True Life: I Let A Man Pay Me 100 Dollars To See My Foot

I was paid 100 dollars to show my foot to a stranger.

There. I said it. Finally. And I actually feel an intensely confusing sense of pride and shame from finally typing that sentence and releasing it into the interweb. But it’s true. Some dude paid me 100 dollars. For my foot. I wish I could just tell you the story starting from the point where the guy said, “How much would I have to pay you to show me your foot?” But I want you to get the full effect of the story. So, I have to make like Julie Andrews and “Start at the very beginning, a very good place to start.”

The day I was paid 100 dollars to show my foot to a stranger started like any other day. Which is to say I woke up to my half-naked sister dancing in my room blasting Will Smith’s “Welcome To Miami.”

You see, we were going to make the four hour trip to Miami the next day, and she wanted me to get up early before work and go shopping with her. I didn’t really need anything, but work had been uncharacteristically lucrative recently, and I wanted to get a new swimsuit. I agreed to go with her.

We stopped at American Apparel first in hopes of finding a baby shirt for Sister to wear. I was flipping through the articles of clothing, scoffing at the ridiculous prices and wondering who on this planet would pay 40 dollars for a piece of cloth that could barely cover a newborn baby, when suddenly I saw them: Thigh high black socks.

I work at a pub, where I am required to wear a kilt and black socks. I had been searching for thigh high black socks for ages, and was finally convinced that they didn’t exist, until this pivotal moment. Now when I say thigh-high black socks, I mean thigh high black SOCKS. Not panty hose. Not fish nets. I don’t want to look like a Scottish street walker while delivering Belhaven Beer Cheese. I just want to look stylish and have warm legs in the coming colder months.

Needless to say, I purchased said socks immediately… in three different colors… and was feeling pretty accomplished. I couldn’t wait to let the socks make their debut that evening at work!

Work started slowly enough, with me getting about 3 tables an hour. (For a waitress, this is EXTREMELY slow.) I hoped the dinner rush would prove to be a bit more exciting. Despite the slow business, I was still feeling pretty good. After all, I was sporting my brand new black thigh-high socks, and they were saying up on my legs without me pulling at them every four minutes. Success.

The dinner rush did prove to be a bit more exciting. As it started to die down, three middle-aged white men approached the rail. I could immediately tell three things about them:

1. They were going to drink a lot of beer.
2. They were going to have a large bill, and quite possibly tip me very well.
3. They were going to make sexual jokes and be generally inappropriate all night, and if I wanted the large tip, I would have to not only endure this embarrassment, but also hold my own.

What I didn’t know, was that one of them had a foot fetish and would, in time, offer to pay me 100 dollars to see my foot. I also did not know that I would find it in myself to agree to this absurd proposition.

They introduced themselves. As a waitress, when a group of men actually take the time to introduce themselves to you, you immediately know that these humans wish to get to know you on a more personal level. Usually, as long as I deliver the alcohol in a timely manner, people don’t care if my name is Carolyn, Coco Chanel, or Captain America. They just don’t. And I can respect that.

I’m ashamed to admit that I don’t remember their names. I’m horrible with names, and if I knew they were going to pay me 100 dollars, I probably would have made more of an effort to remember them. BUT! For the sake of the story, I’m going to rename them.

Don was a large man. Don was also a drunk man. He struck me as the tag-along friend, the one that is never the center of attention, but tags along anyway to see what he can get from the trickle down effect of his more out spoken and better looking friends. He was very handsy, meaning he liked to experience the world through touch. He liked touching my arm, he liked touching his beer glass, he liked touching his own thigh. And as he drank more beer, he realized he very much liked touching my waist. I tried to keep three feet between Don and myself at all times.

Pete was the most normal of the three males. He also seemed to be the most sober. Pete was polite, generous, and generally well behaved. Unlike Don, he never attempted to touch any part of my body at any point in time. He was an averagely built gentleman, with a full head of hair and those little wrinkles around his eyes when he smiled. He was probably in his forties.

