Wednesday, August 09, 2017
Foot in mouth
The young lady pictured above is Miss Erin Clark, a 19-year-old student from Edinburgh, about to start her degree at the Institute of Political Studies in Paris. After searching vainly for affordable accommodation, she was delighted to receive a twitter message offering her an apartment in a highly suitable location:
“So, it’s a big studio flat with two beds, kitchen, toilets, a big wardrobe and a balcony,” explained the owner.
All was not as it seemed, however. The prospective landlord revealed that he would be living in the same property. Furthermore, he would require Miss Clark to perform some unusual services instead of paying rent:
“I’m submissive and I’ve got a foot fetish, so it would be free in term of money, but I’m asking for two services, licking your feet sometimes. And then, I wear a chastity device, you might wear the key of the chastity in a bracelet, so I’m not looking for sex, I’ve got the device.”
Offering Miss Clark the key to the “chastity device” seems to be a confidence-building measure, even thought the landlord himself regards the prospect with some kind of weird satisfaction. But she was not sufficiently reassured by this safeguard, making her excuses in the following tweet:
“I’ve lost my flat keys 4 times since September alone, it is not me you are wanting.”
I don’t blame Miss Clark for being sceptical. I have never seen a male chastity belt and don’t see how it would work effectively without also preventing the wearer from urinating. The possibility of the key is being mislaid is real, so it’s highly likely the landlord would retain a spare to liberate his organ when the need arose. This, of course, would render it ineffective as a safeguard.
It’s also hard to believe he would have stuck to the letter of the agreement in other respects. I think we can take it as read that “foot-licking” includes a full range of podo-erotic practices including toe-sucking. Once you let someone smooch your foot, it could easily progress to the ankle or even the knee. There’s no telling where it would end.
When I told the manager of the safari camp about this story, he laughed and rubbed his hands in glee.
“Hah, the French!” he snorted. “Trust them to proposition students with their kinky fetishes! I bet he would have smeared her feet with garlic butter and licked it off with a glass of red wine!”
“I never knew you were so knowledgeable about their culinary practices,” I remarked. “Perhaps you should write a gourmet guidebook for the novice.”
I don’t know whether it’s true that the French are more open about their fetishes, but it doesn’t reflect badly on them if they are. Miss Clark is lucky to have been approached by an honest pervert who attempted to negotiate a quid-pro-quo. A Scottish or English foot-licker might have charged her full rent without disclosing anything, hoping to ambush her feet at a vulnerable moment. It’s the sneaky types that do the most damage.
Labels: foot fetish, foot-kissing, Frenchmen, students
Wednesday, September 30, 2015
Foot fetish
I hooted with glee on discovering that Madonna had ordered one of her backup dancers to kiss her feet. The luckless dandy was a few minutes late for a rehearsal and tried to placate his mistress by apologising profusely. “Kiss my feet!” demanded Madge, and the obedient fellow promptly dropped to his knees and smooched her perfectly pedicured tootsies. I hope he got a round of applause for his trouble. It takes a lot of courage to mess with a cougar’s paw, even if the cougar has asked for it.
I’m sure a lot of people will condemn Madonna for behaving like a bad-tempered queen in a medieval fairy story – a haughty tyrant who demands that her courtiers abase themselves for relatively minor indiscretions. In my view that would be missing the humour in the incident. In this day and age, the arrogant celebrity deals with errant minions by firing them on the spot without a reference. Ordering someone to kiss your feet is pure theatre – as well as being a quick and painless way of putting the incident to bed. I’m sure the dancer was mightily relieved he could atone for his misdemeanour in such a speedy and conclusive manner. He certainly wasted no time in obeying the command.
And let’s not forget that there many who would enjoy kissing Madonna’s feet and consider it to be a great privilege. Although I am not of this disposition myself, I would rather kiss her feet than any other part of her anatomy. They may not be as dainty as those of a Japanese woman, but they are surely sufficiently smooth and supple to make the experience tolerable. After they have been washed, I would guess they are the organs on her body least likely to give the kisser cooties.
