I have read many accounts of gay male fetishes and how various “experts” say they develop over a lifetime. I am no expert in male fetishes but I do know how my passion for all things male foot related came to be.
This is the best place to share a saga like this and I do hope others will find my journey enlightening, informative and by all means, very sexual! It turns me on to finally tell all this to likeminded souls who understand how vital my passions are and why many non-foot folk would not take kindly to many of the things I shall reveal over the course of my saga.
I say saga because I am now nearly 60 and life has been a truly sensory sensational journey so far. A wonderful ride and most definitely a horny one! These “experts” say that we (those with a fetish) must not let it rule our sex lives. I say, it’s so late in the game, let’s just enjoy it! Every little nitty-gritty bit! My male foot love has brought me more sexual fulfilment that any other facet of my sexual being. And I am not unhappy with that, no, not one bit! Experts be damned!
My saga will travel though my life and continue in that order until I reach today. I think many choices I made in life were made to suit my foot passions. Placing myself in locations and with men I felt I wanted to explore that “passion” with. Sometimes it was all very innocent and voyeuristic and other times much more involved and highly sexual. The need for actually getting a “sock trophy” could be quite a wonderful game and always provided pleasure long after the event; sock odours last a very long time if kept carefully contained in little zipper plastic baggies. Oh, come on...you know that, too! I know it! Don’t try to hide it.
The very root of my adoration of the male foot stems from my early days at home and my father; his feet were perfection and I think I fell in love with his from someplace way back when. I can’t exactly place the very year or particular moment. But the first pangs of manly foot love came about like this:
Our home was in both the UK and US over the years since my dad had a cooperate position in a large company and he did very well with them since he first began in the late 1940’s. The company allowed dad to maintain a home in both countries by the time I was born. Neither of the homes was huge, just comfortable and I was the only child of my parent’s long standing marriage. They had me after six years and I was happy and adjusted to my life switching every so often between the two homes and the schools that went with each.
Mother was a solid woman and very commanding. She was attractive and cool, remote maybe. She ruled the roost and tried to keep my dad reigned in and under her control. I seemed to escape this desired controlling and remained free, easy and able to become me.
My father was the most serene and lovely man you’d ever want to know. He was a master in corporate affairs and rose very high in the ranks and was a VP for most of his career. He had matinee charm and style. I say this not to be cliché but because it was true and he had many, many admires on both sides of the Atlantic. He had rusty golden hair, cut short and thick. He sported a moustache and during the 70’s even grew a trimmed beard. His facial hair was a reddish brown, almost a shade of golden really and looked superb. Dad stood at near six feet and never grew flabby.
He cycled, swam and did the occasional gym visit to keep trim and toned. His muscular body was perfectly proportioned and never looked hulking or over-built. He had sexy body hair in that rusty gold colour and though not overly thick, his body had a pleasant coating apart from his ass and back which remained rather smooth. The swimming he did continued to tone a well defined chest with rings of rusty hair circling each reddish-pink man-nipple.
His pubic nest was full and thick and sat atop his very classical hefty uncut manhood which in my early days, I did not regard as sexual at all; it was just what I knew to be exactly what one might see in a museum hanging on a precious statue from some temple of old. His flowing foreskin hung around his appendage with an almost velvet-like skin tone with gentle little puffy tufts or folds gently drooping away from the “secret” hidden cock-knob within. Being born in the US, I was sadly cut in 1959 and I found the fact that his penis lay inside a fleshy sheath to be absolutely mysterious and very visually fascinating. The way it seemed have its own coat of skin was a real marvel to me, again, just like a nude male museum antiquity or some famous painting.
To say my dad was an object to be closely studied and admired would be a vast understatement. He was not ashamed to looked at and I can tell you now, many eyes watched him, many! Dad was a show-off, an exhibitionist to be sure. In the early days, I did not know this. But even then I knew he liked his own looks and did not mind anyone looking at or just plain ogling him regardless of his state of dress or undress. He was proud and rightly so.
Reggie, as he was known by all, possessed a handsome face with great character, familiar distinction and a killer smile. Add to it ruddy cheeks and playful blue eyes that made you feel all warm and loved. That cute moustache just made him look damn sexy; it was always trimmed and not too overwhelming. Maybe it was his mixed ancestry of Scotch and Danish that made his appearance so very appealing and so easy on the eyes.
By now you have figured out, I adored my dad! His body, his soul; it was all so lovable.
