What can YOU say in six sentences?
When she was getting ready to go out, my mother used to let me sit on her bed and rest my back against the ruffled shams of her soft pink room, and I’d watch her engage in her ritualistic preparation, from the moment she turned on the light in front of her dressing table mirror, to her last gesture, the slipping of her foot into her shoe.
I didn’t understand my feelings, and felt confused by my desire to take her stockings, slide them over my hands and arms, and stroke my bare skin there on her bed; I would often pretend she had a microscopic smudge on her pumps and race behind her with a tissue to rub it off before allowing her to leave, finding some solace in performing this little ritual of my own invention.
My parents were generous with me where money is concerned, and in college I dated a girl whom I was able to convince after a few indulgent gifts and a particularly luxurious dinner to allow me to remove her shoes and rub her wide, sturdy feet – you have heard of reflexology, which I deftly used to blur her boundaries, and although I was more interested in having her put her stocking over her hand and jack me off, it was clear she expected a fuck.
Luckily she was limber and wearing nail polish, so I had her rest her feet on my shoulders and I turned my head and kissed her instep, which gave me the starch to pound out a modest orgasm.
Most of my interactions with women have followed this pattern, although once during a trip overseas I hired a pair of prostitutes and watched them rub each other’s pussies with their feet; I found this to be less gratifying than I had imagined, and finally accepted the fact that nothing works for me like simple worship.
My search for an ideal partner continues - like a queen, she will quietly and peacefully give me permission to do the many things I want to do (that I leave to your imagination), she will never buy a pair of shoes without my input, and she will not be ticklish.