I have admired you for so long, since I first met you ten years ago. How competent, energetic, and brilliant you are, with values of peace and community. I thought about you off and on all day, knowing I’d see you in the evening. I had a fantasy about giving you a foot massage.
Seemed like a form of pleasure that might be permissible for me to give you–meaningful and caring. But not sex–a way to thrill your body without getting my heart broken. I could honor you and connect physically without creating huge emotional needs that couldn’t be met in passing.
And it could be low language. I wasn’t sure I wanted to talk much. Touch seemed way better.
foot massage fantasy
In my fantasy, you were in a good mood, and I was too, and my spouse. We would rest together in your backyard, and I’d ask you to get some oil, a tea towel, soft socks. You would be happy to.
There would be a way for you to recline. A blanket on the ground, or a chaise longue that leans way back.
I would hold your feet and love them I’d rub your heels, feel your arches, rub the balls, each toe Your ankles and Achilles tendons. I would be gentle. How far up your legs could I go?
The oil might be slightly messy–thus the tea towel. Socks seem good for afterward so your feet wouldn’t be too slippery.
The foot massage might deepen our relationship and trust. Or it could just be a few minutes of pleasure shared as old friends. You might learn about how my hands feel on your body, the length of my attention span, how I respond to your response.
I might learn how your voice or facial expressions change when your body relaxes. I might be surprised by how long it takes you to surrender, your callouses, or some ticklish place I don’t expect.
how the visit really was
We arrived at your house as you stood on the sidewalk and held an orange cat in your arms. The light was gorgeous, and you invited us to smell the backyard roses together. I spared a spider web, and you mentioned you might destroy the web because you wanted to pass that way.
The late afternoon light was intoxicating, through the trees. You introduced us to your roommate as she took down her laundry that fluttered like prayer flags. You drank a beer and ate watermelon and grapes from a plastic lunch container.
I asked you about your workday. You told us about your mom, some people we all lived in community with. Your birthday party I was sorry we missed.
“Are you getting what you need?” I asked. “In general, I mean.”
Your hair is gray now, and I wanted to touch it. You explained that how you feel is a wave.
I looked at your feet. You were wearing orange and black striped socks and scuffed brown leather shoes.
I imagined asking you to take your shoes off and let me give you a foot massage. “All day I’ve been thinking about this,” I imagined saying. “This would be a safe way to give you pleasure and honor you,” I would add. “Would you like that?”
The small metal chair didn’t seem possible for this purpose. I was afraid you’d say no. I never felt like I mattered to you. Making more of a connection seemed pointless.
You’d never sought me out. I felt incidental to other activities–never the main dish. Not even a side dish. More like the tablecloth or a lightswitch.
I was afraid it would be a weird idea. As I hugged you goodbye on the street, my cervix ached with pain. Please tell me next time if you would like a foot massage.