Playing Footsie (Patreon)

They say the part of the brain that’s attracted to boobs is located right next door to the part that’s attracted to feet. Something to do with very-early childhood. Small babies spend a lot of time on the floor, next to their moms’ feet, or a lot of time nursing. Safety, security, sustenance, all during a time of life when the brain is figuring out what the whole consciousness thing is all about.

I can understand the boob thing (though maybe I’m biased). I think everyone likes boobs, in one way or another. They’re fun, and they’re squishy. They fill put a dress in a mysterious way. Think Christina Hendricks in Mad Men, the third episode of that awesome The Romanoffs anthology, or whatever other projects she’s done.

I like Christina. There aren’t a lot of actresses who rock big tits with a sense of elegance. (How many can you think of who are out of the C cup range?)

When I was doing freelance press junkets, I interviewed an actress who was friends with her — mentioned that Hendricks’ main goal early on was to get to the point where she’d be able to play parts where her chest wasn’t the central focus.

I think she’s succeeded admirably. I mean, you watch her performance, and sometimes you can’t help but notice some serious curves. But she’s a great actress, plots increasingly don’t revolve around her prodigious cleavage, and… it’s refreshing.

Now, as far as Heather-class melons are concerned, I don’t think we’re going to see a leading lady any time soon who passes the breast version of the Bechtel Test — a harrowing, award-nominated psychological drama that dwells on nuances of our shared human experience, but the main character has unacknowledged R cups? Nah, maybe some off-brand B flick, at best (nothing wrong with that; call me, John Waters) — but it’s nice to see women like Christina paving the way.

Plus, who doesn’t have a thing for redheads?

Feet, though? Never been able to wrap my mind around that idea, personally. Lord knows I despise kink shaming — consenting adults should be able to do what the hell ever they please. To each their own, and this one strikes me as pretty freaking harmless. If feet are your thing? Hell, dude, fucking go for it.

Which is why I’m a little curious, too: there seems to be a pop culture stigma attached to foot fetishes. People chuckling about Quentin Tarantino or Joss Whedon; weren’t there a couple serial killers in the ‘70s who talked about it? Aren’t shoe designers supposed to be inherently pervy? Taboos like that. Doesn’t seem fair, though.

Stereotypes are odd. I’ve really come to believe that more and more… as my boobs grew, so did my own view of casting two-dimensional judgements on peoples’ preferences. Or, at least, I got better at separating the wheat from the chaff — EVERYBODY has their “thing.”

Because, shit, look at me! How hypocritical would I be, otherwise?! Considering myself generally open-minded is a fine start; a LOT of experience has given me a LOT of context. I used to actually be kind of a prude!

So, I get it. If there’s even ONE aspect of one’s self that bucks the norm? You try to keep it as close to the chest (harhar) as you can. I’ve been there.

For example. How many of you reading this, right now, would feel a little embarrassed telling your friend/SO/coworker/fishing buddy/adult son/electrician that you have an attraction, as slight as it may be, for women with gigantic freaking honkers? Be honest with yourself, I won’t tell. If you’d feel embarrassed, I wonder… why, exactly? Nothing wrong with boobs, right? Is it society? Perception? Fear of judgement? You’ll get uninvited to the church potluck? It’s 2022, so why do a lot of folks still wanna live in a ‘50s sitcom?

Lotsa people think I’m some sort of Celtic fertility goddess; some folks, believe it or not, think I’m kinda gross. (I did an audio file on that a few months back, that “Difference Between Men and Women” one.) And… maybe I’m answering my own questions here, but come to think of it? There actually aren’t a lot of folks in the middle of that spectrum — the place I solidly used to reside before Natalia and Olga made their presence so-much-more well-known.

If you were to look at me, you probably wouldn’t think “failed political scientist-turned print journalist-turned content marketer.” By most calculations, I should be employed as one of the most very-niche of adult actors, gracing the pixels of a handful of specialty sites. Russ Meyer would probably send me home from the casting call for being “too over the top.”

You think about these things when you’re a person who would not consider adding “walking fetish” to her businesses card, let alone her CV.

Ah well. I’ve heard it all. BUT! I can’t complain, and hope I’m not coming off all rant-y (too late). One of the nice things is that I simply don’t mind the haters: they’re just behind the times. It hasn’t been so long since subscribing to “Playboy” (my all-time favorite magazine) solidly categorized one as a sexual deviant. Now, what a charming, tame, antiquated diversion. Times change, thank Christ, and I like the (thick) skin I’m in. (I wonder how the world will look when I’m an 80-year-old big boob lady…)

Which leaves me purely curious, about most things. I now find that the people who are the most open about their uncommon erotic preferences are genuinely cooler than the ones who hide that shit in a shoebox under the bed. They get it all out in the open; they don’t really care who knows; they’re less… anxious about it. I like that. That candor leaves them with quite an enhanced sense of chill, which is one of the better qualities.

So, I’ll certainly be more than happy to acknowledge: I do see cute feet from time to time. My feet are shite, so maybe I’m just more-open to appreciation.

And then… if you’re the type of introvert who only comes out of her shell when she wants to become particularly annoying (especially if your undiagnosed ADHD causes you to become attracted, mockingbird-style, to the shiny things of the world), your arm just kinda reaches out and grabs what it sees.

Gotta be spontaneous, sometimes.

(Otherwise… I STILL think I would be PERFECT in a sequel to Faster, Pussycat, Kill, Kill!)