Now some of you are probably wondering whether anyone has kissed my feet. Before answering this question, I should point out that a gorilla’s feet are not like those of a human. They are actually like a second pair of hands, which means I can toot out a tune on my recorder while shaking a pair of maracas with my feet. If you paid your respects to me while I was lying in my hammock, you would probably end up shaking hands with my foot.
No one has ever kissed my feet in the jungle. I’m quite certain of that. Kissing has no emotional significance for the hairy primates, so foot-kissing would be viewed as an evil perversion rather than an act of servitude. To curry favour in our community, you’ve got to groom your companions and scratch their itches.
I’m not so sure about my circus days, though. I definitely had human fans who would have kissed my feet if I’d allowed them to. And a few overexcited individuals did take liberties with my person before I could shake them off with a reprimand. But did any of these scallywags molest my feet? I’ll be damned if I can remember.
Labels: foot-kissing, humiliation, Madonna
Wednesday, September 16, 2009
Kiss me quick
Rafael Nadal has forgiven the man who kissed him in front of 10,000 spectators at the US Open.
“He was really nice and said ‘I love you’,” explained Nadal.
I wouldn’t have fallen for that kind of sweet talk. One thing I learned in the circus is that fans are never satisfied. If you let them kiss you, they expect you to go to their tea parties and eat their fairy cakes. They are also incredibly jealous of each other. If one of them steals a kiss, they all expect to have smooching rights. That’s why I treated my fans firmly but fairly – like a strict schoolmaster. The only kissing allowed was when I kissed the hand of a female admirer, purely to demonstrate the chivalrous nature of the male gorilla.
It seems to me that tennis is not really a kissy sport. Let’s suppose you feel like kissing someone after winning a point. The umpire is out of reach and your opponent probably isn’t in the mood for it. Kissing a line judge after getting a decision in your favour would make sense, but it's the sort of behaviour that might incite the crowd. Kissing a ball boy would be an arrestable offence under any jurisdiction.
The manager of the safari camp said he’d like to see more kissing in the ladies’ game. He suggested that Serena Williams should plant a big wet one on the mouth of her vanquished opponent (unless this opponent were Venus, when the kiss would be incestuous).
“I’d love to see her treat one of those cute European blondes like her punk bitch,” he declared.
I’m not sure what he meant by that, but it sounds like unseemly behaviour for a grand slam champion. I hope that Serena continues to offer a ladylike handshake, perhaps followed by a friendly pat on the bottom if she knows her opponent well. An illustrious sportswoman should set a good example for the budding stars of tomorrow. Martina Navratilova and Billy-Jean King were not just admired for their penetrative forehands.
I’ve been kissed against my will on a couple of occasions. The first assailant was a circus clown. I didn’t punish him for his effrontery because he was highly emotional and only kissed my feet. I was relaxing in a deck chair, reading back issues of Cosmopolitan, when he crawled up to my toes.
“Thank you so much for curing my constipation, GB!” he bleated pathetically between kisses. “I’ve been shitting like a camel since you swung me by my ankles.”
I resisted the temptation to kick his head like a football. “Don’t mention it,” I replied. “When you have finished kissing my feet, wash them thoroughly with a pail of soapy water and a sponge.
After satisfying his peculiar urge, he did as instructed.
The other time I got kissed was when a female gorilla reacted to one of my witty ripostes by putting her mouth over my ear hole. It wasn’t technically a kiss because she blew rather than sucked, but it certainly made me feel giddy. I let her off with a stern rebuke after my head had cleared.
I’m glad to say that I’ve never been forcibly kissed on the lips, which is an indignity that no warm-blooded creature should have to endure. The practice was only ever acceptable in those old Technicolor Hollywood movies, when the bad guy would force his mouth on the lips of the sassy heroine and laugh wickedly afterwards. I have to admit I always loved those scenes. Does that make me bad?
Labels: foot-kissing, hand-kissing, punk bitch, Serena Williams
