Within minutes of posting a photo of her feet she receives a dozen likes and a little message notification blinks on to her phone screen. She laughs nervously as her boyfriend grins and asks, “Well, are you going to open it?”

The message is from a guy named Andrew. He looks attractive in his profile picture. Mid to late twenties, lean, dark hair, good jaw, nice eyes. A bit young for her taste, but otherwise her type.

She hesitates then finally clicks the message and the little chat window expands.

Hey. I’m sure you hear this a lot, but I just wanted to tell you that you have the most beautiful feet I’ve ever seen.

“See,” says her boyfriend, looking both pleased and excited. “I told you your feet are hot.” Her boyfriend never uses the word beautiful when he speaks about her, it’s always hot this or sexy that, and only ever in relation to her various body parts. Feet, ass, tits, pussy. She had once asked him if he knew what color her eyes were and, unsure, he had studied them for a minute then answered hesitantly first green and then blue.

She feels awkward, uncomfortable. She doesn’t really want to be doing this, posting her feet on the internet for men to jerk off to, but she can’t help but go along with it. She has some vague awareness that she possesses little more than an amorphous sense of self. She is non-finito, like a half-molded clay sculpture. A person without strong boundaries. Easily pressed, her desires folding in on themselves to take on the shape of others. This, she suspects, is what drew her boyfriend to her in the first place. He enjoys being in control, calling the shots, and her anything goes attitude means he can mostly do as he pleases without ever really having to consider her.

Still, due to the strangeness of it, she had held out on this particular request for over a year. Her boyfriend had proposed it a few years into their relationship. Not long after they’d bought a house together, she’d caught him making explicit comments on other women’s photos online. She'd felt inadequate. Diminished. Like she wasn't enough. He had acted like it was no big deal, like everyone did it. He’d even gone so far as to suggest to her that she should post some photos for fun. Wouldn’t she like to be looked at and admired?

Her boyfriend loves to be looked at. He’s a sharp dresser. Custom Italian suits, French cuff shirts, expensive shoes, nice watches. He revels in the attention of others. She, on the other hand wants people not to just admire her façade but to really see her. Not that anyone ever does.

When she’d gone to her mother in tears, upset about her boyfriend’s online habits her mother had shrugged her anxiety off and said, “Boys will be boys. And can you really blame them with all the girls now posting stuff like that online? Too much temptation to resist. Just be glad they do it on their phones now and you don’t have to deal with a stack of those disgusting nudie mags lying around the house.”

She felt this was somehow different. Worse. The lack of the firm boundary imposed by print. The desire to be noticed as the voyeur and ability to send love to someone in the form of a little heart emoji, to almost reach out and touch an object of desire. There was a heightened level of intimacy to it that made it feel far more personal.

He’d continued to press. Told her that it was only because he thought she was so damn sexy and wanted to show her off. He got off on the idea of other men seeing how hot his girlfriend was. Seemed to think she should be flattered by it. As though she weren’t a person, an individual with her own ideas of what was sexy, but merely an object to be consumed for someone else’s pleasure. On one of their first dates, they’d gone to a jazz club together and the bouncer had looked appreciatively over the curves that spilled out of her little black dress and given her boyfriend a nod of respect. He had pulled her close and kissed her after, whispering in her ear, I love that you make me look good.

She held her ground when he’d first started to push the idea on her. What if people she knew found out? She wasn’t specifically against pornography—if that’s what you could call photos of bare feet—and she’d always played along with all his little kinks and fetishes and had never been bothered by them. It just wasn’t her thing. She hardly even used her personal social media, there were maybe a dozen photos online of her total. And of course she would be embarrassed if someone she worked with or, god forbid, her family, found out. He’d told her to relax, assured her no one would be able to tell it was her. And, because she didn’t specifically care enough not to do it, she’d eventually caved under the weight of his much stronger desires.

She stares at the message, feeling a little thrill of vanity at having someone use the word beautiful to refer to her—even if it was just her feet.

Her boyfriend strips off his pants then lays back on the bed and begins to stroke himself. He reaches over and slides his hand into her panties, then dips his finger inside her and whispers, “You should answer him.”

She hesitates then finally writes back, Thanks! And then adds a little blushing smile emoji.

Andrew responds immediately, Wow, no one ever answers these messages unless they’re sending a cash app, lol. I always assume these accounts are run by bots.

She’s starting to feel bolder, I’m new to this. Not looking for money. Boyfriend and I are just having some fun with it.