Last, but not least, was the Big Spender himself. He was a built gentleman, with big arms and dark spikey hair. He was the type who would look into your eyes when you were speaking to him directly, but then would let his eyes wonder to other parts of you the moment you looked at one of his friends. He seemed to be harmless enough, despite his sexual joking and louder-than-a-gorilla’s-mating-call laughter.

Me: Hey guys! My name’s Carolyn, I’ll be taking care of you today.
Big Spender: Oh WILL you, now?
Don: We want beer!
Pete: (Sheepish look as if to say, “I’m so sorry for what you’re about to experience.”)
Me: (Looking back at Pete as if to say, “Don’t worry, dude. I’ve got this.”) I certainly will be.
Big Spender: (Holding out his hand) I’m Big Spender.
Don: AND I’M DON.
Pete: Pete.
Me: Nice to meet you guys. You look pretty thirsty.
Big Spender: Carolyn! What a beautiful name. Why YES Carolyn, we ARE very thirsty. Are you going to bring us something to wet the whistle?
Me: (Mentally picturing myself stepping in front of a bus, rather than waiting on these people) That is why they pay me the big bucks.
MALE HUMANS: Hahaha!
Me: So what can I get you gentleman?
Don: WE WANT BEER.
Big Spender: Carolyn, come’ere a sec.
Me: What?
Big Spender: Come here.
(I step a tiny, miniscule, less-than-an-inch closer.)
Big Spender: (Lowering his voice as if he’s revealing an issue of national security.) I hear… that you guys have… beer samplers.
Me: Why, yes we do! It’s actually a great deal.
Big Spender: Explain that to me a little bit, would you?
Me: Well… you get four five ounce samples of beer for a little bit more than five bucks. It’s a good deal because you’re basically getting a pint of beer, but you get to try different kinds.
Big Spender: So… you get five beers?
Me: Uh… no-
Don: YOU GET FOUR PINTS.
Me: Oh, no, you just get four five-ounce samples.
Big Spender: So you don’t get a big pint.
Pete: No. She just said you get four little samples on a sampler.
Don: We want beer. Bring us beer.
Me: We have a lot of beer. What kinds do you guys want?
Big Spender: We want to do the beer sampler.
Me: (Already dreading this because entering in beer samplers into the computer system is HORRIFYING and makes my bartender’s lives difficult and annoying) Okay. You want to do one beer sampler?
Don: NO. We want three of them!
Me: Okay. What kind of beer do you guys want?
Pete: Just surprise us.
Me: Do you guys like lagers? Ales? Stouts?
Don: I like beer.
Big Spender: I like Blue Moon.
Pete: I like stouts. I want to try your Young’s Double Chocolate Stout.
Me: (Mentally thanking Pete for his direct and specific request, mentally shooting Don for being a troll.) Okay! I’ll just surprise you.

I walked away from the three of them feeling like I had just been kicked a few times by a stranger; I felt ashamed and confused and a little angry. But I would prevail! After all, I could tell that they were going to have a pretty large tab, and would probably tip me well, if I could stomach their crap.

I brought them three beer samplers, separated by type. A lager sampler, an IPA sampler, and a stout sampler. They seemed excited and impressed with my knowledge of the different beers.

Me: So! There you go. Do you guys need food menus?
Pete: Why don’t you just come back in a few minutes and we’ll let you know how we’re feeling.
Me: Okay! Sounds great. Thanks!

They continued to drink, order more samplers, and get a few appetizers. Every time they ordered something new, Big Spender would ask me to come closer so he could murmur a question about a desired item, and get my opinion.  I wondered if he actually thought quiet conversations about spring rolls and goat cheese turned me on.

I tried to keep my distance, but check on them enough to make them feel like I cherished their presence. It’s a delicate balance, a precarious walk on a social tight rope, if you will. It’s sometimes important to make men feel like they complete you, especially when those men are the ones paying your utility bills.

