What Got You Into Feet?" (a.k.a., "Thanks, Dad")
Often I have been asked this question when chatting with a non-feet guy online. They may be amused by feet or curious of them or not into them, but it's almost a guarantee in chatting with a guy who is "not of our persuasion", that this question will be posed to me:
"What got you into feet?"
And several years ago, long before Lady Gaga's hit, my answer was always "I was born this way".
I would simply say that, and claim that I didn't have a "trigger experience" that suddenly turned me onto men's feet, as some men may expect had happened; I believed I was simply born with a pre-programmed propensity to be attracted to and aroused by men's feet.
And I still believe that. Some of my earliest memories are thoughts of feet.
Male feet.
Large male feet.
Always large, and always male.
I remember having a book of Disney's Peter Pan that had illustrations where some of the pirates were barefoot, and that titillated me---particularly one picture where some pirates had jumped overboard, and one pirate's big goofy bare feet were sticking up in the air over the edge of the ship after he jumped. So oversized, so exaggerated, so "ultra-male".
Then there was kindergarten. We had a reading program then called The Letter People where all the consonants were boy characters, and the vowels were girl characters (they didn't look like people, but were whimsical cartoon creations). They had characteristics which began with their own letter, and it might have been bad enough that Mr. S was "Super Socks", but the clincher was Mr. F---he was "Funny Feet". He had feet that were enormous for his size (and they also had flower designs on them, as another "f" word). I vividly recall watching a film strip of Mr. F in kindergarten one day and in his story, he went to a shoe store to try and find a pair of shoes; only, nothing would fit his grotesquely HUGE FEET (I use the word "grotesquely" in the lesser-known sense of "comically distorted", not as in "repulsive"). The shoe salesman was a man (in a more human design), and I remember him looking flabbergasted with open shoe boxes all over the floor, confounded and absolutely boggled that he couldn't find any pair of shoes big enough to fit Mr. F's freakishly huge feet.
Then probably a year or two later, I discovered a book that made another lasting impression on me...Maurice Sendak's Where the Wild Things Are. There, right on the cover, was a giant wild creature somewhat akin to a minotaur: he was gigantic, covered in shaggy blue fur, with a bull's head---but stuck with a pair of absolutely enormous masculine bare feet. I enjoyed experiencing the magic of this renowned picture book immensely, but when I got to the first page with that shaggy blue bull-headed creature with the ridiculously huge bare man-feet...I was transfixed. He appeared again...and again...page after page, appearing possibly more than any of the other Wild Things in the pictures (I recently read a quote by Mr. Sendak in a book about picture books after the interviewer commented on a character's large feet in another of his books. He said, "I like to draw feet; one of the Wild Things has enormous feet. I have no interest, apparently, in proportion". Well Mr. Sendak, you had no interest in helping define and shape my most prevalent fetishes, but you did so). I wished so badly I could meet that creature and play with him and he would let me play with his extremely oversized ogre-like feet...is this book responsible for my fantasies of large, burly men covered in hair akin to fur? Very masculine men, but also with very playful sides, who don't take themselves or their oversized feet too seriously and can be silly about their monstrously large feet? Is this book responsible for my ability to be sexually aroused simply by seeing men's large bare feet in photos or videos alone, without seeing the rest of the man they are attached to?
So much possibly goes on in our formative years that we aren't even aware and may never question. But, looking back at my own formative years, I question...how much was I born with a foot fetish and these ultra-masculine desires and fantasies and yearnings and needs, and how much influence are these specific exposures responsible for?
You can see what an indelible impression these things made on my mind as they are so vividly clear to me all these years later.
But, perhaps what has made an even bigger impression on me than I had realized, and what has likely contributed to my fetish for men's large feet, has been my own father. I have a feeling that is probably not uncommon among male foot fetishists, but I can only speak for my own experience.
My father is a tall man, and a quiet man; very much the epitome of the "strong, silent" type. Being a few hairs over 6 foot 4, he seemed immensely tall to me as a little boy. Being so tall and such a strong silent man who spoke little but conveyed intensely, he seemed nothing short of a giant to me.
