Based on a true mess.
The plan had been simple: one drink, maybe two, with my guy friend and some of his guy friends. Harmless. Social. A quick appearance so I wouldn’t be accused of “never going out anymore” and then back home to my couch, my sweatpants, and my true soulmate: streaming services and reading.
My guy friend Mark had promised: “They’re chill. You’ll like them. No weirdos.”
This was my first mistake, trusting the man who once thought microwaving eggs in their shells was a “science experiment.”
We met at a loud, sticky floored bar that smelled like spilled beer, cheap cologne, and bad decisions. Mark waved me over like he’d just spotted a celebrity.
“There she is! The only woman brave enough to hang out with us voluntarily.”
I joined the group. There was Tall Guy, Beanie Guy, Laughs Too Loud Guy, and one guy who was suspiciously well groomed and smelled better than everyone else combined. That one was Ethan.
Ethan smiled at me, all dimples and perfectly straight teeth. Dangerous. I mentally labeled him: Probably Trouble, But in a Fun Way.
We started drinking. Shots appeared. Some kind of neon cocktail that tasted like melted popsicles and regret showed up in front of me. The music got louder. The conversation got dumber. Everyone was at that sweet spot where you’re just sober enough to stand but drunk enough to think you’re deeply interesting.
Ethan and I hit it off weirdly fast. We did the usual tipsy small talk autopsy:
“So what do you do?”
“I pretend to be productive in front of a laptop.”
“Same.”
We bonded over loving the same TV show, hating the same celebrity, and mutually agreeing that Mark was unfit to supervise himself around electrical appliances.
At some point, the group energy shifted the way it always does: friends rotated, conversations splintered, and suddenly Ethan and I were in our own little bubble in the corner booth. He was leaning closer. I was leaning closer. My drink was almost empty, but my brain was buzzing like it had signed a questionable lease.
Then he said the sentenced every drunk, slightly bored, vaguely horny person secretly loves to hear:
“Want to get some air?”
We stepped outside into the alley beside the bar, where it was quieter and marginally less saturated with other people’s sweat. The night air was cool, and I realized I was just tipsy enough to forget I’d worn my “cute but impractical” shoes. My toes were already composing a hate letter to me.
We talked a bit more. He was funny. He was charming. He seemed normal. We were leaning on the wall, closer and closer. His hand brushed my arm. Cue butterflies. Finally, he leaned in.
We started making out.
I’ll admit it: it was good. The kind of good that makes you forget who you are, what time it is, and that your eyeliner is probably migrating south. His hands were on my waist, my arms were around his neck, bar noise was fading into the background, and I was thinking, Okay, maybe Mark was right. Maybe this was a good idea.
Then, mid-kiss, I felt him shift.
He pulled back a little, eyes heavy-lidded, breathing kind of uneven. I was ready for some cheesy “You’re so beautiful” line or something.
Instead, he lowered his gaze… and locked in on my feet.
“Your shoes are cute,” he said.
Complimenting my shoes in the middle of a make-out session? Odd, but not illegal. I shrugged, a little breathless. “Thanks. They’re killing me, though.”
His eyes lit up like I’d just said his name during roll call.
“You should take them off,” he said.
Now, context: my feet hurt. I wanted those shoes off more than I’ve ever wanted anything in my life. But something about the way he said it made a tiny alarm bell ring in my head.
Not a full fire alarm—more like when a smoke detector battery is low and it beeps once an hour just to stress you out.
Still, my toes were screaming, and my brain was like, calm down, you’re being dramatic. So, I slipped off my heels and sighed in relief as my toes were finally freed from their suede prison.
That was when things took a turn.
He glanced down at my bare feet on the cool pavement, then back up at me, then back down again like he was trying to do the world’s weirdest magic trick.
“You have… really nice feet,” he said, voice softer. Too soft.
“Um… thanks?” I said, suddenly aware that I hadn’t painted my toenails in a while and one of them was chipped. I briefly wondered if this was going to be the thing that ruined the moment.
He swallowed. “Can I…?”
Pause.
There are certain moments when your gut speaks up, very clearly, in bold font. This was one of them.
“Can you what?” I asked slowly, though a small, very sober part of me already knew I didn’t want the answer.
