erraticemphatic
TMF Poster
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deviantArt link: http://fav.me/d52od9y
DropBox link: https://www.dropbox.com/s/gqbgpafgbf1aa3s/thefetishist.pdf
The text (no formatting):
The Fetishist (by ErraticEmphatic, last edited 6/7/12)
---------------------------------
YOUNG MAN:
A young man, probably in his twenties, decently attractive, sharp in demeanor. His presence could be described as ‘dark’ and troubled, but not malicious. His eyes vary from bitterly sad to angry, a sort of self-directed anger or elevated sadness and confusion, throughout.
YOUNG WOMAN:
An amply attractive young woman, who in all ways can be considered foxy and yet is just average enough to carry an earthy allure as well. She wears sexy lingerie throughout. She is considerably more bubbly than the Young Man but not entirely lacking in grace and wit, either.
The precise relationship between the YOUNG WOMAN and the YOUNG MAN is not clear, but it is clear that they have meetings similar to that following on a regular basis for the purpose of indulging the YOUNG MAN’s fetishistic sexual desires, for which he pays her some moderate fee, but there is mutual respect. The YOUNG MAN’s tastes are not vulgar, and so the YOUNG WOMAN does not demean herself to the extent that what they have is necessarily unwholesome. The relationship is personal but vague.
Scene
The scene is set in a particularly dark, simple and well kept bedroom which allows the meager light of dusk through the window. The YOUNG WOMAN sits precariously on the bed, knees bent, playful, feet presented before the YOUNG MAN, who kneels at the foot of the bed, absent-minded. A silence persists, through which the YOUNG WOMAN plays enticingly with her feet.
YOUNG WOMAN:
Is something wrong?
YOUNG MAN, quietly and sullenly:
I don’t know why I’m here.
YOUNG WOMAN, insulted:
I thought you liked this?
YOUNG MAN:
I do. I mean I don’t know why I like this.
YOUNG WOMAN:
Oh. [Pause.] Well, that’s okay ... You can still enjoy it. [She cautiously presses the toes of her left foot to his chest.]
As you can see, though the nature of their relationship is very direct in purpose and organized, the two have great concern for each other that awaits only a chance to surface. It could be argued that she is only trying to satisfy a customer, but, I assure you, this is not the case.
YOUNG MAN:
[He gently and gracefully, and at a very gradual pace, lifts her foot by its heel in cupped hands to his face, smells deeply, and places a very meaningful kiss below the big toe.] You don’t know how much it hurts not to know.
YOUNG WOMAN:
Well, you know, everyone’s different. People get attached to different things ... you know, in childhood. You just developed differently. There’s nothing wrong with that.
YOUNG MAN:
I know there’s nothing wrong with it, but there’s more to it than that. [He lifts the unoccupied foot to his face as well and liberally kisses it.]
YOUNG WOMAN:
Like what?
YOUNG MAN:
Obviously, I’m not healthy. I have to pay you for this.
YOUNG WOMAN, staggered by his pain:
[Silence.] Well ... [sigh] well, yeah ... you do. But that’s--it’s ... You just like feet. That’s not so bad--and I think it’s nice, you know ... even if you pay me. [Her words do not carry much of an effect. Silence.] Do you like other stuff? Boobs?
YOUNG MAN:
Not especially.
YOUNG WOMAN, bewildered but suddenly brightened:
So, what, you just like feet instead of boobs? What’s wrong with that?
YOUNG MAN:
Nothing wrong. It’s painful.
YOUNG WOMAN, fully sobered:
[Flexing her toes] Why?
YOUNG MAN, dryly:
[He momentarily ceases interacting with her feet and holds them.] What do you think it’s like having to pay for meaningful physical contact with another person? It dulls more than a little of the magic that’s supposed to be there. [Pause.] And it’s not as simple as just being into feet instead of boobs.
YOUNG WOMAN, quietly:
What is it like, then?
