--- Okay, right off the bat I know there will be some who have their doubts about this long-ago (1985) episode, but it actually occurred,... more-or-less as I am describing here,.... and it just goes to show you what can happen on a placid Saturday morning when you live alone and out-of-the-way,.. have a shot or two of brandy in your morning coffee, and just "maybe" some creativity-inducing herb.
--- I was living in a tiny, secluded cabin in the woods where I almost never had a visitor, but at about ten AM on this Saturday morning, the doorbell actually rang. I'd just stepped out of the shower, and was wearing this old and preposterous floor-length burgundy velvet robe,.. origin unknown. So I answered the door.
--- My eyes must have widened considerably at the sight of a gorgeous woman,... tall, statuesque, possibly some Caribbean heritage - I don't know - and I guessed her to be mid-forties or so. Actually, she looked pretty surprised to see a 30-year-old guy with long shaggy hair and beard, and wearing that outlandish robe. But she put aside her surprise and launched into her fast-paced introduction.
--- Turns out she represented one of those churches which are decidedly evangelistic,.. visit everyone once a year,.. and have little magazines to sell. I idly listened to the speech, but my eyes were drawn to her black high heels (no stockings), and the capricious little voice in the back of my mind was already saying, "Why not?" (Okay, it was really good smoke) The upshot of the lady's visit was simply that she wanted to come in and talk to me about her church. The sixty seconds of her little speech were all it took for an outrageous inspiration to take form in my head,.. and the robe furnished all the credibility I required.
--- And let me digress a bit here to mention that I have always been drawn to those unreal and visceral experiences,.. in which your stomach is doing a little flip and you can't believe you're actually going through with some improbable gambit,... something I've likely experienced no more than three or four times in my entire 55 years. And I've also made a practiced study of the approach I call the "nervous confession," in which faux self-consciousness is employed to elicit the sympathies of a young lady hearing about my foot fetish for the first time. And I can be pretty glib.
--- I went into a practiced routine of nervous stammering, informing the lady (her name was Mary) that I was studying for the Franciscan Order, and was currently living my required year of solitude and meditation before further matriculation through the order. (She seemed duly impressed by this) And then I graciously invited her to come in, saying that I would be happy to talk to her, but that I still had to observe the tenets of the order. And she said, "Okay."
--- Staying in my fumbling and self-conscious personna, I ushered Mary into the living room, saying that I would get us some coffee as she seated herself on the sofa. And I returned with the coffee in just a few moments, but then went back to the kitchen. When I reappeared in the living room, I was carrying an antique ceramic basin and a small pitcher of lukewarm water. A towel was draped over my arm. Now it was Mary's turn to be a little wide-eyed.
--- Visibly shaking and stammering with every word, I set the basin and pitcher down at Mary's feet, and explained that the order required me to wash the feet of anyone who entered my home,..... but no one outside the order had ever entered before. Mary seemed pretty nervous about this, herself,.. but she softened when I extended my "trembling" hand halfway towards her feet and stopped. I was shaking like a high school senior trying to pin a corsage on his prom date's busom while her father looked on.
--- Indeed, the beautiful evangelist did soften, and I will remember this sequence of events as long as I live. She smiled sympathetically, propped the heel of one shoe against the toe of the other, slipped the shoe off..... and extended her bare foot not towards my hand, but over the basin. She said something consoling, too, but damned if I can remember what it was. I was looking at a gorgeous caramel bare foot,... large, maybe size ten,... still showing the crinkley little lines from the shoe,.. perfectly proportioned (according to my own engineering specifications, anyway) and hovering just inches from my waiting fingers. This is where my stomach does that little flip,.... and now my quite-genuine quaking seemed perfectly in-character.
--- Cupping her heel in my left hand, I reached for the pitcher with my right hand. And as I slowly dribbled the water over her foot, I let my fingers stray over her sole and gave a furtive glance upward. All at the same time I felt the foot flinch in my hand and saw Mary looking me right in the eye,.. the corners of her mouth crinkling as she said, "Yes, I'm a little ticklish." I was dizzy. A little more dribbling, a few more tickles and a muffled giggle,.. and that foot was done. I reached for the towel. It was crunch time.
