Worship at My Feet

Hey Darling Ones,

It was one of the summers of 2017-2019 when I was really invested in dating and dating apps. I get like this occasionally, where I tire of waiting for Prince Charming to hack through the brambles, find me half asleep in my castle, kiss me. Fairytales are never not creepy as fuck.

When I get like this I sign up for all the dating apps and spend a ridiculous amount of time flipping through a catalog of humans and growing more lonely and depressed by the swipe.

Dating is hard. I hate it. I super hate it not just because I’m an arrogant, awkward introvert who made it this far without romantic male companionship, but also because I live in a body that is frequently fetishized. I am not a fan of being someone’s fetish object. When I’m fetishized all the great things that make me Jodi Chromey are erased except for my fat, freakishly-tall body.

Talking about my body is my least favorite activity. It’s why I haven’t been in a grocery store in two years (aside from the pandemic). Every time. Every. Single. Time. All of the times I’ve gone to a grocery store I’ve been stopped by a stranger who wanted to talk about my unusual height.

Back to the summer of 2017, 18, or 19. I was ding the dating apps and this 5’9″ fellow we’ll call Josh, because that’s what he said his name was one time, chased me all over those apps. I’d block one account and he’d pop up under another name.

It was the summer of pesky pervert whack-a-mole. Josh was a submissive who really, really liked feet and wanted me to be his Dom. For the record, I don’t think being into BDSM makes you a pervert. It’s not my jam, but you do you. I am not here to kink shame. Or fetish shame.

I recently learned the difference between kink and fetish and feel really smart about it and wish I had more occasions to use this new knowledge.

Josh was good at his game. He’d slide into my DMs talking about books and music and I’d fall for it, because I am a sucker. Eventually his desire to be bossed around, whipped, humiliated, and literally worship at my feet always got the best of him and I’d figure it out. I’d tell him to fuck off, and go away and block him. This whole dance happened so many times.

I don’t know how stupid Josh thought I was because I always figured it out. Of course, he did have varying degrees of success because at one point he got my actual phone number and would text me.

This fellow, who may or may not be named Josh, has been on my mind lately because Wendell, my cat is obsessed with cuddling with my feet. This new habit of his is completely adorable and only mildly annoying. Wendell’s kind of a dick when I want to change positions, get up to use the bathroom, or do any manner of activity that disrupts his sleep.

He’s lucky I find it so charming because I got roughly no hours of sleep last night due to his sleep-disrupting activity + how oddly hot it was in my bedroom, and maybe the full moon? I don’t know. I’m tired.

So that’s the story of foot-worshipping Josh (he once suggested I could use him as a footstool while I worked and he was dressed in a French maid costume) and my cat’s new obsession.

Not really a foot-person myself,
Jodi

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