Dad's a farmer, and so I grew up out in the country. Now, I have no brothers, nor uncles, and my dad's shorter dad who lived nearby was even more of an introvert than Dad is (and my other grandfather, while great with kids, lives farther away so I didn't see him that often). Consequently, with these circumstances the only other male---and indeed the only grown male---I was constantly around was my father. Here's the irony, that I am very outwardly sensitive and emotional, and the only male role model I had around "full time" was my dad who was distant, unemotional, and introverted (he's mellowed a little now that he's getting older, but I digress). And we lived out in the country mind you, so there weren't even really any male neighbors around. So he was the only real male in my environment I was regularly exposed to in my home life.
Even though I said he was unemotional, it's more like he didn't wear his heart on his sleeve. Because if you made him angry, believe me, YOU KNEW. He was never physically abusive, but he just got across with minimal effort that in his book, things were his way. You just naturally knew not to question him or make trouble for him.
As hard as Dad worked, he would come home many a night tired from a hard day's farming and want to rest. He sometimes had a ritual of sitting in his chair at the kitchen table and taking his boots off there, and then going off to shower, but not always...
No, not always.
Some days he would come in and just take to his recliner in the living room right away. I have never before fully looked back on this as much as I have while writing this blog, but I am assuming these were day when he was, to use a rural phrase, just plum tuckered out. And I remember him kicking back in his recliner and seeing his long legs stretched out what seemed like forever until his booted feet went out just past the foot of the chair that was outstretched.
This is when I would be his "boot boy".
Now, he never actually called me this, nor did I call myself that, but it was just kind of an "understood" thing that occurred when I was around ages 5 - 8, somewhere in there. On these days when he would be reclined with his long legs stretched out in those mile-long jeans, he would call me over to his chair, and I would obediently go to him. And I don't remember exactly what words he used, but he would in some manner tell me to take his boots off.
Me.
His own son.
Well there I am at home with my giant 6 foot 4 blue collar father, and when he tells me to take his boots off, I know I'd better take his boots off (again, he was not unkind, he just had this air about him with his strong silent personality that you take him at his word and don't question him or disobey him).
As I reflect back, I can remember standing there, staring at the bottoms of his big boots right at my eye level (indeed, since I was a little boy, right at face-and-chest-level). My dad has size 11 1/2 feet, and let me tell you, to a little boy size 11 1/2 boots towering up in front of you go on and then some. These were Red Wing lace-up boots too, the kind with what seemed like 20 or so of those little "hook" things going up the front of the boot that you wind the laces around (my apologies to boot enthusiasts for not knowing what these are called).
So I would untie his laces and unwind them around and around enough of those hooks to where I could manage to start to get his boots off (and as I am dwelling in my memory of this, I can now once again smell that light aroma of the caked-on dirt on his boots).
Once I had them undone and loose enough I would grab under the heel and shove and shove toward my little self as hard as I could, tugging it off his own heel. I seem to remember him maybe chuckling at me and saying a few words of encouragement if I had a particularly tough time getting that big boot off over his heel. Once I finally pulled hard enough (and sometimes it took quite the effort) I would steady myself and pull toward me while he pulled his large size 11 1/2 long narrow foot the rest of the way out of the boot, and then I would drop the seemingly-huge boat to the carpet below.
Of course once that was all done, we (but mostly me, as I was doing all the grunt work) would repeat the ritual with the other boot, and there his big long size 11 1/2 feet would be towering up in front of me in their white socks. I don't remember him ever telling me to take his socks off for him, but I sure remember them staring back at me, sticking up past my line of vision.
I don't know how many times my father made me do this for him, but obviously enough times that the memory has stuck. Sometimes now I wonder what his thought process was in making me do this for him...
.....Was he inducting me into "the world of manhood" by putting me in this station of his? I never saw my mom or sister do this for him, only me---and I was summoned to do so. Did he enjoy it as a sort of "male bonding" between us that went unspoken that was just a father/on thing to do?
.....Did he think since I was too young to farm yet and couldn't be a help to him, he would at least introduce me to the world of blue collar manhood by letting his little boy do a "big boy" thing like taking his dad's work boots off? That maybe it was a "treat" for me since I couldn't do anything else to help him at such a small age?
.....Was it a bit of a "reverse Oedipus" complex (whether he was aware or not) in that, he was a grown man having to work so hard at his profession which provided for his family, that, since I was too young to be any help and was just a boy in the young years of playing and being a carefree child, he would teach me a little lesson by making me have to do the "unenviable" task of removing his boots for him after a long day?
I don't know. It could be any of those, or a combination, or something else altogether.
But there is one other memory I have of this ritual. Well, more like half a memory.
Let me explain.