--- After drying Mary's foot,... another subtle tickle and a suppressed giggle,... and without any other warning, I leaned over and kissed Mary's foot just above the cleavage of her toes. I could have predicted her reaction.
--- She froze solid,.. every muscle clenched,.. and sort of moaned-murmered "Ohhhhhhhhhhhhh." When I looked up, she said rather breathlessly, "I've never had anyone kiss my foot before." But the deed was done,... I was still alive and in high gear,... and ad-libbing like a madman.
--- I grinned and said, "Yeah,.... it's part of the ritual. I hated it when my Father Superior was here,... but it wasn't so bad with you." At this Mary seemed to return to that softened state, and she laughed easily at my little "joke." Then she followed my gaze as I looked toward her other foot. She gave what I would call a "stage-gulp" and allowed me to lift her foot and remove her shoe.
--- The water-pouring and foot-drying procedures were repeated,.. and yes, with a few more innocent tickles,... Mary's giggles were more relaxed and natural,... and when the drying was done, I looked up expectantly. She was smiling and biting her lower lip,... waiting,... and I leaned in once again and kissed her foot (Okay, this time I may have lingered a nanosecond longer. I was dying to do the tongue-between-the-toes, but us Franciscan monks-in-training are supposed to avoid that, I'm sure) But I DID give her foot one parting and decisive heel-to-toes finger stroke... at which she quickly withdrew her foot and bubbled over with now-comfortable laughter. That was enough for me. I remarked that she had probably learned more about the Franciscans than she wanted to know, (she smiled broadly at this) and that now it was her turn to tell me about her church.
--- And so it went. The events that I've just so elaborately described actually occupied no more than two or three minutes. I retreated to an armchair,.... Mary left her heels off for a couple of minutes for a little further drying, I guess,.... and if there was a downside to the whole experience, it was that I then had to sit and be attentive to Mary's practiced little talk about the ______ church.
--- But you know what? I didn't mind at all. I even bought the magazine.
--- I was living in a tiny, secluded cabin in the woods where I almost never had a visitor, but at about ten AM on this Saturday morning, the doorbell actually rang. I'd just stepped out of the shower, and was wearing this old and preposterous floor-length burgundy velvet robe,.. origin unknown. So I answered the door.
--- My eyes must have widened considerably at the sight of a gorgeous woman,... tall, statuesque, possibly some Caribbean heritage - I don't know - and I guessed her to be mid-forties or so. Actually, she looked pretty surprised to see a 30-year-old guy with long shaggy hair and beard, and wearing that outlandish robe. But she put aside her surprise and launched into her fast-paced introduction.
--- Turns out she represented one of those churches which are decidedly evangelistic,.. visit everyone once a year,.. and have little magazines to sell. I idly listened to the speech, but my eyes were drawn to her black high heels (no stockings), and the capricious little voice in the back of my mind was already saying, "Why not?" (Okay, it was really good smoke) The upshot of the lady's visit was simply that she wanted to come in and talk to me about her church. The sixty seconds of her little speech were all it took for an outrageous inspiration to take form in my head,.. and the robe furnished all the credibility I required.
--- And let me digress a bit here to mention that I have always been drawn to those unreal and visceral experiences,.. in which your stomach is doing a little flip and you can't believe you're actually going through with some improbable gambit,... something I've likely experienced no more than three or four times in my entire 55 years. And I've also made a practiced study of the approach I call the "nervous confession," in which faux self-consciousness is employed to elicit the sympathies of a young lady hearing about my foot fetish for the first time. And I can be pretty glib.
--- I went into a practiced routine of nervous stammering, informing the lady (her name was Mary) that I was studying for the Franciscan Order, and was currently living my required year of solitude and meditation before further matriculation through the order. (She seemed duly impressed by this) And then I graciously invited her to come in, saying that I would be happy to talk to her, but that I still had to observe the tenets of the order. And she said, "Okay."
