Sweet Kittens, it’s been a long winter for us all and the Netflix is now on the actual chill mode, if you know what I mean. Ugh, I hate it too, I’m such a lazy ass bear but! I do not want to miss out on what could be the next great adventure. Life is short and yet soooo long so let’s make it messy now and clean it up later.
First things first, protip: It’s time to exfoliate all the skin and fluff up the hairs, trim only the nose ones because all the other hairs are hot (says me). Hoes, real talk, let’s go on a Groupon spa weekend in Muskoka and get steamed up and whipped with Venik branches from Russia, we deserve it. I have been perusing all the sites for some such deals for us all to go on but so far everything looks kind of dodgy. This could be all DIY stuff with a loofah at home but I think getting out of the comfort zone is a good thing. Other people doing weird stuff to you when you’re buck naked is where it’s at. You know I’m right.
Winter has been quiet for me on the dating front. Phew, says some of you, clutching your pearls, and boo, says another lot, hands down your pants. Whatevs, I live for myself at this point. I spend all the live long day outside all out in the elements with the dogs and I love them so much that they are enough emotionally, physically, and philosophically to keep me satisfied as a whole person BUT! I still have the love of bone. I am a dog person after all.
One of my old Tinder fuckboys had been messaging me a lot recently. I am sure he also missed “Cuffing Season.” What is that internet lingo, you ask, and is it available on Amazon Prime? No, it is not . Here’s the thing: During the winter months people tend to create false relationships because it’s cold outside and they don’t even want walk out the door to crawl into an Uber to get to a booty call so they strategize. Some people are more ambitious than others and they actually hook up with someone they met on New Year’s Eve (I’m looking at you, Bob) and others just deflate and give up and wear sweatpants (I’m looking in the mirror now). Peeps, I’m NEVER going to have a relationship so I’m basically like a snake that wakes up in the spring and doesn’t know quite what to do but goes with the flow of the other snakes and slithers into to the Shoppers Drug Mart mid-March for Magnums “just in case.”
So my old Tinder fuckboy, let’s call him TFB for short, is a young gentleman I hooked up with in early January after last year’s gluttony of bone that ended with a couple of weird encounters, with one that I STILL need therapy over but neither here nor there, I’m a grown up, I will own it, et cetera, but seriously what the fuck is my problem. Question mark. Help. Exclamation mark.
But TFB is a lovely man. Very sweet, good-looking, suave, skilled, we had a fun time and I was super comfortable with him but hibernation calls and it’s January and I am a bear so I shut him down for a while. At one point he texted me that he does a kind of self-imposed Lent-like thing before his birthday where he doesn’t have sex for an entire month (I know right? Times that by 100 million and welcome to an entire decade of my forties) but apparently he has a Foot Fetish I was not aware of in our first encounter. Can I send a pic?
OF MY FEET… Lol what? Anyone who has dared touched my phone knows it’s a landmine of Listeria, bacteria, tits, and now doggie fecal matter so yes, my sweet TFB, I will send not only a pic of my feet but a video of them rubbing together. How much fun is this? So much! Next time we get together it will be about my feet! I’m so down with it!
So I send him a video of my raw, just pulled my socks off feet rubbing together and I’m like all grooving but at the same time disappointed with how dry and diabeetuz they look and no polish yet on the toes but he doesn’t seem to mind. “I’m not picky,” he says, “Thank you, I’m dying here.” Oh yeah, apparently he doesn’t even jack off during his personal lent so I’m not sure if he’s just trolling me or what but who cares, life is short and long at the same time, might as well fill it with weird shit. Right? I’ve never had a dude who cared about my feet before. One guy once looked down at them and said: “Wow, how weird that your feet are veiny and anorexic but the rest of you is not.” Of course he had male pattern balding and hair on his back but I held my tongue but haha, it’s all seeping out now.
A couple of weeks pass. TFB has his birthday, he sends me a pic of him slamming back a bottle of Hennessy (of course). He’s 27. Hoo hah. Meet up soon? And I’m very cool with that, it’s been awhile and he’s nice and I’ll get a foot massage on top of it all. We set a date and he wants me to come to his house. I hate that, hate, hate, hate, hate, hate, hate that…going to another location for this type of thing EXCEPT that he says he has a Pomeranian. He spells it “Palmeranian” and its his roommate’s but it’s still a floofy dog I want to meet. How weird is it that I work with dogs all day and am dying to drive across town to meet a “Palmeranian” in a dodgy neighbourhood? And obviously because I am driving, I am sober as a judge when I get there. Which makes some of you say, are you ever really sober as a judge, Kristin? What kind of old fucking lady drives across town to a Tinder fuckboy’s house to see his dog and get a foot rub?