At some very early point, I began to notice my dad’s feet. I cannot say when. I just knew I wanted to watch them. I really don’t know why. I just began to watch them. It became a treat to see them around the house. Like a game, only I never grew tired of it.
Those of you with a foot passion will know what I mean, it just happens early on and it’s not like you wanted it to; it just became part of you. All of sudden, a pair of feet becomes something other than a pair of feet. They become a symbol of something truly delicious that this person you adore is attached to and it’s like the opening of an exquisite flower every time they shed their shoes and expose this totally amazing part of their God-given anatomy. You just melt a little and you can’t stop looking. Your breath shortens and you feel all giddy inside. It’s so exciting and you think to yourself, this little pleasure is so secret and all mine. Nobody else knows, it’s all mine!
Dad sported a rather shapely, handsomely sculptured pair of size 11’s. His feet were artfully tapered from heel to toes, growing rather wide at the ball and thus he wore wide 11’s. His big toes were large and long, and with certain shoes he was best in size 11 and ½ because of his slightly longish big toes. His arches were high and his heels were meaty and fleshy pink. Wonderfully healthy in skin colour and tone. No hard skin, no funny or long toenails. Just amazing and well looked after feet! Feet that many others lusted after and loved; it was not just me as my saga will reveal. My chapters will get into many of these events as they unfolded in my life.
Dad, completely unknown to me in my youth, was also a much desired bed-mate. I think this explained mother’s need to control him or maybe own him would be a better phrase. But when I was young, I had no idea about such things. Dad was just an Adonis and looked like those black and white pictures in old books we had of famous paintings. He was, for me then and now, an ideal man in all ways.
At some point during my career of loving dad’s feet I branched out into all male feet but my early memories of foot love were all about dad.
Dad was dressed by mum, not physically mind you. He did all the purchasing but she chose the ones he wore each day. She took a great deal of pride in her man and how he looked. She selected every article he wore day to day; she picked socks, underwear, the whole wardrobe. I think he got to pick on weekends but not if they were going out, then it was back to her choices. She’d lay it all out on their bed; I can still see the whole scene as if it were now. The suit trousers lay open, so not to crease and the suit coat on the back of the chair in the corner of the bedroom. The ironed shirt lay upon the pillow with a suitable necktie and the underwear next to it. A white v-neck t-shirt lay beside it most days. And then his socks lay side by side on the bed like long silky flags announcing dad was dressing.
I always looked at his socks in the early days. Mum would be gone, off to the kitchen to make his breakfast. Dad would be shaving his face and trimming his moustache in the bathroom wearing only a towel loosely wrapped around his 32 waist. I’d sit and just look at those socks. They represented dad and dad’s wonderful feet.
The socks he bought at two places. A very nice men’s shop in New York when he was there on business and the other’s came from a men’s store in London. He swore by these back then in the 1960’s and well into the 1980’s. Their style was over-the-calf (OTC) and a blend of cotton and synthetic. Before I was born he wore many with elastic calf belts and clips to keep them in place. He still had the sock garters and clips in his sock drawer. I thought they looked amazing. Later in time, I got dad to wear them but that is a bit later on. I will tell all as we progress!
The style was mainly solid with gold-toes and some gently ribbed with solid heels and toe caps. The colours were charcoal gray, black, golden tan, chocolate brown, deep navy and a rich burgundy. A few pairs of white tennis style socks were there for his fitness work on weekends. He did own a few odd socks as well. He sported a few OTC forest green ones with a gold emblem on the side of a fleur-de-lis type and some very sheer black and gray ones that had solid toe and heel caps. I was fascinated by this sheer, see-thru type and grabbed them one day when I was rummaging about in dad’s sock drawer. I loved to look in his dresser drawers and was not discouraged. So I did! I loved to stroke the silky ones with my fingers, they felt so unusual as compared to other socks.
I brought a pair to him one day and asked him why they were so silky and see-thru. He explained they were worn (back then) with a tuxedo and his very low leather black slip-on loafers. Ones he hardly wore and looked to me back then like the type Prince Charming wore in Cinderella. I had not seen that outfit yet on him at that stage. He promised that the next time he and mum went to a gala event or a wedding, he’d let me see them in use. I couldn’t wait. I knew I might have to make a fuss some Saturday or Sunday to make him put them on. Being an only child, I could do things like that. But for a weekday, I had to just let him get ready for work.