After they had finished their beers and appetizers, I decided to check on them again.

Me: You guys still okay?
Don: We want more beer!
Me: Okay, well-
Big Spender: Carolyn! Carolyn. Com’ere.
Me: (Stepping a centimeter closer.) Yes, Big Spender? What is it this time?
Big Spender: I have to ask you something, but I’m afraid of your reaction.
Me: (Thinking: For the love of all things alcoholic, how much longer do I have to put up with this bull shit?) Well, I won’t bite. I can assure you of that.
MALE HUMANS: BAA HAHAHA!
Big Spender: And you know, I believe in just saying it. You know? Just coming out and saying it!
(At this point, Pete and Don are dying laughing, so I know something ridiculous is going to follow.)
Me: Hit me.
Big Spender: Okay. Well. I…
Me: You…
Big Spender: I have a foot fetish.
Me:
Big Spender:
Don: HAH!
Pete: Bluhrderhaha…
Me:
Big Spender:
Me:
Big Spender:
Me: … Seriously?
Big Spender: Yes.
Me: Haha. Like, an actual fetish? With women’s feet?
Big Spender: Exactly.
Me: (Trying to make my voice sound as accepting as possible.) Okay! Cool.
Big Spender: And we’ve been talking, and we all have voted, and we all agree that you’d probably have really, REALLY nice feet.
Me: Heh heh heh… Oh really!?  (Thinking: What the hell?)
Big Spender: I noticed you have really pretty nails.
Me: Oh, yeah, I just did them, actually. You see I’m going to Miami with my sister and our best friend tomorrow.
Big Spender: You ARE!?
Me: Yeah. I actually just painted my toes too, heh heh…
Big Spender:
Me: Um.. yeah. So. Eerm…
Big Spender: So I was wondering… how much money would I have to pay you to have you let me see your feet?
Me: Haha! … What.
Big Spender: How much would it cost to let me see your feet?

At this point, Don and Pete are laughing so hard I can’t really tell if Big Spender is being serious or not. This could all be a joke, this could be them setting me up, trying to play a joke on me. I feel, for a second, that Ashton Kutcher and the film crew are going to come sprinting out from behind the bar saying “GOTCHA!”

Me: Are you serious?
Big Spender: (Completely serious face) I’m serious.
Pete: He’s actually not lying. It’s been a joke for years that he has this thing with feet.
Me: But… why? Feet are so weird!
Big Spender: I don’t know! It’s just the way God made them, I guess. I just LOVE feet.
Me: Okay…
Big Spender: So how much?
Me: How much is it to see my foot?
Big Spender: Yeah.
Me: Just to see it?
Big Spender: Yeah. Would 40 bucks do?

Now, at this point, I was positively thrilled because I probably would have shown him my foot for five dollars, lesbihonest. But he offered me FORTY dollars. I couldn’t even handle it.

Me: You’re telling me you’re going to pay me forty dollars just to SHOW you my foot?
Big Spender: Yep. See? Here’s the money right here.
(He shows me two twenties, and I suddenly feel like I’m involved in a drug deal… but the drug is the promise of a foot sighting.)
Big Spender: I’ll even pay you right now so you know I’m serious.
Me: You’re really not joking about any of this, are you?
Big Spender: Not at all.
Me: (Already knowing I’m going to show this man my foot.) Okay, well, I have a few other tables to check on. Let me go check on them and I’ll come back, okay?

I check on my other tables, all the while a little voice in my head is saying, “Are you seriously going to let this man pay you to see your foot?” As I’m heading back to the kitchen to drop off some dirty dishes, I run into Don who is coming out of the bathroom. He blunders over to me and throws his arm around my shoulders.