A lady that loves to live and then tell the stories, bruh. You’re welcome. I do these things so you don’t have to.
So. I get to his house and it turns out he lives in one of those shared accommodation type scenarios which I did when I very first moved to Toronto. Mine was a hilarious group of strangers and 30 years later, I’m still friends with one of my housemates. His house was similar, probably, but the people were all holed up in their rooms. Where’s the dog? I asked. And he’s like oh, prolly out for a walk. And I’m super disappointed but also extra nervous because the main floor of this house looks like a hoarding situation. But he calls the dog’s name: “GOLIATH!” and lo and behold, a tiny little ploof of floof comes running out from under some stack of income tax papers and goes woof woof and I pet his soft furry head and I’m okay with it all. Goliath wiggles around a bit then goes back in the portal of domestic disorganization which he came from and I kick off my shoes in the door way and go upstairs to the dude’s room.
His boudoir is on the third floor. Hot with radiant electric heat. Only old women would get this, I tear off my clothing down to my undies because it’s like a like a tropical jungle. and I just want to get it all done before my parking situation expires. But he’s all coolio and says “I got wine” and pours me a cup of pale pink juice. I guess rosé? It’s sweet and he’s so sweet. Also he has his Netflix on pause on the tv that takes up the whole wall beside his bed. I’m like “Cool, what are we watching?” and he says “Dave Chappelle” because of course. I’ve actually never seen any Dave Chappelle but I am aware of who he is and that he has a comeback and so I’m down with drinking some pink juice and watching some Netflix but I’m an impatient woman with this type of dating so make things happen, dude, or I’m going to fly in ten minutes. I’m a Nervous Nellie, kind of like the Palmeranian downstairs under the hoarding cave.
Well. Turns out there are two Dave Chappelle specials. I certainly didn’t have to fly during the first one, nor did I even get to finish half of my pink juice. My feet were rubbed and tugged and toes licked…I am not doing this back, by the way, dude kept his socks on the whole time, and other regular stuff happened and I’m all good and satisfied and ready to go home BUT! There is another yet hour of Dave Chappelle and he says, don’t go! Aren’t you ready for Round Two? Oh! Okay, it’s Friday. I love stand up comedy on Netflix more than anything and Dave Chappelle is funny as fuck. So. Another cup of pink juice. Second episode and he says: “Do you want to give me a foot job?” I’m not sure what a “foot job”is but kind of guessing what that entails (entoes lololol) and I’m so down with it. I can lay back, starfish, watch the actual tv with my face and breathe through my nose. Yes, I will give you a foot job, my dude. So he brings out the baby oil. Hello, when was the last time you saw a bottle of baby oil? For me, like the 197os when certain people used to use it as tanning oil, I didn’t even put baby oil on my babies. Baby oil, people, the answer to dry diabeetuz feet, I have since been applying it nightly. Then he instructs me of what to do. At first it’s good, I’m concentrating a bit, making sure the balls of my feet are tight together whilst his greasy long ass member slides through in and out. It goes on a while, am I bored? No Dave Chappelle is my new comedy hero. Things are slithering around and I look at my situation and it literally looks like I’m wrestling with an eel in between my feet.
“Use one to anchor it and get it in between your toes!” he says, pouring more baby oil on down. Twenty minutes, my thighs are burning, no joke, my upper thighs are shaking like that time I gave birth for 14 plus hours. It’s then I realize that a dude with a foot fetish is not a 60-year-old British gentleman named Alistair whose only desire is to paint your toenails a subtle shade like “Pink in the Afternoon.” A true foot fetishist isn’t about what he can do for your feet, it’s more about what your feet can do for his dick. Jesus Christ. If I wasn’t all about cross-training and shaking up the work-outs I would have stopped at the 10 minute mark but instead I forged through and serendipitously during Dave Chappelle’s stand up he talks about his foot fetish, I’m just going to leave this here and say good night, sweet dreams: