Sexual Heel-ing

Three months after my break-up I decided it was time to get back on the horse.

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As I browsed through many a breed in the Tinder catalogue, my finger hovered over what I thought might just be the stallion I was looking for. Not that I’m under any false impressions about taking Tinder on face value, the thing isn’t exactly grounded in honesty. For example, some horses are just plain shy so they don’t have many photos. Whereas other horses are actually just catfish pretending to be horses (that’s a story for another day). This particular horse though had photos that said “I did not google search these images”, which after a bottle of wine and one too many “I have 10 pet snakes and keep dead mice in my freezer” conversations, was good enough for me. I swiped right and let the Universe do its thing.

Horse analogies aside, the guy (let’s call him Mike) was keen. Mike asked me to come over and watch a movie with him that night which, being Sunday, was obviously not ok with me. Everybody knows that Sunday night is reserved for anxiety ridden preparation to get up in the morning and face another shitty Monday with colleagues that make you want to punch yourself in the face (except of course your work wife who is the only reason you turn up for that shit show every day…I mean, that and the fact that you need money for your next Aperol spritz and the heinously priced Zimmerman dress you’ll post on Instagram after which you can never wear again. Remind me why we do that to ourselves?!?!). Anyway, Mike very quickly set his intentions with messages like “I’ve been in the Middle East and just got back” and “I haven’t been with a woman in ages”. Meanwhile I’m thinking ok Mike, this isn’t Mean Girls and I’m not Cady Heron. When you ask if I’d like my muffin buttered I understand that what you really mean is “Can I put my penis inside you?” to which my answer would be “If you’re a decent guy, probably”.  

Thanks to the wine my inhibitions had backflipped out the window and took the Sunday afternoon blues with them. So naturally my unbuttered muffin and I hopped in an Uber and made the 15 minute journey over to Mike’s place. First thing I noticed was that he looked just like his photo – great start. His place was clean, he didn’t live with his Mum and his bathroom had liquid soap by the basin (winning!). We sat down on his L-shaped couch with our feet facing each other (trust me, these trivial details are important) to watch what I now realise, was a strategically picked movie about blood and guts and fighting and bla bla blaaaaaa. Mike made the correct assumption that this would bore me and kindly offered to give me a foot massage.

Before I even get started on what happened next, let me make this clear – I do not have cute, dainty feet. Nothing about them is inviting. The soles of my feet look like a dried up swamp and my heels are so cracked I could hide toothpicks inside them – judge me if you must but I’m not at all ashamed to say that I have some seriously messed up shit going on down there. My confusion at Mike’s eagerness was quickly silenced by the buzz of the wine so I let him do his thing. Despite feeling a slight tickle I was willing to see where this massage would go.

That is of course until my foot travelled north and I found my big toe enveloped by his very warm, very wet mouth. Our eyes met as he played tonsil hockey with my toe jam and I tried to release my foot from his grip with a pathetic “Umm, I have really ticklish feet”. Clearly not sensing any of the panic in my voice he said “No worries, let me try it like this instead”. As he continued to go all Wet and Wild on my foot I still maintained that “Ahhh no they’re really sensitive, that tickles”. Feigning understanding Mike lowered the travelling swamp and placed it in his lap while I re-evaluated both my life choices and my exit strategy. Perhaps sensing that I was ready to take flight, Mike made like Tyson and got back in the ring. He started to rub my foot up and down his groin with a sense of urgency that was terrifying and somehow, also really impressive. Mike was the eager star in his very own fetish movie and despite my unwilling participation, I felt like I was hovering above watching in shock as he created more and more friction between my foot and his track pants. Panting heavily now and speaking between breaths he said “Have you…ever…given…a foot job…before?”. And that’s when I’d had enough. I stood up and stormed out of that circus like the self-respecting woman that I am.

LOL jokes, that’s not what happened at all (because for some reason we women can find it so hard to extract ourselves from these uncomfortable situations!!). I replied “No, no I haven’t”. Mike said, “Do you…want to… give one…now?”. I shook my head. He threw in the towel (which, if I were speaking literally, would have been covered in you know what) and we proceeded to watch the rest of World War whatever the fuck the movie was. I wouldn’t know because for the next hour I sat there wondering if I was the Notorious B.I.G. and this was all, in fact, just a dream.  

When I turned up to work the next day Janet from HR showed me 100 photos of her horse in a reindeer outfit and I resisted the urge to punch myself in the face. Monday, we meet again.  

Lesson: Not every Mike is Magic.

With love, always

J (on behalf of M)

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