The date was going well – until he asked for my feet

‘Put that in my mouth’, my date George* smiled, giving me full eye contact.

Normally, being asked to insert something into someone’s mouth while you’re making out wouldn’t be a wholly surprising request.

But I was not in a normal situation.

It was 2005, and I was in a disgusting men’s public toilet, standing on my date’s leather jacket on a wet floor – barefoot – looking at him sitting on the toilet, holding his penis.

He pointed to my bare feet, and said it again. ‘Put your foot in my mouth’.

He then started to pleasure himself in anticipation.

It was a record scratch moment – and I couldn’t understand how I’d found myself in this compromising situation.

I had met George for the first time that very night.

He was friends with my cousin’s new boyfriend, Tim*. He’d joined them on their most recent date; and this time, instead of allowing him to be a third wheel again, my cousin invited me as George’s plus one.

Or, as I took it, his distraction, while they had sex in their car.

‘He was just sitting there last time, looking at us. I couldn’t do anything with Tim, it was creepy’, my cousin pleaded, trying to convince me to hang out with a stranger she had just labelled ‘creepy’.

I loved her, and wanted her to get laid, so – against my better judgement – I said yes.

Little did I know, I would actually be attracted to him.

That night, my cousin and I wandered off to the local pub in our tiny skirts, blue mascara and Converse trainers.

We had been going to this particular pub for a year now and had gotten to know all the locals, including the owners – which is probably why we put up with the stained carpet, the perpetually wet beermats and the toilets, which we’ll come to later.

The boys hadn’t arrived yet, so we had our usual Strongbow ciders, and sat crossed legged, pursing our lips and waiting for our princes to arrive.

Two hours later, we were clutching a shared microphone, alongside the landlady’s sister Justine*, singing Neil Diamond’s Sweet Caroline – my mascara slightly smudged, clothes creased and shoelaces slowly getting untied.

Unluckily for us, that’s when the boys decided to walk in and see us screaming into tiny microphones. But we were feeling jolly – and drunk – so we forgave their tardiness and immediately commenced the much-anticipated flirting.

When I first set eyes on George and his gorgeous green eyes, I knew exactly how I felt about him – he was going to be a man I had random sex with and never contacted again. He did not have the aura or fashion sense of someone I would spend much time with.

I didn’t even notice when my cousin and her boyfriend disappeared – presumably to his car to have sex – since I was already making out with George at the bar.

It took no time before he grabbed my hand and guided me to the toilet to have sex.

But as I walked in, I immediately sobered up. There were only two options – someone had either doused the toilet with smelling salts, or men desperately needed a deep clean, because the combined smell of shit and piss was horrific. 

I tried to shake off the smell, as he guided me to the only stall and continued to make out with me, but I could almost taste the piss that evidently didn’t make it into the toilet bowl.

The floor was soaking wet, as if a pipe had burst – or, at least, I hoped a pipe had burst. Either that, or every man was missing the bowl and hitting the floor. 

Tim then whispered that I should take off my shoes.

I looked nervously at the wet floor and then back at him. I couldn’t have possibly wanted sex that badly – a part of me wanted to just run away.

But he then threw his faux leather jacket on the floor, to make it easier for me. Like a gentleman would do to a woman on the street, if she came across a puddle.

But this (piss) puddle, with this horny gentleman, was not the experience I wanted.

More importantly, I hadn’t a clue why he wanted my shoes off.

Nervously, though, I obliged. Thinking back, I’m not sure why. I should have said no and left. But I wanted to please him, to make sure he knew I was ‘cool’.

I stepped out of my Converse and onto his jacket, then put my socks in my shoes.

When I looked back up, he had dropped his pants, sat on the toilet seat, grabbed his penis and asked me to stick my foot in his mouth.

I couldn’t help it – the situation was so absurd that I immediately burst out laughing. Having a foot fetish is completely fine, but this was neither the time nor the place.

And there had also been absolutely no conversation about it beforehand.

But looking at his unchanged face, which was plastered with an abundance of horniness, I realised he was very serious.

That’s when I grabbed my shoes and – I’m afraid to say – splashed out of there barefoot.

I could hear him yelling after me, but I refused to be subjected to that horrific scene for a second longer.

As I left the pub, I texted my cousin to call me so I could spill everything and she called me laughing – she knew about his foot fetish but never thought he would try it with me.

The thing is, I would have loved to shove my foot in his mouth if he had asked me beforehand, if I wasn’t drunk and if we weren’t in the men’s toilets.

But since he’d tried to ambush me, I was having none of it.

I knew my worth, and it was – and always will be – a hell of a lot more than that disgusting toilet with a man demanding I stick my foot in his mouth.

*Names have been changed

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