--- Staying in my fumbling and self-conscious personna, I ushered Mary into the living room, saying that I would get us some coffee as she seated herself on the sofa. And I returned with the coffee in just a few moments, but then went back to the kitchen. When I reappeared in the living room, I was carrying an antique ceramic basin and a small pitcher of lukewarm water. A towel was draped over my arm. Now it was Mary's turn to be a little wide-eyed.
--- Visibly shaking and stammering with every word, I set the basin and pitcher down at Mary's feet, and explained that the order required me to wash the feet of anyone who entered my home,..... but no one outside the order had ever entered before. Mary seemed pretty nervous about this, herself,.. but she softened when I extended my "trembling" hand halfway towards her feet and stopped. I was shaking like a high school senior trying to pin a corsage on his prom date's busom while her father looked on.
--- Indeed, the beautiful evangelist did soften, and I will remember this sequence of events as long as I live. She smiled sympathetically, propped the heel of one shoe against the toe of the other, slipped the shoe off..... and extended her bare foot not towards my hand, but over the basin. She said something consoling, too, but damned if I can remember what it was. I was looking at a gorgeous caramel bare foot,... large, maybe size ten,... still showing the crinkley little lines from the shoe,.. perfectly proportioned (according to my own engineering specifications, anyway) and hovering just inches from my waiting fingers. This is where my stomach does that little flip,.... and now my quite-genuine quaking seemed perfectly in-character.
--- Cupping her heel in my left hand, I reached for the pitcher with my right hand. And as I slowly dribbled the water over her foot, I let my fingers stray over her sole and gave a furtive glance upward. All at the same time I felt the foot flinch in my hand and saw Mary looking me right in the eye,.. the corners of her mouth crinkling as she said, "Yes, I'm a little ticklish." I was dizzy. A little more dribbling, a few more tickles and a muffled giggle,.. and that foot was done. I reached for the towel. It was crunch time.
--- After drying Mary's foot,... another subtle tickle and a suppressed giggle,... and without any other warning, I leaned over and kissed Mary's foot just above the cleavage of her toes. I could have predicted her reaction.
--- She froze solid,.. every muscle clenched,.. and sort of moaned-murmered "Ohhhhhhhhhhhhh." When I looked up, she said rather breathlessly, "I've never had anyone kiss my foot before." But the deed was done,... I was still alive and in high gear,... and ad-libbing like a madman.
--- I grinned and said, "Yeah,.... it's part of the ritual. I hated it when my Father Superior was here,... but it wasn't so bad with you." At this Mary seemed to return to that softened state, and she laughed easily at my little "joke." Then she followed my gaze as I looked toward her other foot. She gave what I would call a "stage-gulp" and allowed me to lift her foot and remove her shoe.
--- The water-pouring and foot-drying procedures were repeated,.. and yes, with a few more innocent tickles,... Mary's giggles were more relaxed and natural,... and when the drying was done, I looked up expectantly. She was smiling and biting her lower lip,... waiting,... and I leaned in once again and kissed her foot (Okay, this time I may have lingered a nanosecond longer. I was dying to do the tongue-between-the-toes, but us Franciscan monks-in-training are supposed to avoid that, I'm sure) But I DID give her foot one parting and decisive heel-to-toes finger stroke... at which she quickly withdrew her foot and bubbled over with now-comfortable laughter. That was enough for me. I remarked that she had probably learned more about the Franciscans than she wanted to know, (she smiled broadly at this) and that now it was her turn to tell me about her church.
--- And so it went. The events that I've just so elaborately described actually occupied no more than two or three minutes. I retreated to an armchair,.... Mary left her heels off for a couple of minutes for a little further drying, I guess,.... and if there was a downside to the whole experience, it was that I then had to sit and be attentive to Mary's practiced little talk about the ______ church.
--- But you know what? I didn't mind at all. I even bought the magazine.