Don: Lishten. Cawolin, lishten.
Me: Woah Don!
Don: If he ashks to tuhch yah faht, ashk to dubble aht.
Me: Double it?
Don: Dubble tha prysh. Ashk fa eighty.
Me: Eighty dollars to touch my foot?
Don: HAHA! Yah!!

I disentangled myself from Don’s clutches and continued on my way to the kitchen, laughing at him like he was crazy. Would Big Spender actually ask to touch my foot? What the heck? If he did, would I have the guts to double the price? Was I actually sitting here, contemplating bartering the price of my friggin’ foot with a patron of my place of employment?

I returned to their table, and Big Spender did indeed ask about the price to touch my foot. Let me reiterate this again: A man that I was serving asked me about the price of my FOOT. I laughed at him like he was crazy, but behind his back Don was waving like a moron mouthing: “DUBBLE AHT!” Just for kicks, I said, “Well, if you wanted to touch my foot I would have to double the price.”

Big Spender: Eighty dollars to touch your foot? Done.
Me: WHAT!? You cannot be serious!
Big Spender: Absolutely serious.
Me: You haven’t even SEEN my foot yet! What if you think it’s gross?
Big Spender: I seriously doubt your foot is gross. So do we have a deal?
Me: (Pretending to be considering this) Uh… look, this is crazy! Haha, I gotta check on my other tables again. I’ll be back, okay?
Big Spender: Okay! I’m serious. Eighty big ones.

I walked away from them, and inside a moral battle was raging. One side of me was screaming “NO! THIS CREEP WITH A FETISH WANTS TO ACTUALLY TOUCH YOUR FOOT FOR MONEY!” The other side of me was saying, “I like money. All of the money.”

Do I seriously let this man pay me eighty dollars to TOUCH my foot? Is this gross? Yes. Is this weird? Yes. Am I a horrible person for even considering this? Probably, yes. How many other people would actually even consider this? No idea. Does this qualify as prostitution? Debatable. Will I be a foot prostitute if I go through with this? Also debatable.

Good Carolyn: I don’t want to be a foot prostitute!
Bad Carolyn: It’s not prostitution! He’s just looking at your FOOT. If you were wearing sandals he’d look at it for free.
Good Carolyn: YEAH, but he’s asking to PAY to touch it. HE IS TRYING TO TOUCH MY FOOT.
Bad Carolyn: It’s not like he’s asking to suck on your toes.
Good Carolyn: EW!
Bad Carolyn: Do you want money to go to Miami?
Good Carolyn: Well, yes, but-
Bad Carolyn: And if you DON’T do this, how much will you have made tonight?
Good Carolyn: … Probably less than 50 bucks.
Bad Carolyn: Exactly. Woo! Fifty dollars, awesome sauce. Now get over there and bear your foot to that man!
Good Carolyn: But… I have on this thigh-high sock! This brand new, black, sock-
Bad Carolyn: HOLY LINT! THE SOCK!
Good Carolyn: Oh no- The BRAND NEW SOCK!
Bad Carolyn: You get your butt to the bathroom and clean off your foot NOW!
Good Carolyn: Right away!!!!

You KNOW I rushed my kilted tush to the bathroom, locked myself in a stall, and removed that thigh-high sock faster than you could say “foot whore.” At this point, I wasn’t sure if I was going to let Big Spender touch it, but I knew for forty bucks I’d at least let him see it. And I wouldn’t be caught DEAD with black lint all up over my foot.

Holy. Brand new. Sock lint. I could have probably filled up half of a shot glass with all of the black fibers I removed from my toes, toe nails, and heels. If Big Spender could see me now… As soon as I decided my foot was clean enough to view, I gently, carefully put the sock back on my foot. As I washed my hands in the sink, I looked at myself in the mirror. I saw two green eyes staring back at me, two eyes that seemed to be urging me forward and judging me all at once. It was now, or never.

I left the bathroom and approached the three of them.

