Like many men I used to take photographs of my girlfriends; of their faces and bodies, sometimes naked, usually clothed. But I soon became more specific. I began to take pictures just of their feet, resting on a cold stone floor, or on a soft fine rug. Sometimes they would be wearing shoes I had chosen and bought for them, sometimes they would be bare.
I suppose I’ve always been reasonably ‘successful’ with women, though it’s not a term I like. I had a lot of experience. I had a lot of girlfriends. I soon had quite a collection of photographs of their feet. Some found it odd, but few objected. When I was alone I would often spread out these photographs on my desk, arrange them in patterns, in groupings. They were an aid to memory, a kind of souvenir, but also a kind of harem. But, of course, there are far more women, far more attractive feet in the world than one could ever know or make contact with. And one of the greatest pleasures for someone like me is that one may encounter powerful erotic stimuli in quite casual, quite ordinary contexts in the course of one’s daily life. It isn’t like that for all fetishists. If you are obsessed with bare buttocks, there is a prescribed and extremely limited number of places where you are likely to encounter them; not in the street, for example, not on public transport, not in every home, at every party, at every nightclub. But these are all places where one finds beautiful feet and shoes.
Inevitably these encounters tend to be short and fleeting. A spectacular pair of FMs walks by you in a crowded street. You experience a sharp pang of excitement, but it is here, then gone. It’s true that I have been known to follow a really fine pair of feet, and that can be exciting in itself, but it is ultimately unsatisfactory. I needed some means of making these chance experiences more real and permanent.
I bought a small, leather shoulder-bag and cut a hole in the side large enough to accommodate the lens of a fixed focus, automatic camera. The camera was lined up with the hole, then attached to the inside of the bag, and I ran a cable release from the camera, out of the bag, up through the shoulder strap to my hand. I walked the streets carrying the bag, and when I saw an attractive pair of feet belonging to a woman who was standing at a bus stop or looking in a shop window or waiting for a friend, I would stand beside her as though I was waiting too. Then I would take the bag off and set it down on the ground with the camera lens pointing towards the feet, and I would squeeze the cable release to make a permanent record of the subject.
Results were mixed but not wholly unsuccessful. Sometimes the pictures were blurred, because I had nudged the bag or because the feet had moved, and sometimes someone would walk between us as I was taking the photograph, but, on the whole, I achieved my goal. I captured images of feet and shoes that I would never have been able to possess in any other way. They were a crucial part of the archive. If you liked I would show you these photographs, and also the ones I took when asking women to answer my questionnaire. You could see the completed questionnaires too if you wanted.
We could spend a great deal of time in this part of the archive, but sooner or later you might say that all these things were secondary materials. They were not the thing itself. I wouldn’t argue with you. I’d simply say, let’s move on.
We would then find ourselves in a small, comfortable, predominantly red room. You would see that each of the walls was hung floor to ceiling with thick burgundy chenille curtains. Light would come from a small overhead chandelier, and at the centre of the room you would see a small but plush loveseat and a footstool. You would see a small sideboard and what looked like a cocktail cabinet, but your eye would rapidly move to a row of glass domes on top of the sideboard, the kind used to cover stuffed birds or animals. Anticipating your interest, I would flick a switch and half a dozen spotlights would shine down on the domes. Instead of creatures, each one would contain a pair of shoes. You would see how special these were; one pair with nine or ten inch high heels, another a pair of open-toed ankle boots, another a pair of antique bar shoes. But you wouldn’t have time to inspect them closely because I would already be bringing the rest of the room to life.
I would open the sideboard to reveal massed, orderly rows of shoes. I would walk over to the cocktail cabinet, open its doors and show the illuminated interior, and on the shelves where the bottles and glasses should have been there would be an arrangement of kid court shoes in burgundy and black, purple and aquamarine.
Perhaps I would have the video set up in the room and now I would turn it on to show a series of stills, close-ups of shoes and feet in brilliantly crisp, clear detail.
‘Impressed?’ I might ask, and if, like Catherine, you half-nodded, half-smiled, I would look back as though to say, ‘You’ve seen nothing yet.’
I would go over to the far wall, take hold of one of the stretches of chenille and pull it back like the tabs of a small stage and I would reveal a walk-in cupboard behind it. This, you would see, was the real thing, the inner sanctum, the secret chamber. I would take you by the hand and suggest you take a much closer look.
You would see shelves from floor to ceiling, and display stands in the centre, all crammed with shoes; an Aladdin’s cave, a treasure house, but maybe also a reliquary, and maybe partly a prison cell. The sense of mad accumulation would be glorious and yet there might be something sinister about it. By then you would know my tastes and preferences, so none of it would really surprise you. You would have known what to expect and yet you would still be overwhelmed and impressed by the concentration, the intensity of the collection.