He looked up at me with the sincerity of a man about to confess his deepest truth.
“Can I suck on your toes?”
Time stopped. The alley went silent. Somewhere, a distant record scratched. I stared at him. He stared at me. My toes, suddenly spotlighted, curled in shock.
I blinked. Twice.
“…What?”
He licked his lips. Licked. His. Lips.
“Just a little,” he said eagerly. “I have a thing for feet. Yours are… really hot.” He smirked.
Important detail: we were next to a dumpster. On concrete. Next to a bar floor I had just walked across, which was less “floor” and more “tactile history of all bodily fluids known to man.”
My toes were not “hot.” My toes were… biohazards.
“Wait, you mean… like… right now?” I asked.
“Yeah,” he said, way too quickly. “Just a second, I promise. I’ll be gentle.”
He reached out, as if to hold my ankle.
I yanked my foot back like he’d just tried to pick up a baby by its nostrils.
“Whoa—no. No, no, no. Absolutely not. My feet have seen things tonight. They’re not… orally safe.”
He laughed, but his eyes were still glued to my toes like they were the last slice of pizza on Earth.
“It’s okay,” he said. “I don’t mind.”
“Oh, I do,” I said. “I mind very much. I… extremely mind.”
He pouted slightly. Pouted. “Are you sure? It really turns me on.”
“So does being alive,” I said. “And I feel like if anyone’s mouth goes near these toes, we’re rolling dice with tetanus.”
He tried again. “We don’t have to do anything else! Just… your toes.” He smiled like this was a generous compromise.
I suddenly replayed the entire night in my head: Him complimenting my shoes. Him glancing down when I crossed my legs. Him insisting we stand instead of sit, giving him a better angle.
Oh my God. This man had been waiting for my toes like it was the series finale of his favorite show.
Once you see it, you can’t unsee it.
“No,” I said firmly. “No feet stuff. Ever. Especially not in an alley. Next to… that.”
I gestured to the overflowing dumpster, as if it were a third participant in this negotiation.
He sighed, deflated. “You don’t have to be weird about it.”
I stared at him, barefoot in a dirty alley, holding my heels, having just been politely asked if my toes were open for business.
“I’m not the weird one here,” I said.
He shrugged like we’d simply disagreed on favorite movie genres. “Everyone’s into something.”
“Yes,” I said. “I’m into going home.”
And just like that, my libido packed its bags and left the building.
I shoved my feet back into my shoes with a speed and determination I’d never managed even in a Black Friday sale. Without another word, I turned and walked toward the street.
“Wait, seriously?” he called after me. “You’re leaving?”
I spun around and walked backward a few steps.
“You tried to make out with my toes,” I said. “I am absolutely leaving.”
With that, I marched back into the bar, found Mark, and announced over the music, “Your friend tried to seduce my feet. I’m going home.”
Mark, already three drinks past functional, squinted at me. “Like… he asked for a foot pic?”
“In person. Live.” I wiggled my toes in my cramped shoes. “Pay-per-toe-view.”
Mark winced. “Do you… need an Uber?”
“Yes. And a tetanus shot for emotional reasons.”
He clumsily ordered me a ride, apologized on behalf of his entire gender, and promised, “Next time I’ll bring normal friends.”
On the ride home, my phone buzzed with a text from an unknown number.
Hey it’s Ethan. Sorry if I came on too strong. If you ever change your mind, I’d love to take you out 😊
I stared at the message, imagining a future date where he tried to get down on one knee and I instinctively assumed he was going for my ankles.
I replied with the only thing that felt appropriate:
I wish you and my toes all the best… separately.
Then I blocked his number, took off my shoes the second I got through my door, and gave my feet a gentle, apologetic bath while we all processed the trauma together.
Now, whenever someone says, “What’s the worst thing that’s ever happened to you on a date?” I don’t even hesitate.
I just say, “The time I realized my toes were more popular than my personality,” and watch their face go through all five stages of confusion, horror, understanding, empathy, and uncontrollable laughter.
And somewhere out there, I’m sure Ethan is telling his friends, “It was going great… until she got weird about her feet.”
~by Regretful human being with toes, British Columbia