My Fetish

There’s a man at work who I have nicknamed “The Perfect Storm” because, for me, he has the Big Three elements that make a man irresistible.

1. Scottish
2. Military background
3. Painfully shy.

Now all of these could be analysed individually, which I might just do now.

Item No. 2 is particularly disturbing because as an anti-war leftist pacifist, why do I find the whole military thing such a turn-on? Troubling indeed. I don’t think there’s any explaining these things. We just like what we like, as the old lady said when she kissed the cow (one of my late father’s favourite expressions).

No. 3 is also odd, I think, because normally introverts are attracted to extroverts, or so the experts tell us. I can see the problem when an introvert is attracted to another introvert. Because, basically, nothing happens because nobody’s talking, and nobody’s making a move. That’s the biggest problem with being an introvert, as any introvert might tell you if they dared speak to you, which they won’t.

No. 1 needs no explanation, right?

So I was just in a crowded elevator with The Perfect Storm, and in my usual way, I stared down at the floor. And what did I notice? His shoes.

My fetish.

I swear my knees buckled.

Perfectly polished black wing-tips. Yep. I have a severe wing-tip fetish, and his were exquisite. I stared. I gulped.

Anyone who knows me knows I hate feet. I hate exposed feet. I don’t want to see a stranger’s feet. And I have no interest in shoes. Nothing bores me more than people who talk about shoes. Except wing-tips. God, I love them. They are so classy, masculine, severe (!) and appealing. And on a certain type of man, …well. Hubba, hubba!

Is that weird? Yes, of course it is. But it wouldn’t be a fetish if it was normal.