "What is it?" he asked again.

"Just read it. It's self explanatory. Then, if you want, we'll talk again. But I have to go now. Take care." She waved a little finger wave at him and smiled again. It was a pretty smile. Do psychos smile pretty?

She turned and started to walk away from Jim, but only took a few steps before turning back around and saying, "And, you're wrong. Not all of us are hookers. Not all of us want money." Then she turned and walked away. Jim watched her go, admiring her plump behind as she walked. Nice butt, he thought. The woman turned her head back and smiled at him. Jim shivered. He didn't know why.

He looked down at the piece of paper in his hand, wondering if he dared open it. Slowly he screwed up the nerve to unfold the paper and read the contents. There wasn't much written on it. Just a few words. But those words didn't just make him even more suspicious of the woman, they also made his heart skip a beat and his chest heave. Again, he didn't know why. He read the words a half dozen times before they started to sink in. On the seventh try the words made sense. And Jim wasn't sure if that was good or bad. The simple note read:

HELEN

(849-992-6161)

I KNOW YOUR SECRET

CALL ME - YOU WON'T BE SORRY.

Jim came within about five seconds of passing out. He had to put his head down between his knees and breathe slowly and deeply. He wasn't sure what just happened, but in all his days of coming to the Crystal Run Galleria to search for a woman whose feet he could press his lips onto for all eternity, he had never had a day quite like this. The red haired woman he fully understood. She'd caught him gazing at her feet and was neither amused nor understanding. She was angry with a capital "A". Most women don't like having men admire their feet, but most don't get that angry either. Still, it was an understandable reaction. This Helen woman, however, Jim had no idea what to make of her. Okay, so she saw him staring at red hair's feet and knows his secret. But what about this phone number thing? Surely she wasn't going to try to blackmail him? That's just crazy. Looking at someone isn't a crime, especially if that person doesn't make a complaint. So, what then? This was confounding him, and he was pretty sure he didn't like it.

Usually when he went "foot shopping" and failed to see some lovely feet on the first try, he'd move to another table and try again. Maybe he wouldn't get even close to a date with a footsie angel, but at least he'd see some pretty feet and go home with a smile, if not a Foot Goddess. But today was just too brutal (he really felt sorry that the red haired woman was so pissed - it was not his intention) and too... odd. He figured he'd just go home and regroup for his next "foot shopping" excursion to Crystal Run.

He pocketed the note and tossed out his trash, walking dejectedly out of the food court. On his way out, he noticed several possibilities for admiring sweet tootsies, but they were all younger women and not the more mature woman he was seeking... the whippersnappers wouldn't want an old man anyway. So he fought off the urge to sit near those women no matter how pretty their feet were. It wasn't easy, but he felt like he needed to go home for today and figure out what had just happened.

His drive home was quite a bit different from the drive to the mall. His hopes had been dashed, and he was still mulling over this whole Helen thing. What was her angle? The more he thought about it, he really didn't think she had been watching him while he was staring at the red haired goddess's feet, though she certainly could have. He just didn't think so. So how could she know his secret? Did she catch him looking maybe one time and then assume he was interested in the woman's feet? No, he was usually very aware of his surroundings when he went "foot shopping" in case security personnel were hanging around or might show up unexpectedly. He was sure he would've noticed if this Helen had been watching him look at the other woman's incredible feet. He would've known! And why would she approach him? He had to get home and think about this.

When Jim got home he immediately grabbed a beer from the fridge. He plopped down onto his sofa and took Helen's note out of his pocket. He read it another half dozen times. The first two lines seemed simple enough - a name and a phone number. The part that sounded like doom was the third line - "I know your secret." Could almost be threatening. But then the last line, "Call me - you won't be sorry." That sounded more positive than anything else, like he'd be happy he called her. Damn, this was irritating. All right, he thought, I'm gonna put this to bed once and for all. I'll wait a couple of hours, and then I'm going to call this Helen woman and find out what her story is. I can't have this hanging over my head.

Exactly two hours later Jim sat by his phone, absently stroking his fingers along one side near the keys. His other hand tapped out some unknown message on the end table the phone sat on. His eyes stared at the phone as if it knew the answers to his questions and if he asked it nicely it would tell him.

Finally Jim's index finger tapped out the number on the paper: 849-992-6161. He waited. It rang three times, four... then a click as the receiver was lifted.

"Hello, Jim," a feminine voice said, "I'm glad you decided to call. It's me, Helen."

"What?... How?... How did you know it was me? Do you have caller ID and somehow know my number? And how did you know my name? You couldn't have even Googled me without SOME kind of information." He was flabbergasted. He didn't know what he expected, but this certainly wasn't it.

"Well, Jim," she replied with a little chuckle in her voice, "You're not the only one with a secret. I don't know if you believe in such things, but I'm psychic. I can read minds, especially when someone's mind is in a heightened state, like anger or sadness or happiness or... lust. By the way, that woman who was sitting across from you? Wow, she wanted to pluck out your eyeballs. You should've heard some of the things she was thinking about you. X-rated doesn't even begin to cover it."