Me: Alright.
Big Spender: Alright?
Me: (complete, no-nonsense attitude) Alright, for eighty dollars you can see… and touch… my foot.
MALE HUMANS: (Collective explosion of laughter and general celebration.)
Me: But listen! You can’t be gross about this. You can see it, you can hold it in your hand. THAT’S IT. No rubbing, no caressing. See the foot, touch it, and it goes back in my sock and into my boot. And if I tell you to stop, you stop. Got that?
Big Spender: (Laughing) Aw man, you’re such a good sport. You’re a sweetheart. Alright.

I leaned against a near-by bar stool. As I did all of this, it was like I was watching myself do it. I watched myself take off my combat boot and step out of my sock. I watched myself reveal my (what I consider to be a positively disgusting) foot to Big Spender. I watched myself watch Big Spender examine my foot. There was a moment of heightened silence… for a split second, I was mortified. Not because I was showing this man my foot… but because for a moment, I was afraid he would find my foot to be as disgusting and repulsive as I thought my own foot was… The four of us hovered in that heightened silence for what seemed to be an eternity. Pete covered his mouth to hide his smile. Don drank a sip of beer and looked expectantly at Big Spender. Big Spender gazed at my foot. I stood perfectly still. Finally, someone spoke.

Big Spender: Wow.
Me: …Wow?
Big Spender: You have AMAZING feet.

At this point, Big Spender reached down… and touched my foot. The second his hand came in contact with my foot skin, I thought, “It is finished.” He held my foot in his hand, gently, like he was holding something delicate. Like a baby hummingbird or something. And then, he looked up into my eyes and smiled. And yes, it was sort of creepy. But it was also fascinating, and kind of cute (?) in a weird, what-the-hell-is-happening-to-me-right-now-is-this-real-life sort of way. “Cute” really isn’t the right word… Actually it’s a terrible word, but I don’t know what other word would describe it. To be honest, I didn’t feel grossed out, or threatened, or violated. I just felt indifferent. And I wanted my money.

I removed my foot from his hand and laughed the whole thing off. Don and Pete cheered and hugged me, and all three of them told me how hilarious and easy-going I was. They kept saying “You’re such a good sport!” And then, the moment I had been waiting for happened. Big Spender got out his wallet.

Big Spender: You’re such a good sport! Seriously, you’re great! Here! (He started flipping through his stack of 20 dollar bills) Twenty, fourty, sixty, eighty, one hundred. Here you go. You were awesome. I’d like to give you more, but that’s all the cash I have.
Me: Are you serious!?
Big Spender: Absolutely. You were hysterical and you’ve made our entire trip.
Me: You just gave me one hundred dollars cash because I let you touch my foot.
Big Spender: Yep!
Me: You understand that my friends are NEVER going to let me live this down? Like… ever.
Big Spender: Haha! That’s great!
Me: No, I don’t think you understand. When my grandchildren ask me to tell them a story about when I was younger, I am going to tell them about this night.
MALE HUMANS: HAHAHAHA!!!
Me: I’m not joking.

And that is how it happened. That is how I let a man pay me one hundred dollars to see and touch my foot. After this happened, I ran to the bathroom and took this picture. I sent it to my sister immediately.

The caption read, “It is finished.”

Oh, and I was right about the other thing- about the whole “My friends will never let me live this down” thing. The entire weekend in Miami, my sister would finish anything I said with, “Your opinion doesn’t matter anymore, you sold your foot to a man,” or, “You’re a footstitute.” We would also chant, “Shake, shake, shake yo money-maker!” and I would shake my left foot around and smack it while biting my lower lip.

Now that it’s all said and done, I don’t know if I should feel an immense sense of accomplishment, or an overwhelming feeling of shame. Maybe a little bit of both is healthy. The good news is, I haven’t spent any of the money yet! I’m saving it for something. For what? I don’t know… I kind of just want to frame the five twenty-dollar bills as a memento. But lets be honest- that probably won’t happen.