“I know today's your birthday
And I did not buy no rose
But I wrote this song instead and I call it
‘Popsicle Toes’Popsicle toes
Popsicle toes are always froze
Popsicle toes
You're so brave to expose all those popsicle toes”
— Michael Franks, “Popsicle Toes” (1976)
“Hey, Jilly?” He texts me awake in the wee hours of a humid Tuesday morning. He adds, “I hope I’m not bothering you, but I had a question about services.” I roll over in my bed and turn on the lamp. Because he is polite, I decide to bite. New business in any business is always desirable. If I’m still receiving business, I should try to take it. “Good morning,” I text back. Sitting up in bed now, I stretch one leg out and point my toes, remembering the physical therapy exercises I do regularly since I fell and rolled my ankle on Prytania Street. “What services are you talking about?” I text. After all, I hope he is a nice guy who doesn’t want to say something humiliating, crass, or entitled, because I don’t want to start the day with that negativity. Professionalism is to be expected when you talk to me unless you text me something filthy in the middle of the night.
I see his little text bubble moving on my phone and take that as an opportunity to pee and splash my face with cold water. My dainty little angel, Ella, is standing in the doorway of my room, mewing her good morning. I wipe my face off with a fluffy green hand towel and pick up my phone to read, “Can I play with your feet for an hour?” He texted back. I told him it was possible and that he should fill out my 3-second contact form and give me a call. He filled it out, lickety-split, and texted me, “I filled it out for you.”
Awake fully, now painfully aware that I haven’t painted my toes or exfoliated my heels, I text him to give me an hour and give him my location in this gritty city. Making the bed and tossing shoes in the closet and random lingerie into a drawer, I race into the kitchen and put the kettle on. The house smells of weed because an old client I hadn’t seen in years, who, may I add, I have good chemistry with, came by. He brought a very fat joint, and we shared it after mommy role play. Such a little sexy beast. He fucks so well. He makes profound eye contact with me while I’m astride his thick and achingly hard erection. He’s tough to resist, but I’m easy, and that isn’t an issue for me. I tell myself not to get too wrapped up in last night, make your tea, and go put on your face. A gentleman is coming soon, and what he wants to do to me is therapeutic so early in the morning.
Sitting downstairs thinking about the request and planning how I will respond to him, talk to him about, and soothe him all at the same time, it occurs to me that this is more of a kink or service than I’ve given it credit. All forms of kinks manifest from or were birthed because of something that happened when you were young. Sometimes, when you talk to a small child, you can tell where he or she is headed in life. The way parents interact or pull away from a child can either make or break them sexually. I wonder what this man will tell me about how he came to be. Sometimes the origin of a person is more salacious than the sex. I’m all a flutter!
Since there wasn’t going to be a sexual exchange, I finished my tea and reached for the quick-dry nail polish. But first, I found my buffer — the one that slides like silk across skin — and began my ritual: slow, circular motions on the bottoms of my heels, the balls of my feet, and my toes.
My skin is thin, so softening it doesn’t take much. With my thumbs and the heel of my palm, I worked in a divine shea butter I found at L’Occitane in Canal Place — homemade in feel, light and creamy in scent. Subtle. Feminine. It felt good to have a reason to break it open again.
The last time I used it was in an intimate, unforgettable moment. A young man — all softness and power — with some coaxing rubbing me down. His hands were a language. Stroking me up and down, in and out, with a rhythm that spoke to every nerve. Fingers inside me, moving masterfully, coaxing waves of orgasm without ever needing a cock. Just hands. Presence. The fire still burns me when I think about how he handled me.
A few hits of smoke, dank bud, and I’m poised on the couch, Ella by my side, ready for action. He texts that he’s arrived. I texted him to come on up. When he enters my doorway, I realize he’s much younger than I thought, and I ask him, “May I see your ID?” Without blinking, he pulls his wallet out of his back pocket, pulls out his license, and displays it proudly in front of me. “I’ll be 22 in four months.” He adds with a grin. This makes me smile, and I hand this ticket to paradise back to him. He lays down his donation on the kitchen counter and follows me to the back of my house.
