Boots as Inspiration

         In a recent email, Heinrich asked why I hadn’t finished posting the events of my going-away party, my last S/M session in New York.  

         Well, I was depressed and stressed out about my employment situation, and not in much of a mood to write.  Also, frankly, I felt a little awkward and self-conscious writing about jennings gags and getting your buddy’s splooge on my face, I wrote. 

           He wrote back:  I think the blowjobs were the least controversial activity of the evening.  Not that we did not enjoy them, so thank you for that.

           The pleasure’s all mine, I said. 

           Yes, that is at least somewhat true, for an eager cocksucker like yourself.  Your next master should withhold it as punishment, but most men would not have the restraint.  Anyway: write it all.  I liked to read it. 
        
            It might take a few days.  It’s partially written already, but I need to finish it, I responded. 

            The next email contained only a picture of his boots.  The subject line had one word: Inspiration.  

             And it was, and it has.

                      *                             *                       *                      

            I have a lifelong fascination with the male uniform, and none of it attracts me more than footwear and belts.  I wouldn’t go so far as to call it a fetish, but it definitely captures my attention.

           The psychological appeal is obvious: shoes and belts are used as handy weapons by household tyrants around the world, and the boot is both part of the hunting uniform and a symbol of institutional authority.  The men in my family are ex-military and take the appearance of their shoes seriously, and maintaining the shine on my father’s shoes was one of my childhood chores.  

The Policeman’s Daughter, Paula Rego c. 1987

             Getting kicked around on the floor, or groveling at someone’s feet, is humbling in a way I have seldom experienced and have difficulty describing.   Let’s just call it what it is: it’s fucking humiliating.  There are many activities in BDSM that a person (bottom) can do while assuring themselves–correctly!–that they are not actually being dominated or humiliated.  Getting your neck pinned to the floor with a boot is not one of those things.  Nope, nosiree.  There’s no way that you can experience that and be able to unpack it from its tremendous cultural baggage: since antiquity, if you wanted to humiliate a person, humble them, or publicly demonstrate your superiority, you got them up close and personal with your shoes.  

       It’s also a little scary, as anyone who’s taken a swift kick to the ass–or, worse, the ribs–can attest (if you listen closely, you’ll hear the dogs of the world yip in solidarity).  The Surgeon’s loafers had metal plates under the toes that left crescent-shaped imprints in my skin for hours, like little brands.   

        Because the act is so authentically submissive and personal, I almost never did it for money.  Enduring practically any sort of pain or corporal punishment I could take (if I so chose) as impersonally as if I was doing manual physical labor, but kissing someone’s shoes or letting him kick me was just too psychologically loaded for me to do at work.  Fortunately, it was almost never requested…

        ….which interests me, because, as a Top, it’s a huge fucking power rush.  Boner city, man.  Some of the hottest sadistic memories I have involve getting some poor fucker on the floor and leaving a dirty boot mark on his face.  This is entirely distinct from a typical foot/shoe-worship session–if the guy was kneeling up and had a hardon while drooling all over my heels, it did absolutely nothing for me.  Making a boy get on the ground, though, especially when he doesn’t particularly like being there, is something else entirely.  Extra points if he’s fastidious and the floor or my boot is gross.   Extra extra points if he’s not into humiliation and there are a few other people around to witness his debasement.   Yeah, seeing a scared eyeball roll up at you from the floor is quite a charge, all right.  Very fapp-worthy.  Miss Margo highly recommends this experience.  It definitely gets my Mistress Stamp of Approval.  

         I remember every time I’ve been stepped on by a man, worshiped his boots, or had some other devastating encounter with his footwear.  It’s interesting that the memories are important to me, but they are not purely, or even primarily, pleasurable.  Some of the emotion I feel about it is negative, apprehensive…there is even some shame, which I almost never feel in relation to my sexuality.  There is some shame here, though.  I admit it.  When you clean the dirt off your cheek or rinse out your mouth, you inevitably have to ask yourself exactly what sort of a sick fuck you must be to voluntarily let yourself be degraded like that (and on the heels of that: What does my partner really think of me?).    

           But the pull, the allure, is very, very powerful, the excitement undeniable.  It’s a wonderful, precious thing, that level of intensity.  I enjoy it so very much…even when I don’t.

         Here’s another pair of boots I have known…and unabashedly adored: Mr. Wolf’s.  Gosh, that was a fun session.