Forever 69 is a bi-weekly, bi-curious column about fashion and sex.
Among object fetishes, shoes are reportedly the most common. The stat figures, considering shoe fetishism’s connection to foot fetishism, oft-measured as the most prevalent sexual fetish outside of the normie sexual (T&A &Holes, etc.). Most shoe fetishists like shoes on feet—the constriction of high-high heels, the swing of pumps dangling off toes, the smell of shoe leather after wear. It’s the relation of dress to body that gets them off.
Or so the forums tell me.
Shoejob Forum and Heeljob Forum are about stimulation of the penis by a woman, like a handjob with her shoes or in the case of Footjob Forum, her feet. Shoecum is a great place for shoe cummers to share their experiences. Cumming on shoes is a popular fetish and forced shoe cumming often occurs when the pointy toe of a sexy high heeled shoe is shoved into a girl’s pussy. The Shoe Insertion Forum is our special place for this sexy act of high heeled domination by a shoejob mistress. Types of sexy high heels include high heeled boots, high heeled shoes, thigh high boots, stiletto heels and spike heels. For pedal pumping, see Girls Driving and Driving In Heels. For damaged shoes see Abused Shoes, and High Heeled Catfights. For women in wet shoes and wet boots and girls wearing heels in the rain, see Wet High Heels, Sexy When Wet, Dirty High Heels. Shoe POV, or Heels POV, is a new shoe fetish genre associated with female domination.
It’s been months since my last Forever 69, and that’s largely because, after a minor trauma, my sex went mute. And with my sex—my drive—went my words. (Keith Haring: “I’ve totally lost the ability to seduce and enjoy the art of seduction—the source of much of my inspiration to work and live… It is probably the driving force behind all of my work. Now isn’t that pathetic? Or is it? Maybe, just maybe, it is not so uncommon and even quite normal.”)
My minor trauma was marked by a pair of bad shoes. The shoes weren’t the cause but they were emblematic—their awful square toes are, in the end, what I can’t get out of my head.
I’ve never slept with someone who wore bad shoes. “Bad” is a value judgment, of course, but what I’m measuring as taste is not beauty, trend, or money, but deliberateness in communication. Shoes communicate. They are the punctuation at the end of the sentence of an outfit, and a bad pair can ruin the whole thing just like this!?
Bad shoes are a tell—they tell me you’re not interested in communicating (and so communing, because communication is the foundation of good sex) with someone like me.
Shoes on my black list include: most brown shoes, all uncomfortable shoes, and—worst—those deliberately uncool, unaesthetic, I’m-trying-so-hard-to-seem-like-I’m-not-trying shoes, not like Crocs (love), but like the kind worn by “sensitive” straight lit guys who prefer greige to white (brown over black) and act like they respect you (a woman) but are really scared of you and probably harbor Deep Dark feelings of resentment towards you because they have no clue how to get their dick in you. I shudder at those shoes.
Beyond that, the codes are too subtle to write; it’s a know it when I see it kind of thing.
I love a man in Vans. Nikes, New Balance, Docs, Cons: pro. Mandals—mos def. The sexiest shoes a woman can wear are Margiela Tabis. That’s a slit you want to finger.
Creepers are hot right now. Heavy lug soles that force the foot flat, erect. I’ve always loved creepers. (Punk nostalgia. Working class romanticism.)
What I want most, though, is to date a man who wears high heels. Like the pilgrim platforms at J.W. Anderson. I’ll wear the same, six sizes smaller. We’ll be like twins. Equals.
Since my sex went mute, I’ve been thinking too much. Trying to remember moments of unthinking desire.
My square-toed trauma brings back this memory: I’m eighteen-years-old and a frustrated anorgasmic and my then-boyfriend is smiling, delighted, watching usually-frigid-me purr and bounce at the sight of a pair of white mod ankle booties. And another: I’m twenty-three and walking to a shop where I’ve decided I’m to spend $600 on kitten heels; visualizing the transaction, I start to feel that involuntary, but always welcome, twitch below.
I don’t consider myself a traditional shoe fetishist. The forums do nothing for me. And when James Deen starts foot worshipping, I fast forward until he’s back attending to the usual.
My friend who’s a feeder tells me that part of the turn-on for women who feed is the elicit. Women in our culture aren’t supposed to stuff themselves. It’s the immoderation—giving in, letting go, being bad—of overeating that makes them wet. This, I think, is probably why I’m turned on buying expensive footwear. It’s the pleasure of forbidden consumption. Knowing I shouldn’t (what would my anti-capitalist friends think!?) makes me want more.
There’s a sweater on the market right now that quotes Susan Sontag saying, “Passion paralyzes good taste.” It’s by some mid-end, Opening Ceremony-approved brand called Anzevino that made a whole collection out of Sontag-isms. “Desire has no history,” says one top. “Sanity is a cozy lie,” says another. “Against Interpretation,” and so on.
“Passion paralyzes good taste” was hanging in a window display near my work through the holidays. Every time I walked by, it caused me to pause. The quotation read wrong to me, so wasn’t Sontag. Two Google searches proved me right. The words are actually Thomas Mann’s, from Death in Venice: “Passion paralyzes good taste and makes its victim accept with rapture what a man in his senses would either laugh at or turn from with disgust.” Sontag had quoted it without attribution in her early diaries. Anzevino’s mistake.
The quote felt wrong to me because I’ve always felt Sontag was like me w/r/t to desire: wanting to be paralyzed dumb by passion, to lose our critical minds to lust, and capable of this (so we know), but rarely. I want to be the kind of person who’s indifferent to symbols like shoes, compelled instead by the primal, by pure body, but I’m not. I’m the dick who can only slip it to someone in good shoes. I can’t help myself.