Walking into the bedroom, we’ll consummate for approximately one hour. I tell him, “If you want to take off any of your clothes, you can lay them on my director’s chair.” He only takes off his shirt as I put two pillows up against the headboard. I keep my robe and chemise on because he’s not here for my body. What he wants is to worship my feet. I prop myself up onto the pillows, and he sits at the foot of my bed. I place my feet into his lap while giggling because I am a little ticklish. He laughs back and begins by pulling my right foot into his face. He inhales and exhales as I stretch and point my toes in unison, he closes his eyes and rocks back and forward, keeping my foot implanted in his furry face. He whispers, “I love the way your feet smell.”
He puts my right foot down and begins his lamentations on my left foot. Humming and breathing in and out, sometimes smiling, but with his eyes closed, he seems to be in another realm. It’s almost as if I am not part of this, but my feet are there with him in some nether world where he works his kink or pain out with their help. His noises aren’t unsettling, rather unusual in color, but more of a whine, maybe a little chanting in style. I close my eyes and lay my head back onto the pillows because he’s green and safe.
He gently whispers “May I suck them?” I caution him that biting is not allowed, and he acquiesces. I not only smell, but feel his hot breath before he gets one in his mouth. That heat is from his core deep inside, and while I appreciate being appreciated, some virility is breathtaking. I have to admit I’m somewhat out of control and struggle to gain my momentum for this offering, which is new to me and not something I have always had available on my menu. As he switches from foot to toes to licking my soles, there is something about him that is primal, as I feel like a baby antelope being licked by a lion before he pounces. He’s holding my feet so possessively that I wish we were on different sides of the bed, as his side is closer to the door.
To lighten my load, I ask him if he’s always had a thing for feet. He looks up at me, balancing both of mine on his chin, and grins. “I think I was in high school when I realized I liked them.” Encouraged, I ask, “Was it a girl you liked? ”He smiles — sweet, a little shy. “I liked a lot of girls. But not for sex. I think that’s what put me in the friend zone most of the time.” Oh, good, I think — he’s a sweetheart. While he’s gently nibbling my pinkie toe, I ask, “Were you ever able to do this with one of your friends?” “She was kind of shy about it at first,” he says, “but one time we were hanging out in her bedroom, just goofing around.” His voice softens as he remembers. “At one point, I had her foot in my hands, and she started laughing. She said, ‘You wrestled with me just so you could suck my toes.” ”He chuckles. “While I had it in my hand, I just started massaging it.”
With that, I lengthen my body and push my heels up into his nostrils. He ignited into a burning inferno and began to rub my legs as now my ass is close to his groin. I don’t know what I’m doing, and I decide to just feel my way through the process. Luckily, I have good instincts. He moaned and made soft hissing sounds, which intrigued me now that I had a little backstory on who he is. Hopefully, I slide my middle toe into his nostrils and he takes my foot and rubs it into his face in little circles. Taking both feet again into his beard, nostrils and mouth, he licks and sucks every inch of my feet and ankles. My feet are alternately hot and cold as they slide in and out of his furry kisser. I’m grateful that his silky beard is soft and delightfully curly.
I closed my eyes and let him use them however he needed. By the time I noticed, twenty songs had played — a whole soundtrack to our foot worship. It was time to wrap it up. He seemed complete, too. When I asked how he felt, he said, “I feel good. I needed that.” I smiled, understanding completely. He grinned that sweet, man-boy smile in return. As we said our goodbyes and I walked him to the door, he turned to me and said, “Thanks for letting me come over. I appreciate it.” I kissed his cheek and whispered, “Never change — you’re perfect just the way you are.” Grinning, he bounded down the stairs and onto the sidewalk, lighter in step, completely satisfied. Who would've thought a pair of feet could bring that kind of joy?
