I was at a handjob parlor recently, and I said to the girl tugging me off: “I have to ask you something, but I’m embarrassed to say it.”

She looked up at me and hesitated for a moment. I realize now that her trepidation was probably due to a suspicion that I might be trying for an illicit up-sell; these places are handjob-ONLY facilities (that’s how I roll because I don’t dig herpes) but a girl like this was undoubtedly used to 99% of her scumbag visitors trying to get her to fuck them … and they probably start off these attempts with dirtbag coy-ass intros like the line I had just used.

C’mon girl, I’ll give ya a hundred bucks — just put your mouth on it for ONE minute … C’mon, two hundred — just a LICK!

… And then the girl has to laugh it off and desperately race to jack-out the poison juices that cause these mad men to grope at every possible angle and vulnerability in order to get their dicks as wet as possible.

But lucky for both of us, that’s not what I was after.

She looked up at me and finally replied, “Yeah?”

“Uh … can you use your feet?” I asked.

She wasn’t a drop-dead-gorgeous girl, but the effort that she had put into her appearance — the fact that she cared — that was a turn on. Her feet were the apex of this attention to detail: Her toes were painted with pretty pink toenail polish, her feet strapped into these hot little high heels. She treated her feet better than I treat myself. They were all dolled up and coddled like a New York poodle in one of those gay little sweaters.

“I’m sorry?” she asked

“Can you use your feet?” I managed to ask again, “Like … jerk me off with your feet?”

“Oh, like a footjob?” she clarified. “Sure.”

What a sweet girl. She acquiesced, taking off her shoes and rubbing lotion onto her feet. She took the palm of her foot and pressed it gently against my manhood, pushing it toward my chest, lightly running her toes up to the head and down my shaft toward my balls.

It felt sick.

So then she goes, “Do you have a foot fetish?”

“Uhh, I dunno. I don’t think so.”

“Yeah, you do,” she informed me. “That’s what that means, when you want a footjob like this.”

“Oh.”

What makes my brain want that? It must be partially due to the fact that I’m SO bored of and desensitized to all the normal shit that the world of sex has to offer. Thanks Porn, thanks Whoring, thanks Internet.

Still, regardless of context, I feel like there’s always been this special little sauce that fires in my brain when THE RIGHT deviant thing presents itself to me. It makes the build-up of sex and the orgasm itself EXTRA powerful. What is that shit?

I have a friend that likes to be milked like a cow. He goes onto all fours and likes to have a girl tug on his dick downward, and then likes to finish into her hand. He doesn’t need the girl to dress up like Little Bo Peep or anything like that, and he doesn’t moo or pretend to be a cow or anything (shit, how do I know? Maybe he does! He says he doesn’t), he just likes the feeling of being jacked off downward and having a girl sit Indian-style next to him like an attending milkmaid.

Believe it or not, I think I understand him. Being milked isn’t my thing, but I can relate to the concept of something bizarre and deviant causing an energy boost — like a warped and twisted Super Mario mushroom that makes you hornier and makes your dick 1UP hard.

You don’t really get to choose what you’re into, it’s damn near close to “hard-wired” into our systems. I thank Jesus I was only born with wiring for footjobs, and maybe a spanking here and there. Can you imagine being wired to enjoy something even worse? Something horribly illegal that tortured you to want it, like the Son of Sam?

Sadly, this is the reason that all child molesters need to be killed immediately. There’s simply no alternative: No amount of jail or rehab will change their deadly wiring. Maybe if there was a pill to stop it the same way there’s a pill to cure homosexuality, there’d be some hope. Until then, it’s death. Sorry guy, luck of the draw.

It’s weird to think how everyone affected: bus drivers and dentists and teachers and shit all just walk around concealing their deviant wiring. Every time we do get a glimpse into someone else’s wiring, it always disturbs the shit out of us. (Ibid. Marv Albert chewing on panties pp106-109)

Thank god that shit is private! You don’t want to know that your surgeon is into being hung by his nipples. Wouldn’t it suck if everyone just had their fetishes floating above them wherever they went, using some kind of Sims-like iconography?

You’d be on the L train and some guy would have a pair of garters floating above him, some girl would have a shoelace noose and some nun a diaper.

I’d be screwed with that shit floating above me all day! Thank god it’s just a fantasy; I can’t stand the smell of feet.

-BENJAMIN LEO

Follow Benjamin’s tweets on @Street_Carnage

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