I’d eagerly watch and assistant my dad in getting ready for the office each day back then. The transformation from towel-clad to suited business executive before my very eyes. I’d hand him each clothing item as he directed me to. But I really loved to watch him sit on the edge of the big bed, and pull those wonderful OTC socks up along his muscular furry legs and cover each of his supple feet with whatever colour he was to have to match his suit and trousers. The socks clung tightly like custom made hosiery to each leg and foot and reached right up and hugged his cycle-strong calf muscles perfectly. The high cost of each pair was in its perfect fit and great holding power; they never drooped or wrinkled.
He would hold his socked feet up for my inspection, “How do they look, Tony?” I’d gently give them each a stroke with my index finger, running it along his very pronounced arch and make him giggle. At that age, that was a real bit of fun. Making dad laugh. He was very ticklish indeed. My small, sharp finger really dug in and sailed across the silky thin sock material in back and forth motions. Dad would hold his feet up as I stood there tickling until he could take it no more and he proceeded to dress the rest of the way. Mum was never far off and heard the giggling, “Tony, are you distracting your father?” She was all business in the morning.
I think those memories last a lifetime. Seeing dad’s socked feet, enjoying the way his feet looked in the socks he wore each day. The very feel (the tactile input) of his socked feet in those socks and of course, making him giggle with my tickling efforts. I suppose even then I was a foot fanatic but I had no idea, it was all very innocent and part of my daily routines. The thin silky feel of each sock was really incredibly enticing and made me want to touch his feet often as possible. His good humour and incredible tolerance for my little sock-foot niche was really above and beyond the call of fatherly duties.
I stress the complete innocence of my early foot fetish days. At that stage “sexual” did not come into it. The rush and giddy feel of seeing his feet was more like the excitement one might feel before getting a present or going on a trip. His feet gave me a head rush and a feeling of a joyful buzzing all over. Dad’s feet were just a lovely indulgence and something I looked forward to everyday, odd or crazy as it may sound, it was my little private delight.
He’d slip on whatever shoes he was to wear; he seemed to have endless shoes in his closet. Mum let him pick his shoes each day and they always went with what he wore. He had many fine leather lace-ups as well as slip-on loafers. He had suede ones as well. He even had “penny loafers” with the penny in the little slit on top. Brown and black were the main colours. He had trainers (sneakers) as well as hiking boots. He had galoshes for rainy days, just in case. The floor of his wardrobe was a sea of shoes, many with wooden shoe-forms fit in to protect their shape. He took great pride in all he owned.
I did try his shoes on; they were always just too big. He was 11 mainly and I only 9’s by the time I was full grown. He shoes always remained big on me. But when I was young, they seemed like boats. I learned to pull out the shoe-forms and put them back. He knew I did, never minded it one bit. I loved the feel of walking in his shoes, no joke!
He worked long days. He maintained that style of life until he was just over 60. He would leave the home at just after 8 am and be home around 7 or 8 PM. I learned later in life that he had many “after work” commitments. Mum just knew he worked long hours but dad’s faithful male office junior (Harrison) always made sure dad was covered since he was more or less a glamorous PA. Harrison will come into the tales of my life in good time as well. He was smitten with my dad, too and travelled between the two head offices as my dad did. They were a team indeed!
Dad would drive into our side parking area and appear each night like magic. In those early days, I waited by the front bay windows of our house and watched for his car to drive in. He’d walk up to our front door and I’d be there and waiting.
Hugs and tickles and jolly moments passed. Dad would toss his briefcase and various items on the hall table. I would be bouncing around like a mad thing. Mum would come and do her usual evening greetings and make him a drink. Usually scotch and soda, which he’d carry to the bedroom.
Mum would vanish into the kitchen and I’d tag along with dad. I was eager to be with him and watch and certainly help.
He’d sip the large drink as the ice cube tinkled and chat with me. He’d begin the undressing process as neatly as he had done the dressing in the early morning. The suit coat, tie, the now sweaty dress shirt and t-shirt would be replaced by a comfy pullover type shirt. He’d toss me the shirt and undershirt and I’d dutifully take them to the clothes hamper in the bathroom. I knew the scent. A bit of his unique aftershave cologne and dad’s man-sweat, mainly in the underarm parts of each shirt. I loved that smell, so rich and personal. His deodorant was not overpowering at all and let his natural scent shine thru. I would be confronted by other smells, too. Other colognes or perfumes that I did not know as his but assumed they were from his office staff and business associates. Some scents I grew to recognize as ones dad seemed to mix with on a regular basis.
