What does “foot” got to do with it

foot  I work in the hospitality industry (yes hotel). While talking with a guest about several things that are wrong with men and society it dawned on me. Do men only want what makes them feel good? Even if it means crossing boundaries? She was talking about a man so dis-illusioned that he believed woman like being licked in the face. I have been licked in the face before, and from first hand perspective, he clogged my pores and smelled like tequila. Listening to her talk, I was in the midst of a one person stand-off with myself on a topic I had thought about off and on. It’s not just the gay men who do weird stuff.

I dated this man once. He was fabulously Latin and spoke with an accent. We went out to dinner and he would pull my chair out for me. He would order wine and pour for me. We would meet for espresso and he would stir in the milk for me. He was very polite and above all meticulous. He was the Antonio Banderas of the 2007. suave and sophisticated he took me out salsa dancing. Like my mother always said, “believe half of what you see and a quarter of what you hear.” Boy was she right (I don’t really like admitting that).

I had never been into his apartment. He lived in a brick old fashioned with three floors. The layout a shotgun straight to the French terrace doors. This apartment was beautiful. his kitchen had upgraded stainless and black marble. It was everything I had dreamed of until I saw it leering at me from the corner.

“Awww you see it. It’s beautiful isn’t it. I just got it.” Said he with his thick accent.

Yeah I saw it. a five foot tall representation of some mans foot. Not only was it made of marble, it came complete with a matching wood stand.

“It’s David’s.” He said with a smile.

I didn’t quite know what to say. I thought maybe he liked Avant garde  art. I mean black marble countertops, Pavarotti on the speakers. Art! Deciding to look past this he uncorked some cooled pinot and we sat in front of the fireplace. The French doors open letting the cool breeze in. Again, Pavarotti on the speakers. Candles and this giant foot glaring at me from the corner of the room. Deciding to use every trick I have ever learned from Mae West, I crawled on my knees and towards the staircase. He smiled from ear to ear and picked me up nibbling my earlobe. I was in a fit of passions. I could feel the feeling of lust over take me. He kissed me softly and than his hand went to my sock. I was hoping it wouldn’t come to this. Watching him slide my sock off I thought, gee maybe it’s not so bad. As a child I would let the fish nibble my toes.  If I didn’t like it than, I am sure as hell not going to like it now.

I never saw him again. Sometimes I find myself longing for what might have been. Than I look at my feet probably sweating in my shoe and I think what the hell was wrong with him.

Moral: Never judge a man until you see his apartment. Remember it’s not the size that counts it’s what he sticks in his mouth that determines compatibility.

 

 

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