My Affair With The Foot

LOS ANGELES (TNA) – Why a hotel would put an enormous foot in the bathroom of our room, I don’t know. Does a hotel need a reason?

But that’s what The Standard did, and now I have to live with the consequences.

The Naughty American never should have put me in a room with our junior writer, Bobby Fairfield III. Don’t established porn writers get their own room when they cover Erotica LA?

To my disappointment, the convention proved to be frustrating and unusually conventional, perhaps contributing to my subsequent behavior.

The porn stars were forbidden from flashing. There was also a little jostling with Fairfield over an actress named Stoya. Fairfield is in love with the girl and thinks I’m trying to move in on her. But she’s a porn star. Who isn’t trying to move in on her?

After a long evening at the Los Angeles Convention Center on Saturday, I returned alone to our room.

I needed release.

The foot sat in the bathroom, looking pouty, fit. No one else was around, so I grabbed two Zimas from the mini bar and sauntered into the bathroom.

“You’ve got a great arch,” I said to the foot, setting a Zima by its side. “What are you, a size 143?”

The foot didn’t respond. But when you’re sitting nude in someone’s bathroom, you don’t need to say much. Trust me.

An ineffable tension filled the air.

“Your ankles are so thin,” I complimented. “Do you work out?”

The foot, coy limb that it was, remained silent. The tension became unbearable.

Heart pounding, and awash in foot pheromones, I rested my hand on the big toe.

“You know, I’ll do anything,” I murmured. “I’ll give you a massage. I’ll buy you a new Air Jordan…”

We briefly looked deeply at each other, and then, just like that, our animalistic urges took over.

We embraced, flailing and grinding against each other’s most sensitive areas. I reached down and inserted my finger into the slit between the foot’s fourth and fifth toes. It had been so long since I’d done that.

“Let’s go to the bed,” I whispered.

With the foot cradled in my arms, we tumbled over to the queen-sized bed. I tore off my clothes, and proudly displaying my manhood, muttered, “You’re a foot. I’m twelve inches. We were made for each other.”

I kissed my way down the length of the foot, and slowly worked my tongue in and out of each of the four crevices between the toes. It was ecstacy – let me say, there is no pleasure like licking toe jam.

Oh, and that foot got freaky! I could have climaxed right then.

But I’m a toe crevice guy, so I righted myself and positioned myself atop the foot. Gripping its ankles, I thrust my penis between the middle and fourth toes. My manhood slid past the calloused tips, the pale fleshy walls, all the way to the webbing at the base of the foot.

Oh, Heaven hath a name, and it’s “toe crevice”!

For five minutes, I pumped furiously at the little fissure, releasing all the angst and frustration that had built up from an exceptionally lame Erotica LA.

“You and I are sole mates,” I moaned.

Then, when I could hold it no longer, I sputtered, “I’m … I’m gonna come on your big fuckin’ toe!”

A moment later, I withdrew my penis and ejaculated onto the big toe, a move which I like to call “painting the nail.”

For several minutes, we lay on the bed, motionless.

The harmonious silence was broken, however, by the unmistakable sound of a camera lens retracting.

I sat up to see my roommate, Naughty America writer Bobby Fairfield III, at the foot of the bed.

“You two really went at it,” he said, tapping the camera. “Impressive.”

“You won’t post those photos,” I said warily.

“Can and will,” he spat back.

“But why?”

“One word: Stoya.”

“Come on,” I pleaded. “Let’s work something out.”

“OK, you put up the photos. Tell your side of the story. Either way, those photos are going up. Stoya needs to see what a fruitcake you are.”

I thought about the time the foot and I spent together. I wanted to protect the foot, but eventually I submitted this article.

Call me a heel, but I had to do it.

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