YOUNG MAN:
[Sigh.] It may be like that for some people; but I’ve felt what it’s supposed to feel like--very seldom felt what it’s supposed to feel like to be with somebody, and it isn’t this. [He takes a few moments to collect his thoughts.] You feel sick, you know, because you’ve learned that what you have this great, ... obsessive craving for isn’t going to mean anything to anyone else and so you’re just trying to figure out how to manipulate them into indulging these weird fucking desires you have. I got tired of that; at least you and I are on the same page, even if it is a paid service. And, you know, [pause] it’s this want for specialness, but that specialness is never going to be there, but you’re left with the impulses, so, you know, you wind up being this guy who gets a hormone discharge from smelling feet. I don’t get that; that’s something people universally hate, but I get off to it. And that’s all it is anymore: getting off and upholding illusions of affection--and in my own, special way. I had to pioneer my own sexuality. It’s like being my own, isolated little species. And, when you get this way, and you have no idea how it all came about, where it all came about, you at least want to know why so that maybe you can start to make sense of the mess. [He notices that he’s been neglecting her feet and begins again to stroke them. He has a realization.] It’s not just getting off. [He plants his hands palms-down on the mattress.] Put your feet on my hands. [Fascinated, she does so. He looks intensely at her, affected.] Now, you feel like a mother to me.
YOUNG WOMAN, meekly:
[Silence.] Why?
YOUNG MAN, softly:
I don’t know. It’s a mess--it’s out of harmony. [He closes his eyes and takes in the highly cathartic moment. At length] It’s just this ... web of feelings that point to other feelings for no reason.
YOUNG WOMAN:
[Great silence.] Are you okay?
YOUNG MAN, in a whisper:
Yeah. [He removes his hands from her feet.]
YOUNG WOMAN:
[Pause.] So what you need is someone to feel the same way you do about it.
YOUNG MAN:
[He considers this.] Maybe not the same way. But ... you know, like her feet are something special. It’s this hugely significant moment in a girl’s life when someone first touches her and her shirt gets taken off or something. Who cares when someone touches her feet? It’s just guys like me ... prowling around with bad intent and secretly getting our kicks. There’s no love in that.
YOUNG WOMAN:
And you’ve never had anything like that?
YOUNG MAN:
No. And I don’t suppose that it ever will come. I just might find something close, though.
YOUNG WOMAN:
[Pause.] But you know I like this, right?
YOUNG MAN:
I wasn’t sure.
YOUNG WOMAN:
I do. It’s really nice; my feet are pretty sensitive.
YOUNG MAN:
[He is affected for a moment, both by her compassionate gesture and this arousing mention of feet; he appears momentarily happy.] I’m glad. [Pause.] But it obviously isn’t seriously important to you--or you wouldn’t be letting me pay you for it.
YOUNG WOMAN, tenderly:
No. But it’s close.
YOUNG MAN, bittersweetly:
I suppose it is.
YOUNG WOMAN:
[Pause.] Would kissing be special to you?
YOUNG MAN, at a loss:
[Extended pause.] Yes.
YOUNG WOMAN:
Would you like to?
YOUNG MAN, visibly in disbelief:
Uh ... sure.
YOUNG WOMAN, delicately, in a husky whisper:
Okay. [She leans toward him and gives him one soft, delicate kiss. She smiles after she pulls away just slightly. Amused] You smell like my feet.
YOUNG MAN:
[He is perhaps as deeply wounded by this as she possibly could have made him, but he knows that she means well. Despite his best efforts, his demeanor becomes somewhat colder.] Yeah. [He looks at the clock on her nightstand.] Our time is up. [He rises and searches his pants pocket for his wallet.]
YOUNG WOMAN, assuringly:
You don’t have to go.
YOUNG MAN, briskly:
Yes, I do. [He hands her several dollar bills.]
YOUNG WOMAN, confused and a bit hurt:
[Pause.] You don’t have to pay me.
YOUNG MAN:
You never would have started seeing me like this in the first place if you didn’t need it. Thank you for everything.
[Exeunt the YOUNG MAN. The YOUNG WOMAN stares after him for a long while, awkwardly holding and fiddling with his money. Lights fade out.]