Some of the shoes would be opulent and ornate, others simple and classically elegant, some wholly and only fetishistic. And although each shoe would tend to be sleek and discrete, when put together they would create a diffuse, ragged design; black leather nestling next to cerise satin, blue silk next to black lace. The ankle straps from one pair of sandals would spill over into the mouth of a pair of red silk court shoes. Different kinds of leather pierced or inlaid, or concocted into marquetry. You would see bevelled heels and wedges, a few platform soles, some gold lamé, some parrot feathers, fishtail heels, ruby slippers, needle-toes. All the great names would be represented: Vivier, Ferragamo, Perugia, Schiaparelli, Frizon, Cover Girl, Jimmy Choo, Blahnik. There would even be a glass slipper of sorts, although actually it was made of transparent perspex.
It would all be there before you, a collage, a catalogue of shapes, colours and textures that corresponded to my mind, a collection that utterly revealed my personality. I would glow with pride. I’d tell you this was my great work, that it was me. You would see that putting the shoes together like this had been an act of creation and profound self-definition.
You would be filled with questions. I would explain to you that buying the first couple of pairs in this collection was a very big step for me. I was circumspect to start with. I would only buy through mail order. I bought either from specialist fetish suppliers or from conventional mail-order catalogues. But it took very little time before I had the courage to go into shoe shops and buy there. I would always say that I was buying the shoes as a present, which in a sense was true, and none of the shop assistants ever questioned my motives or indicated that they thought I was doing anything peculiar. The ones who served me could hardly have thought I was buying them to wear myself since my own feet are large, and I always bought shoes in conventional women’s sizes. In fact I bought them in a variety of sizes so that as and when I had new women in my life, whatever their foot size, I would have something to fit them.
My collection grew, became substantial. I poured a lot of money into it, though probably less than certain men pour into other hobbies. I’m sure it was no more expensive than sailing, golfing or running a classic sports car. There was, however, something lacking. My collection consisted entirely of brand-new shoes. They were often exquisitely beautiful. The styles and shapes were appealing, but as they lined up on my shelves and in my display cabinets, looking pristine and immaculate, they seemed curiously chaste and mute. It proved what I had always known, that a shoe in itself, however
full of erotic potential, only comes to life when placed around a human foot. These shoes that I had so carefully selected were used only in the bedroom during sex. They had never been worn in the street. They lacked female warmth, they lacked that patina and character that comes from being worn.
I changed my hunting grounds. I visited second-hand and antique-clothes shops, market stalls, charity shops, and I added to my collection. The shoes thus obtained showed some slight signs of life and wear. They had been gently creased, moulded to the shape of the owners’ feet. Sometimes the inside of the shoes bore an imprint of the feet that had worn them. I found this very exciting. There was considerable pleasure to be had in imagining the previous wearer of the shoes, speculating about her feet, her personality, her sexual preferences. And I wondered how she might feel if she knew that her discarded shoes had become objects of fascination for some man, or that I had passed them on to some new woman who had worn them during sex. But of course it was all speculation, all imagination. I would never meet these previous owners.
And that is when I took the next step, and this I think is the only aspect of my obsession that ever actually made me feel ashamed. It was certainly the only thing I ever did that was even remotely illegal. I began to find ways of stealing the shoes from women’s feet. Not quite literally. I didn’t leap on women, knock them to the ground and rob them. I never used violence; rather I used a great deal of skill and cunning.
There are certain occasions, certain situations, when women take their shoes off in public. It happens in parks or at the beach, although, in the latter case, women rarely wear very exciting shoes when they’re walking on sand or shingle. They also take their shoes off in restaurants or bars, at the theatre or cinema. At parties and dances footsore women frequently kick off their shoes and dance in their bare or stockinged feet.
Again, I suppose my greatest advantage in all this was that I didn’t look like the sort of man who would steal women’s shoes. What would such a man look like in any case? I would saunter past my ‘victim’, looking innocent but purposeful, as though I had many things on my mind other than women’s shoes. It was surprisingly easy. In parks the women would be sunbathing with their eyes closed, or engrossed in a book or listening to a personal stereo. In restaurants and bars they tended to be engrossed in food, drink and conversation. In the theatre or cinema they were watching the entertainment, although the seating arrangements here often made access very difficult. At parties and dances the women were partying or dancing. In none of these situations were they expecting to have their shoes stolen. They would be guarding their handbags, their keys, their credit cards, but they would feel quite relaxed about their shoes. And that’s when I used to pounce; swiftly, deftly, expertly. A certain amount of crawling about on the floor was often required, but that went with the territory. I stole the shoes and I was gone. Later I’d imagine the women walking home shoeless, their bare feet exposed to the common gaze, and there was a certain sly pleasure in that too.
If I had taken you to my archive I would try to explain all this to you. Perhaps you would be looking at me a little askance by now – Catherine certainly was. But it would be time to press on. I would ask you to select a pair of shoes you liked and I would help you put them on. You would realize you were not the first to have worn them, that other women had been here as you were, and I would hope that the thought excited you.
