By Samantha Rea
‘I haven’t eaten tonight – well I have, but I haven’t digested anything!’
I’m talking to Clive*, a TEFL teacher in his 30s who does a funny little laugh at this point.
The joke is that Clive has spent the evening ‘eating’ women’s feet, at an event where men with a foot fetish can taste the toes of multiple women in one night.
‘I’ve had a few foot sessions with escorts,’ says Clive, ‘but these parties are much more fun.’
At the event undercover, I’m standing with Clive at the nibbles counter, where there’s a strong smell of cheesy Doritos, only I’m not sure it’s coming from the crisps.
On sofas all over the room, men are ‘worshipping’ the feet of women who call themselves ‘femdoms’ and ‘foot goddesses.’ Having paid up to £70 to attend the party, the men then pay £20 for every ten minutes they spend kissing, licking and sucking the feet of the ‘foot models.’
It’s not just the sofas that are in demand – the floor is scattered with men being trampled, a practice that consists of standing on a man’s body – and sometimes his face.
I’m initiated into trampling by Brian, one of the two foot fetishists who run the party. Brian, who’s in his late 40s, works in IT. He spends most of the five hour event lying on his back, by the wall, while women stand on his face. When I see him at the end of the night, his hair is matted to the back of his head.
‘No need to stand on my chest first, you can stand straight onto my face,’ says Brian, with scant regard for his eye sockets. I don’t want to shatter Brian’s cheekbones, but I’ve been warned not to show hesitation.
‘Do it without a shred of concern for his safety,’ say the Model Rules and Guidelines I’ve been sent before the party. ‘They enjoy the idea of a sexy girl using them as a rug,’ the rules explain, and so, ‘your being scared of hurting him simply kills the fantasy.’
Taking this on board, I stand on Brian’s face and miraculously it doesn’t crumble. Every couple of minutes, he taps my ankle. This is my cue to step off, so he can turn his head, alternating between left, right and centre.
‘You don’t need to move about,’ says Brian, before my feet obstruct his mouth. ‘Just stand there…’
Unaware that I’m a journalist, Brian’s co-conspirator Tom recruited me for the party via emails and an interview in a Battersea pub. Tom, who’s in his early 30s, tells me there’s a lot of competition to be a foot model at the monthly parties: ‘All the girls want to do it again – it’s a way to make good money without actually having sex.’
Despite Tom’s persistence, I dodge going to his flat for the ‘second part of the interview’ and so he insists on conducting it at the start of the party, if I’m to be allowed to stay.
Swooping in as soon as he spots me, Tom (who’s made several references to having a girlfriend) leads me to a private room, and sucks my feet while maintaining eye contact the entire time.
Later that night I talk to a guy who says he’s heard Tom and Brian personally road-test newbie foot models. I confirm this is true, and he says (as if they’ve hit the jackpot): ‘of course they do! Perk of the job isn’t it!’
The night’s theme is Playboy Bunnies, but getting ready in the locker room at the start of the night, not all the foot models are putting on bunny ears and bowties.
‘I’m just wearing a jumper,’ says one. ‘The guys don’t care what you wear. They only care about your feet.’
One woman shaves her legs in the sink, while another asks for help applying fake tan to her back. Foot models who’ve done it before tell me it’s easy money and several women say they’ve done it for years, supplementing incomes as cam models and dominatrixes.
A woman wearing footless fishnet tights and a leotard says some guys and goddesses haven’t been allowed back after they were caught having sex in the private rooms. The guys had apparently handed out coke to make the models livelier. Now the doors to the private rooms must be kept half open.
Held in the city, at a venue that’s a yoga studio by day and swingers’ club by night, each private room contains a wipe-down ‘bed’, odourless foot spray, and a roll of kitchen towel. Fetishists who want to worship privately pay an extra £20 for the use of a room but the party’s code of conduct still applies: ‘Don’t trample his groin, no matter how much he might want you to. It’s not allowed.’
I spend ten minutes in a private room with Ali, a dentist from Woking who’s in his late forties. Looking at my shoes, he says, ‘will you leave them on for a bit?’ Then he sniffs them and whimpers, as if he’s a kitten and my shoes are drenched in catnip.
Finally Ali removes my shoes from my feet, and deeply inhales the inner soles. At this point, he makes a funny face, as if he’s cum in his pants.
Back in the main room I meet Jay, an investment banker with a well-groomed beard and a Barbour-style gilet. In his early 30s, he sits on the sofa and hits himself in the face with the sole of my foot, saying: ‘I’m a dirty boy! I’m dirty!’
Then he covers his face with my feet in the way a child might cover their face with their hands, when they’re being told off. Afterwards he pays me from a wallet full of fifties.
Lee, who’s in his mid-thirties, is a retail manager from Essex. He tells me past girlfriends made him feel ashamed of his foot fetish.
‘We’d be watching TV and I’d start massaging her feet and she’d be like, “eurgh, what are you doing? You’re not into that are you?” and I’d be like, ‘oh, no, I’m not really into it…’”
Lee tells me the parties allow him to meet women who don’t make him feel bad for liking feet. I ask if he’d still come to the parties if he had a girlfriend who let him touch her feet. He tells me: ‘I don’t know, because it might be crossing a line, but I’d miss the parties if I didn’t come anymore – I enjoy meeting people.’
Jack is a high-flying, salt and pepper DILF who says his foot fetish started a year ago: ‘I was having sex, and I realised I was turned on by the woman’s feet.’
Jack then researched foot fetishes online, looking for an outlet. He says: ‘I had a paid session with a foot mistress, but we didn’t connect because she couldn’t relate to me. There seems to be a correlation between having a foot fetish and being submissive, but I am not into subservience or being abused or being called a slave – I just like feet!’
This is Jack’s first foot party, and following up afterwards, he tells me he’s not sure he’d go again.
‘I had fun pushing boundaries, but the men gave me chills,’ says Jack. ‘I had to drink eight mini bottles of Prosecco to zone out of the environment.
‘If the guys had been normal, I might have gone back, but they were bottom feeders. I didn’t want to be around those guys.
‘The girls were mostly very attractive and the guys were losers – that discrepancy made me uncomfortable.’
The evening’s activities lead to an awkward encounter with Jack’s dentist.
‘I’d never had feet in my mouth, so I didn’t know what to do, and I ended up with all these cuts from the girls’ toenails,’ he explains. Eating a snack before bed that night, Jack broke a tooth and had to visit his dentist the next day.
‘I’ve been seeing him for ten years, and now I’m turning up with my mouth in shreds!’ says Jack. ‘His assistant commented – luckily I couldn’t respond at the time so she didn’t expect an answer!’
Jack says going to the party made him realise, ‘my fetish is only two or three out of ten, compared to other guys whose fetish was eight or nine out of ten. I still prefer other parts of a woman, like her breasts and her bum.’
It’s the end of the evening before I realise that the ice-buckets on every table are basically bins. They’re for disposing of the kitchen roll the models have used to wipe the men’s saliva off their feet. I find myself feeling sorry for anyone who’s served their bubbly in these buckets on nights to come.
Then one of the foot models tells me a guy has offered her £500 to sh*t on him, and suddenly saliva doesn’t seem so bad.
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