Tag Archives: drugs

foot fetish. Crackwhore. God. Gotham.

I’ve no idea when I wrote this, I found it scrawled on the back of a beer mat. Probably around July sometime:

“” I just came from my premier foot fetish party….just to see what the big deal is. There are, it seems quite a significant number of people get get off at this sort of thing. I travelled from 67 Av Queens to Midtown (the armpit of NYC) at 11pm. Midtown can be rough at this time of night.

I walked down past the well lit area of 34th St, around Macy’s / Penn Station….to get to the address::: W 38th St, between 8th and 9th avenues. There are horrible smells here, freaks, hobos, whores. I saw a lady shouting at the sky ” I’ll pay you back God, I fuckin swear I will, just get me some more man…” not a soul to be seen around her. She was probably coked out of her mind, speaking to her own demons in her head. I wondered what sort of person she is like without the drugs and pimps, where did she come from? What sort of an upbringing did she have? Sometimes it doesn’t matter, it seems some individuals are destined to end up in a situation. People like her are their own worst enemies.

I saw a guy whose ear melted on to his cheek, it looked weird, I couldn’t help but look. He held a small battery operated radio and sang out of tune with whatever was on. This is the real seedy Gotham city man. Steam rose from the underground, those fluorescent flags and barriers at street corners. The filthy dirty heat from the subway grates on the street. The smell of dried piss on these streets is almost unbearable. You feel warm but imagine the fucking filth!!!I deliberately tried not to wear flip flops or sandals because the dirt would disgust me at the end of the day.

Walking down these dimly lit streets I felt weird; not scared. I was looking around, smelling, and experiencing these elements as if I was watching a film. It didn’t even occur to me I could be shot, beaten, kidnapped, tortured, knived, pimped, raped….I was a single white female wandering these streets alone. Was I fucking insane? No -, and yes….

I’m in Union Square station now waiting for the R train to Brooklyn. It’s nearly 2am. I had a weird interesting time at that party…I did nothing but drink straight vodka and martinis. I saw things in that fetish party I’d love to repeat but you’d rather not read. I let a stranger suck my toes, he gave me a foot massage. I certainly was not dressed sexy, seductive or whatever. To be honest I was merely curious and wanted the free booze and weed. He whispered something really freaky in my ear “I love your arches baby…” in his painfully German accent, and leaned over. I turned and said, in my smokey voice, like a lady, “fuck you.”. I poured the remainder of my tasty martini over his tacky beige khakis (oh yes he did!) and strutted out of there at a moderately fast pace.

What a weird, freaky, dimly lit, obsessive, drug laden, erotic scene. Definitely the most bizarre experience in NYC I had. I try not to let fear dictate how I live my life. I try to be sensible and headstrong when needs be. I try to experience as many different facets of life as humanly possible, I try to enjoy every day. What happens in a day happens. Tomorrow is always another day, a new start, a clean slate. Changing things has to be your decision, the small things make a difference.

I certainly do not ‘get’ that foot fetish thing. It was nice getting a good foot massage, but I realized that German was looking for something a bit more, eh, explicit. I can’t even imagine my poor feet being subjected to whatever he had in mind. The other girls at the party are predominantly foot models, who pose for weird foot porn websites and are like foot porn celebrities, and therefore in great demand at these parties. They earn an average of $400-$500 a party plus tips. I wasn’t there for the money, I didn’t even know there was any money exchange involved, I just thought it was a house party…? When I saw a guy had a girl a thick fold of $20s, I was taken aback; “fuck! what is this a fucking brothel or something?”.Not my scene. Not my scene at all.

It’s 4am now, just on the 7 train back to Queensboro Plaza. I have to call Social Security again to see if they have sent my card to my employers in Long Beach. Mr P is holding my Social Sec card at a ransom of $100..?fuck that, he can kiss my fat Irish ass.

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