We would enter the inner sanctum, the secret chamber, and I would draw the curtain closed behind us, so that we were in this enclosed space, the walls full of shoes, the ceiling mirrored, the floor lined with deep wool carpet. We would stand at the centre and I would undress us both. Perhaps you would have chosen a pair of red leather high-heeled mules with a peep-toe. I would kneel at your feet and kiss your flesh where it met the leather, then I would lay you down and fuck you long and intensely and tenderly, and no doubt you would look up, look past me, up at the mirrored ceiling, at our surroundings. And undoubtedly you would look at the rows of shoes, and you might think about all the past or future perverse acts these shoes represented. And with my cock inside you, with your feet encased in shoes of your own choosing, I would hope that you would finally be coming very close to understanding me. That, at least, is what I hoped for from Catherine, but perhaps I was asking too much, too soon.
Thirteen
You know those old movies where they’re in a nightclub and the men are wearing evening dress and they have tiny spiv-like moustaches, and they’re with some good-time girls, and then one of the guys pulls a shoe off one of the girl’s feet and drinks champagne out of it? Well, come on, what’s that all about? Is it meant to imply that the woman is so attractive that even the sweat from her feet is desirable? It could be a simple bit of self-degradation, but on the scale of human degradation it seems to be so low it’s barely registering.
I’m far more persuaded that it’s a symbolic act. The cad is drinking champagne from the woman’s shoe, but really he wants to be drinking it from her cunt. Or maybe it’s not really about drinking at all. You’ll notice it’s only ever champagne that gets drunk. Why isn’t it a nice claret or a mature, tawny port? Well, I don’t think there’s much doubt it has something to do with ejaculation; white frothy stuff, not dark, resinous, full-bodied liquor. I suspect that it’s pouring in the champagne that’s the real symbolic act, not drinking it out.
The fact is, it’s not all that easy to drink out of a woman’s shoe, and I have of course tried. But for me the problem is more with the champagne than with the shoe. I’d much rather pour good, dark red wine over a woman’s bare foot and then lick it off. That was something I frequently did with Catherine. It was another little foot-related eccentricity of mine, and she never complained. Besides, even good champagne can ruin a shoe, and we weren’t going to take any risks, certainly not with Harold’s handiwork.
Time passed. We kept visiting Harold and he kept coming up with the goods, producing pair after pair of wild and exquisite shoes. Catherine and I were delighted with everything he made, but it was never a simple or straightforward delight. There was always a dark edge to his work. One pair of black stiletto court shoes was studded with false eyes of the most intense powder blue. Another pair, made of vibrant red satin, had shards of smashed mirror set in the toe. Others featured strange and alarming fabrics: chain mail, semi-transparent rubber, antelope skin. Or there would be weird features and decoration; an ankle strap made out of sinister medical tubing, wooden heels carved into the shape of putti. Sometimes there would be asymmetrical rips and slashes in the fabric, designed to give tantalizing glimpses of the bare foot inside as Catherine walked.
We made a lot of visits to Harold’s shop. Occasionally we’d arrive at the same time as one of his more orthodox customers, someone collecting a pair of handmade brogues or buckskin cricket boots. In that case we had to wait until he’d finished with them, then he’d shut the shop so that our business was entirely private. The world of fetishism had to be kept separate from his usual trade.
I sensed we were something special in Harold’s life, but he seemed determined that we shouldn’t become too friendly, and even though he lived in the flat above the shop, we were never invited there. Our transactions always took place in the neutral territory of the shop or workroom.
Owning truly great pairs of fetishistic shoes provokes at least two important questions. One: where and on what occasions do you wear them? Two: what do you wear them with? The obvious answers might appear to be that you wear them every night in bed with nothing else at all, but Catherine and I wanted a less obvious answer.
Great feet and great shoes need to be shown off. A woman can wear killer FMs in her normal daily life, in the supermarket, at the pub, in the office. In these situations heads will definitely turn, the shoes may even be appreciated, but they only have that effect because they’re actually out of place there. In fact, it was hard to think of anywhere, apart from a fetish club, where Harold’s shoes wouldn’t look out of place. So we decided to go
to a fetish club.
It was called Stains, and its claim was that it ‘celebrated sexual difference’. Of course, in one sense, a fetishist like myself actually wants to celebrate sexual similarity: the more closely feet and shoes resemble my own personal ideals the better I like them. But I knew what they meant. As far as I was aware, and naturally I’d done a little research on the subject, there was no club in London that catered just for foot and shoe fetishists, but we knew that dressing up in sexy gear, lethal high heels included, was one of the ‘differences’ that Stains celebrated, so it would have to do.
Harold’s latest creation was a pair of peep-toed ankle boots made of what he assured us was monkeyskin. The ox-blood varnish on Catherine’s toenails made a wicked contrast against the shaggy black fur of the shoe. Thus arose the problem of what else Catherine should wear. I wasn’t surprised to learn that she’d been to one or two of these clubs before and she had a few well-chosen items in her wardrobe that would do the job; some wisps of leather and fishnet, a bit of exotic corsetry and uplift. It was powerful stuff, but for my tastes none of it was as wild or as eloquent as the shoes. As for me, I put on some leather trousers and a T-shirt with an illustration of a pair of FMs. It couldn’t compete with Catherine’s outfit, but it wasn’t meant to.
Footsucker Page 8
