Have we got shoes for you! Adrian Gillan bares his sole with gay foot fetishists.

Why do we look down on feet? The way some stride around, you’d think they were merely made for kicking with! Yet feet aren’t just ugly, smelly things at the ends of bodies to be washed and covered up. They are secret symbols of power: there to subjugate, humiliate and abuse - to be admired and worshipped by those faintly worthy, as fleshy foothills to our bodily peaks.

How ironic that we explore the world with feet, yet leave them unexplored! Unless one’s sensual awakening involved footsie in the school showers, tragically few stumble upon the erotic foundations beneath their very noses - until one foot’s almost in the grave. Tragic: especially when there are as many foot fetishes to enjoy as there are feet.

Some are into ankles, others go for toes. For some it’s all socks and shoes; for others that’s mere foreplay en route to kissing the bridge, licking the arch or sucking the naked sole. And foot freaks are a fussy lot. Your foot will either be too clean or too rank; your socks white when they should be black; and your trainer Nike when only Adidas will do - and, even then, only a certain serial number and shade of blue. And you’ll still waltz into size queens who prefer big feet to mere inches.

The foot scene interweaves with others: from trackies and trainers to SM and uniform; from shiny DMs and ball-crunching boots to foot caning and toe amputee aficionados. Much boils down to the usual top-bottom tosh. I used to think that was, indeed, all bull: before I had a group of slavering slaves drooling over my feet like I was some giant foot phallus, ascending my manhood via ankle, calf, inside leg and such - like bees-a-buzz up a nectar trail fair swollen with horny honey.

And as for tickling! Laugh? I nearly cried! One guy tied me up - arms and legs outstretched - to the four corners of a bed. His little carpet bag of implements then opened and he set to work. Starting with feathers, he soon moved on, up to wire - sandpaper even. Torture: a devilish flame that leaves no mark. Another time, this guy came round all excited, got his brush out and then: nothing! My feet: two lumps of lard. I recall yet another who’d only ever visit if I’d just been to the gym. His whole face would disappear inside my newly rancid Reebok classics - wheezing like an asthmatic - whilst my feet crushed his crotch.

It’s easy to meet other keen feet, footmen and freaks - including those especially into shoes and socks. The web’s awash with forums where your feet can do the talking, often for free, so ne’er fear footing the bill.

Adrian Gillan