Now, I knew that there was something "odd" about having such a fascination with grown men's feet. Feet get dirty, feet sweat, and especially men's feet are blamed for stinking bad. So, as young as I was, I just knew that somehow I should not tell anyone or ask anyone about why I loved MEN'S FEET so much; I just instinctively knew that it was "strange" and a "no-no" and to keep it to myself (in the meantime I would feel thrills go through me when I saw men's large bare feet on TV shows, or in movies, or if ever out in public).
All that said, I think---and I don't remember this clearly---but I think one day after removing my hard-working father's big boots for him off his big white-socked feet, I must have then tried smelling my own father's feet.
Wow...I'm actually feeling a little embarrassed typing that out, but it must be true.
Why?
Because in my memory bank, I can hear my dad admonishing me with:
"Quit! That's nasty!"
Just hearing my father discipline me with that makes me feel even more embarrassed, with the lonely memory of that shame.
He didn't have to say anything else, because when he said something you heeded. I don't actively remember leaning in to smell my father's feet, but I can hear him saying that admonishment (I suppose he either then moved his foot away or perhaps lightly "play-slapped" my face with his large white-socked foot to drive home his point, but I don't recall that either). I suppose at the time, his disapproving aggravation and my shame and embarrassment in front of him was so great that it has blocked out the memory of actually smelling his feet (or trying to). But it fascinates me that I can't remember the smelling, but I sure remember the rejecting. Did this happen more than once? Did I, despite feeling it was "wrong" to like men's feet, try to smell Dad's feet again when ordered to remove his boots at a future time? Did it take more than once to make me realize I couldn't satisfy any of my curiosity about male feet with my dad's size 11 1/2s right in my face? Or was it this one brief moment in my history? I don't know.
A few years later when I was an older kid or young teen, I had this experience: if I were lying on my back on the living room floor watching TV, occasionally my barefooted dad would walk through. When he got over to me in the middle of the floor in his way, he would place his large size 11 1/2 bare foot right on my tummy like he was "stepping on" me. He would never say anything, it was just his own little silent playful thing he did with me once in a blue moon. I don't know that he ever did this with my sister, but he sure didn't hesitate to step his bare foot on my tummy. It always made me feel a little confused with a little combination of excitement, eagerness, and humbleness. My dad was not an open or communicative man growing up, so this was like a little primal father/son ritual act he would do once in a while.
Our formative years can be fascinating subjects. As far as I know I was born with a predisposition to love men's feet, or if you would rather say, I was born with a male foot fetish. And with a sensitivity like that, certain things I was exposed to in childhood helped compound that in my personal makeup.
"What got you into feet?"
I may have told men before that I was "born this way", but I am now sure that my experience at my father's feet---though perhaps not a very revealing or explicit or hard-core one---has had a lot to do with why I love feet.
Male feet.
Large male feet.
It does make sense that this experience would have a big responsibility for why I have a fetish for, particularly, the large bare feet of hairy masculine bigfooted men.
I just never quite realized how much until now.
And, while I was never "hard" for my dad's feet, I can tell you that at night he nearly always relaxed in his recliner in only his white briefs, and many a night would I be on the couch watching TV but distracted by his bare feet...there they would be flexing, rubbing on each other, his toes curling...he was always flexing and moving his big long bare feet around while reading the paper in his chair or watching TV, and I always noticed. He never caught me, and while I wasn't "after" them, I still could not help but notice and be captivated by them, in my own way.
Oh, as for the feet and the socks that you see in the photo for the avatar picture of this blog? Yup, those really are my own dad's feet and white Hanes socks. Since I have my own unique little history with them, I decided to sneak a few photos of them once. After all, even though I never did anything with his feet, they are responsible for a lot of how my hormones function today...and like with many men as they age, as he has gotten older, his feet have become larger; last time I was visiting back home I looked in his tennis shoes and saw he now wears size 13s in those. For anyone interested I have uploaded an album of Dad's feet that has a few more photos.
My father may be a man of few words, but it is interesting that for being my father, one of the largest marks he has left on me in our distant father/son relationship---perhaps the largest, as we males are ruled by our hormones---is what could be seen as "the final cementing" of my male foot fetish for life.
"What got you into feet?"
Maybe I have more of a trigger experience than I realized; or at least a solidifying one. But as far as I know though, I still liked male feet even before the things in this blog occurred. Still, the next time I am asked that, I sure have a lot more to reflect back on...