End.
DropBox link: https://www.dropbox.com/s/gqbgpafgbf1aa3s/thefetishist.pdf
The text (no formatting):
The Fetishist (by ErraticEmphatic, last edited 6/7/12)
---------------------------------
YOUNG MAN:
A young man, probably in his twenties, decently attractive, sharp in demeanor. His presence could be described as ‘dark’ and troubled, but not malicious. His eyes vary from bitterly sad to angry, a sort of self-directed anger or elevated sadness and confusion, throughout.
YOUNG WOMAN:
An amply attractive young woman, who in all ways can be considered foxy and yet is just average enough to carry an earthy allure as well. She wears sexy lingerie throughout. She is considerably more bubbly than the Young Man but not entirely lacking in grace and wit, either.
The precise relationship between the YOUNG WOMAN and the YOUNG MAN is not clear, but it is clear that they have meetings similar to that following on a regular basis for the purpose of indulging the YOUNG MAN’s fetishistic sexual desires, for which he pays her some moderate fee, but there is mutual respect. The YOUNG MAN’s tastes are not vulgar, and so the YOUNG WOMAN does not demean herself to the extent that what they have is necessarily unwholesome. The relationship is personal but vague.
Scene
The scene is set in a particularly dark, simple and well kept bedroom which allows the meager light of dusk through the window. The YOUNG WOMAN sits precariously on the bed, knees bent, playful, feet presented before the YOUNG MAN, who kneels at the foot of the bed, absent-minded. A silence persists, through which the YOUNG WOMAN plays enticingly with her feet.
YOUNG WOMAN:
Is something wrong?
YOUNG MAN, quietly and sullenly:
I don’t know why I’m here.
YOUNG WOMAN, insulted:
I thought you liked this?
YOUNG MAN:
I do. I mean I don’t know why I like this.
YOUNG WOMAN:
Oh. [Pause.] Well, that’s okay ... You can still enjoy it. [She cautiously presses the toes of her left foot to his chest.]
As you can see, though the nature of their relationship is very direct in purpose and organized, the two have great concern for each other that awaits only a chance to surface. It could be argued that she is only trying to satisfy a customer, but, I assure you, this is not the case.
YOUNG MAN:
[He gently and gracefully, and at a very gradual pace, lifts her foot by its heel in cupped hands to his face, smells deeply, and places a very meaningful kiss below the big toe.] You don’t know how much it hurts not to know.
YOUNG WOMAN:
Well, you know, everyone’s different. People get attached to different things ... you know, in childhood. You just developed differently. There’s nothing wrong with that.
YOUNG MAN:
I know there’s nothing wrong with it, but there’s more to it than that. [He lifts the unoccupied foot to his face as well and liberally kisses it.]
YOUNG WOMAN:
Like what?
YOUNG MAN:
Obviously, I’m not healthy. I have to pay you for this.
YOUNG WOMAN, staggered by his pain:
[Silence.] Well ... [sigh] well, yeah ... you do. But that’s--it’s ... You just like feet. That’s not so bad--and I think it’s nice, you know ... even if you pay me. [Her words do not carry much of an effect. Silence.] Do you like other stuff? Boobs?
YOUNG MAN:
Not especially.
YOUNG WOMAN, bewildered but suddenly brightened:
So, what, you just like feet instead of boobs? What’s wrong with that?
YOUNG MAN:
Nothing wrong. It’s painful.
YOUNG WOMAN, fully sobered:
[Flexing her toes] Why?
YOUNG MAN, dryly:
[He momentarily ceases interacting with her feet and holds them.] What do you think it’s like having to pay for meaningful physical contact with another person? It dulls more than a little of the magic that’s supposed to be there. [Pause.] And it’s not as simple as just being into feet instead of boobs.
YOUNG WOMAN, quietly:
What is it like, then?
