I have my late father to thank for my fetish. When I was just a little guy (I'm guessing 5 or 6), we were at a family gathering. Some of the women (aunts. etc.) were playing cards. Their shoes were off, exposing nylon feet. "Go under there and tickle their feet," Dad urged. I remember being reluctant, but I never wanted to disappoint my parents. I don't remember the reactions. All I remember is the actual DOING it . . . and tickling has been the strongest urge of my life ever since. That was 50 years ago.
As a boy, I watched for discreet opportunities to tickle any exposed female foot. The neighbor girl's feet. Visiting cousin's feet. Babysitters' feet (they told my parents; my mom told my dad, but he was afraid to confront the issue). My sister's. Riskiest of all, female friends at school. A wide variety of co-workers, girlfriends . . . and wives. This has never changed. I crave the variety I found under the table that long-ago evening. Just today, I'm off to a secret rendezvous to tickle the feet of a beautiful friend who has recently come back into my life. I'm welcome whenever our schedules coincide, and I can tickle as much as I want. She carefully prepares her feet for our meetings (often with a professional pedicure). It's an arrangement: I listen to her life story. When she's finished talking, she takes off her shoes. It's heaven.
I have -- on occasion -- been angry at my dad for starting me on this obsessive road. As I grew up, it became obvious to me that Dad was "one of us", too. He was just very, very careful about it. He knew what he was doing when he sent me under that table, but I don't think he would have done it if he had realized how powerful my fetish would become. For a half-century, I am sure tickling has entered my mind at least every 15 minutes or so.