He kept on the trousers most nights and would waltz into the front room to his chair and footstool. I followed eager and ready but mostly very giddy, it was foot time!
Once ensconced in his chair, he’d prop his feet up on the leather footstool and my work began. He’d sip his drink and begin to read the newspaper that lay nearby and ready for his enjoyment. I dutifully would kneel by the footstool edge on the carpet and work his shoes off one at a time. Now the laces in the very early days took a while to master. I preferred any slip-on types, they slipped off so easily!
Dad never asked me to do this. I just began to as part of our pre-dinner routine. Some things happen this way, call it natural. I was drawn to the job and dad just let me to do my thing. He always did.
I felt very special and loved it. I’d have fought like a tiger if told not to do it. It was my job and I took it very seriously. I found his laces back then a real maze and often got them knotted. Dad sat and would just let me work out any knots on my own. I would. It was like unwrapping a present, you had to get the wrapper off. His shoes were the wrapper and inside each lay my gift, his feet!
As I worked out the laces, loosening and tugging at them, the leather shoe would ease up around his large warm foot. His feet radiated delicious heat to my tender hands which I could feel right thru the polished leather. I then would switch to in front of the footstool and use both hands and pull his shoe off. The first one off always felt like was unlocking a safe of treasure, my face only inches away and the smell of dad’s warm foot filled my nose and seared my senses. The giddy rise in my tummy like a rollercoaster ride whooshed up within me. The smell was so electric! That heavily scent of sharp ripeness, toned down by those warm natural leather perfumes and a delicate undercurrent of a darker tribal smell that one can only describe as primal, musky and very manly. It was like an opiate in strength and effect. I breathed it in as the shoe fell beside me, eyes closed, breathing dad’s essence in.
My eyes would then pop open and I’d stare wide mouthed at the very shape and cherished form of the revealed socked foot before me. The silky nylon blended sock fabric hugging every curve and bulge of his size 11 foot in whatever colour the day had brought me. The proud golden toe cap of some days a welcome and much loved sight. But the real treat visually was the delightful sweat-effect upon the blended shiny sock material. The way each toe and the tender ball of his large sculptured foot looked as if I could see them thru the material, as if it were becoming transparent in some magical way. The moistness of his sweat was creating a shimmering effect that produced a sense of actually seeing his fleshy foot right there and then, just sheer magic! I was transfixed.
“Tony, are you ok?” Dad would ask as he peered at me over the paper.
“Fine, daddy, just doing your feet.” I’d say truly but all the while secretly participating in a form of worshipful communion and was busily establishing these newly developing rituals that would last all my life.
The trance would cease and I’d move on to the other waiting shoe. Struggle with the laces but all the while my eyes were locked on my ultimate prize, one of two to be precise. Dad’s now exposed socked foot lounged there, just a mere few inches from my greedy hands. That sock I had watched getting put on this morning was now in its full glory. It had been worn for nearly 12 hours and had matured like fine wine or a strong brewed tea. I wanted to jump ahead to phase two but had to finish phase one. One more shoe to shed and it was always a bitch back then. Shoe number two was my enemy. Why? Because my hands were shaking like little leaves on a tree in a strong wind. The giddy sensation filled my tummy but also made me tremble, may I say even quake from head to toe. I prayed daddy would not think I was having a seizure or fit but the shaking fingers must have been noticeable as I worked on his laces. Dad would never have said a word, I know now, he believed fully in self-expression and I was truly expressing myself. The real me was emerging and it was exhilarating.
Shoe number two was yanked free and dad’s other socked foot appeared before me on the footstool, the mixed odours of the two socked feet wafted together before me as I dropped the second shoe onto the carpet. Dad’s feet, free of the confinement, now wiggled and twitched. He stretched those long lovely toes and moved his feet side to side. The way the now very sweaty socks clung to his feet so tightly made it more like a marvellous puppet show than a simple act of undressing. His feet on the footstool mesmerized me and I sat for a few moments in sheer awe, call it veneration. The smell and look made me stop and just enjoy the giddy sensation that was that very moment, the moment of unveiling.
And then came phase two, my favourite task of the day, rubbing his feet. A joy I’d have until dinner was served and I hoped dinner would take ages. My hands launched to those socked feet and my heart soared and beat like a tom-tom in my chest. The reward was at hand and all mine to enjoy!
Thanks for reading. Chapter two is on the way. Love to hear from any readers.
Tony