YOUNG MAN:
[Sigh.] It may be like that for some people; but I’ve felt what it’s supposed to feel like--very seldom felt what it’s supposed to feel like to be with somebody, and it isn’t this. [He takes a few moments to collect his thoughts.] You feel sick, you know, because you’ve learned that what you have this great, ... obsessive craving for isn’t going to mean anything to anyone else and so you’re just trying to figure out how to manipulate them into indulging these weird fucking desires you have. I got tired of that; at least you and I are on the same page, even if it is a paid service. And, you know, [pause] it’s this want for specialness, but that specialness is never going to be there, but you’re left with the impulses, so, you know, you wind up being this guy who gets a hormone discharge from smelling feet. I don’t get that; that’s something people universally hate, but I get off to it. And that’s all it is anymore: getting off and upholding illusions of affection--and in my own, special way. I had to pioneer my own sexuality. It’s like being my own, isolated little species. And, when you get this way, and you have no idea how it all came about, where it all came about, you at least want to know why so that maybe you can start to make sense of the mess. [He notices that he’s been neglecting her feet and begins again to stroke them. He has a realization.] It’s not just getting off. [He plants his hands palms-down on the mattress.] Put your feet on my hands. [Fascinated, she does so. He looks intensely at her, affected.] Now, you feel like a mother to me.
YOUNG WOMAN, meekly:
[Silence.] Why?
YOUNG MAN, softly:
I don’t know. It’s a mess--it’s out of harmony. [He closes his eyes and takes in the highly cathartic moment. At length] It’s just this ... web of feelings that point to other feelings for no reason.
YOUNG WOMAN:
[Great silence.] Are you okay?
YOUNG MAN, in a whisper:
Yeah. [He removes his hands from her feet.]
YOUNG WOMAN:
[Pause.] So what you need is someone to feel the same way you do about it.
YOUNG MAN:
[He considers this.] Maybe not the same way. But ... you know, like her feet are something special. It’s this hugely significant moment in a girl’s life when someone first touches her and her shirt gets taken off or something. Who cares when someone touches her feet? It’s just guys like me ... prowling around with bad intent and secretly getting our kicks. There’s no love in that.
YOUNG WOMAN:
And you’ve never had anything like that?
YOUNG MAN:
No. And I don’t suppose that it ever will come. I just might find something close, though.
YOUNG WOMAN:
[Pause.] But you know I like this, right?
YOUNG MAN:
I wasn’t sure.
YOUNG WOMAN:
I do. It’s really nice; my feet are pretty sensitive.
YOUNG MAN:
[He is affected for a moment, both by her compassionate gesture and this arousing mention of feet; he appears momentarily happy.] I’m glad. [Pause.] But it obviously isn’t seriously important to you--or you wouldn’t be letting me pay you for it.
YOUNG WOMAN, tenderly:
No. But it’s close.
YOUNG MAN, bittersweetly:
I suppose it is.
YOUNG WOMAN:
[Pause.] Would kissing be special to you?
YOUNG MAN, at a loss:
[Extended pause.] Yes.
YOUNG WOMAN:
Would you like to?
YOUNG MAN, visibly in disbelief:
Uh ... sure.
YOUNG WOMAN, delicately, in a husky whisper:
Okay. [She leans toward him and gives him one soft, delicate kiss. She smiles after she pulls away just slightly. Amused] You smell like my feet.
YOUNG MAN:
[He is perhaps as deeply wounded by this as she possibly could have made him, but he knows that she means well. Despite his best efforts, his demeanor becomes somewhat colder.] Yeah. [He looks at the clock on her nightstand.] Our time is up. [He rises and searches his pants pocket for his wallet.]
YOUNG WOMAN, assuringly:
You don’t have to go.
YOUNG MAN, briskly:
Yes, I do. [He hands her several dollar bills.]
YOUNG WOMAN, confused and a bit hurt:
[Pause.] You don’t have to pay me.
YOUNG MAN:
You never would have started seeing me like this in the first place if you didn’t need it. Thank you for everything.
[Exeunt the YOUNG MAN. The YOUNG WOMAN stares after him for a long while, awkwardly holding and fiddling with his money. Lights fade out.]
End.