"Wait, I don't believe in psychics. That's all a bunch of bull. No offense; I'm sure you may THINK you have psychic abilities, but there's no proof whatsoever... "

"Jim, you can't be serious. Would you like me to tell you what YOU were thinking about while you were eating your lunch? And what about my comment that we're not all hookers interested in money? Do you remember where that comment came from? Oh, and, by the way... I'm glad you think I have a nice tush. I've always felt it's a little large, but you seemed to like it quite a bit. So, thank you, that made me feel really good about myself."

Jim's head started reeling again. "No, no," he insisted, "There's got to be some other explanation. Did someone I know put you up to this? Like some sort of weird joke?"

"Well, if that's the case, Jim, then your little foot fetish secret is out, isn't it? Which of your friends do you think knows about that and told me so I can mention it to you as part of a joke?"

Jim swigged down several gulps of beer. He was always very careful to tell NO ONE about his fetish. Life is hard enough without all the toe jam and stinky feet jokes, not to mention the looks people would give him if they knew. So who could've found out? He had to nip things in the bud before they got out of hand.

"Jim? Are you there? Are you okay?"

"Helen, is it? Look, I don't know how you found out, but... "

"Jim, relax, I'm not planning on telling anyone that you like women's feet. Really, I think it's sweet how much you adore them. Honest, I'm not out to get you or anything. So calm down, okay? I'm not your enemy."

"Then what's your angle? You must have one somewhere. And how do you know all that stuff?"

"Jim, if you refuse to believe I'm psychic, I don't know what else I can tell you. Really, how else would I know? How would I know that you were thinking that the only women who want their feet worshipped are hookers out to make a buck? How would I know that, Jim? That's nothing a friend of yours could've told me, is it? And how else would I know that you were thinking I have a nice tush as I was walking away from you this afternoon? By the way, thank you again for that. It made my day, I can tell you."

"Helen, I admit it's odd, but there has to be some explanation... "

"All right, Jim, I'll tell you what. If you need to test me, go ahead. Right here over the phone. Think of something and I'll tell you what you're thinking. Will that convince you?"

Jim felt the hairs at the nape of his neck stand on end. He didn't believe in psychics, but if this woman could indeed tell him what he was thinking, well, he didn't want to think about it. "I'll tell you what, Helen, if you can tell me what I'm thinking right now, I guess I'll have no choice but to believe you, scary as that may be. Okay, so what am I thinking?"

She chuckled again, "Well, you're really jumbled up at the moment. Apparently your mind is still thinking about my butt, probably because I just brought it up. Your mind is also babbling something about being sorry I was wearing sneakers today. That's kinda sweet, really. But the main thought in your mind is about the Giants' chances of winning another Super Bowl. Jesus, you guys and your sports. What men think is important is just mind boggling. Of all the things to think about as a test for my abilities, the only thing you could come up with is football? How boring. So, Jim, how'd I do?"

"Damn," Jim sighed, "I guess I have no choice. Apparently you can read minds. So, what's that got to do with me? Why did you give me that note at the mall today?"

"Because I have a proposition for you. Well, an offer, I guess. Something I think, based on what I learned today at the mall, will appeal to you. Care to hear it, Jim?"

"I might as well," Jim replied, feeling at a disadvantage, "You've gone this far."

"Well, Jim, it's like this. You were really sad today about that red-haired woman and how she reacted to your... admiration... for her feet. I'd say you were heartbroken. And a little bit scared she might clock you, which, between you and me, wasn't entirely out of the question. It was touch and go there for a while, believe me. But, that's neither here nor there. After she stormed off you were pretty down about not being able to find what you call a Foot Goddess. Your thoughts on that were crystal clear. In your mind, worshipping a woman's feet is like your Holy Grail. You seem to want that more than anything else. Would that be a fair assessment, Jim?"

Embarrassed, Jim nonetheless realized he couldn't very well hide anything from this woman, so he just quietly agreed, saying "Well, yeah, it's pretty important to me. But it hasn't happened in fifty years, so it's not gnonna happen at all. We all have to learn to live with disappointments."

"You mean by hanging out at the mall hoping for a glimpse of pretty feet and maybe meeting a woman who wants you to hug and kiss her feet?" She didn't mean it to sound quite so cruel, but it did, and Jim was more hurt than angry.

"Well, we can't all be perfect, Helen. Some of us get the gift of being a psychic, others get the gift of wanting to kiss someone's feet. You got the nice gift, I got the curse. Sorry if I don't live up to your high standards."

"Oh, Jim... I'm sorry. I didn't mean that to sound the way it did. I wasn't judging you, honest. I just think there's got to be a better way for you to find your Foot Goddess. And I might be able to help."

Jim laughed. "Oh, really? You know a way I can find the woman of my dreams? You know how many women out there think guys with foot fetishes should be dumped in the ocean to become fish food?"

"I'm sure there are many of them, Jim, but I'm not one of them. In fact, I think you wanting to worship a woman's feet is... erotic. No man's ever wanted to worship my feet, so I think any man who considers kissing a woman's feet to be an honor - the way you do - is about as desirable a man as there could be."

Jim was stunned. He could barely breathe. He had no idea how to respond to Helen's comments. So Helen continued while he thought about it.

"Jim, I swear to you that what I'm about to say is the truth. I have ALWAYS fantasized that a man is so madly in love with me that he kisses my feet every chance he gets just to prove it. He thinks touching his lips to my feet is an honor he doesn't deserve and a gift from me that he will forever be grateful for. The man I fantasize about goes absolutely crazy every time I take off my shoes. My feet are his world. He can't get enough of them, and that's exactly how I like it. Every time his mouth caresses my feet in any way I feel more and more like a goddess and he feels like the luckiest man in the world. Ever since I was a teenage girl I've longed for that kind of worship and I'd dearly love it to be reality rather than just fantasy. So, believe me, Jim, I completely understand your desire to smother a woman's feet with affection. I live that same fantasy from the other side."

Jim was so aroused by what Helen had just said that he could barely control his urge to pleasure himself. His thoughts were so jumbled that Helen's head was beginning to hurt. To try to get Jim to focus, she continued letting her feelings be known.

"Jim, I know the kind of person you are. You don't just want to worship a woman's feet for your own ends. You truly want to worship a woman, ongoing, twenty-four seven, not just when your hormones are up. For you worshipping a woman's feet is a way of life, not just a turn on. I know that even if you had ten orgasms and couldn't possibly get another erection, you'd still want to worship your woman's feet for as long as your hands and lips and tongue could keep going. Even if you were neutered - God forbid - you'd worship a woman's feet because you genuinely believe that her feet deserve no less than total devotion. The sex part isn't what motivates you. The worship is. And that's what I want from a man, Jim. I want a man who isn't just happy to take his place at my feet, but who is GRATEFUL to be there, and I mean genuinely grateful, and for the long haul, not just until he comes. It's after the orgasm occurs and the man is no longer able to 'rise to the occasion' that you learn who the true foot worshippers are. They're the ones who keep worshipping without the promise of sexual gratification, the ones who do it because they believe in it, because they live for it." Helen's thoughts were beginning to get jumbled now. Her own hormones had come rushing to the fore, and she was blurting out her own desires now. She was breathing as heavily as Jim was. Without intending to, they had made a very strong connection over the telephone.

It was several minutes before either Jim or Helen spoke again. Both were lost in their own thoughts and desires, Helen's so strong that she temporarily was unable to perceive Jim's in her mind. But she knew what he was thinking anyway.

"Helen?" Jim asked finally, "Is all of that true? I can't read minds like you can."

"It's true, Jim. When you were drooling over that woman's feet today at the mall, I was so jealous that you wanted to curl up at her feet and stay there that I could've chewed through concrete. You were sighing over her feet like a puppy hoping for a treat and she had no interest in that kind of attention from you or any other man... or woman for that matter. It was just so unfair that my feet have wanted that kind of worship for years and here you are fawning over her feet when she doesn't even want it. Do you have any idea how nuts that made me, Jim?"

"Well, Helen, I mean... if I could've seen your feet... maybe... but you were wearing sneakers."

"Oh, I know. I kicked myself all the way home. I have some really sexy shoes, too. Today I was just too lazy to get dressed up nice. I didn't even put makeup on. I just had so much to do that I wanted to get in there, shop and get out. If I had known someone like you was going to be there, I'd have worn the sexiest shoes I have and made sure I could slip my feet out of them for you. I'd have teased the living shit out of you, Jim. Your eyes would've fallen out of your head with the toe wiggling I'd have had let you feast your eyes on. And Jim?"

"Yes, Helen?" he answered, still visualizing what she'd just told him.

"Jim, I'm telling you the truth here. I know I'm no beauty queen, but I'm all right. And thanks again for liking my fanny, by the way. God I love that. Anyway, what I want to tell you - and I'm not lying - I have the kind of feet you dream of. I can read your mind, remember? I know your taste in feet. I'm a little tall for a woman, so I have size 8-1/2 feet, slender and sexy. They're soft and smooth and I don't have bony toes. They're slender, too, long and slender and pretty, always painted nice. And they're oh so soft, like tender little bits of licorice, supple and sweet. The kind you could suck on all day. There aren't any veins on my insteps, my heels are sexy and my ankles are subtle and kissable just the way you like. My arches are just the way you like them, too, deep enough to put your whole face in to kiss and nuzzle them.

I have to warn you, though, Mike, you'd get addicted to the base of my toes. It's always so warm and sweet smelling down there, you'd never want to take your nose or lips away from that spot. And between my toes? Like licking cotton candy - tasting toes that melt in your mouth. I wasn't wearing socks in my sneakers today, Jim, and if I'd slipped off my sneakers you'd have forgotten all about angry red-haired lady's feet and come crawling over to mine. I kid you not.Jim. If you ever see my feet, you WILL be instantly addicted to them. My feet will ruin you for any other feet on this planet. Sorry, hon, it's just the God's honest truth."