Well, you have very beautiful feet! I hope you post more photos. Your boyfriend’s a lucky guy.

Thanks, I’ll be around...

After she logs off, her and her boyfriend have great sex for the first time in ages. She even comes from penetration. She can’t remember the last time she’s orgasmed during sex. Their sex life had been tepid for some time due to hectic schedules and a general mismatch of what turned them on. It had gotten worse after he had found a video on her computer of her and her ex tucked away in an old, long-forgotten folder. He’d been furious at her after for days without saying why, but had, during a heated argument, finally copped to having found it and watched it over and over. He’d confessed that he found himself both angry and aroused by the sight of his girlfriend getting railed. He had become obsessed with the thought of watching her get fucked and and like some sort of Tantalean punishment he couldn’t seem to get the idea out of his head. He was so accustomed to voyeurism, his tastes shaped by chronic and habitual pornography use, that seeing his girlfriend act like a slut for another guy in front of a camera coupled with the boost in testosterone from jealousy had done it for him like nothing else and now nothing short would do. He now wanted her to share all the details of her past sexual exploits during sex and bought realistic dildos in grotesque sizes that would often make her bleed because he liked to watch her masturbate with them.

She has a taste for the carnal, but her boyfriend’s tastes seem far too blunt to her. Artless, lacking in finesse. Her biggest turn ons are often much more unintentionally sensual. An erotic touch, the imprint of a beautiful image or lingering essence of a melody, a rousing discussion, the intensity and heat of a long gaze. All could wet her panties and bring her to the brink. But her boyfriend never asks or really seems to care what turns her on. The only time she comes is when she gets herself off. He’s too impatient to please her and prefers to watch her masturbate while he services himself or she rubs her feet against his cock. He often climaxes three or four times to her one. Sometimes he goes down on her, but he’s inevitably too focused on masturbating while he eats her out to pay attention to what she likes or doesn’t to make her come.

Throughout the following week she takes more photos. She feels a sense of pride that the photos she takes are somewhat artistic; more sensual than the standard fetish photos she sees on other accounts, which to her look crude and garish. She knows the men actually prefer the others, that they like the vulgarity, the rawness of them, but still she can't bring herself to post that sort of thing. Some are of just her feet; graceful angles, careful balance and interplay of light and shadows. For some she dons lingerie. Barely there lacy things in blacks, blues, and blush pinks, toes painted in coordinating colors to match. She snaps mirror selfies, head cut off, her dark hair cascading over her breasts, feet arched and prominently on display. She posts them with song lyrics she likes or quotes from books she’s read. No one ever seems to notice or care about her captions, but coming up with something to post that isn’t just a come-on makes her feel less weird about posting the risqué photos. She can pretend she’s creating art and not just thinly veiled jerk off material.

The comments and messages pour in. And not just from the sort of lonely, desperate men she expects to follow fetish accounts. Many appear to be attractive professional men and there are even quite a few hot younger guys. Lots use burners but significantly more than she would expect use their real accounts, seemingly unaware or at least unbothered that the people they are friends with can track their habits. They want her to notice them and vie for her attention in the comments and send her private messages, desperately trying to get her to chat.

Many want her to see the proof of their desire. She receives scores of unsolicited dick pics and videos of men masturbating—one even sends her a video of him jerking off with the image of her on his computer in the background. She decides that maybe being an object of consumption isn’t so bad. She even begins to enjoy the attention. Becomes aroused by the men’s overt enthusiasm for her. She is an edible woman, dolce, delectable; something to be devoured. Her body responds in an involuntary, visceral way, she’s now wetter during sex and her orgasms are more intense and plentiful. Still, in the daytime, while she poses for photos, trying to find her best angle, deleting a dozen images before being satisfied with one, she can’t help but feel that it’s all very shallow.

She continues to chat with Andrew spurred on by her boyfriend’s encouragement. Sometimes they sext and she shares the salacious texts with her boyfriend after, just before they fuck, but more often he just wants to chat with her. Andrew wants to know all about her. What she likes, what she’s interested in, even though they don’t really share any interests he’s content to let her prattle on about stuff her boyfriend would very quickly tune out. As well as the occasional dick pic he also sends her updates about his day and cute selfies of him going about his routines. She can’t remember the last time anyone had taken such an interest in her.

He tells her that girls his age don’t like that he’s uncircumcised and he was surprised when she said she didn’t mind at all and even thought it was kind of sexy. His last girlfriend had told him she thought uncircumcised dicks were gross and had refused to give him blowjobs. That, plus the way women reacted when he told them he was into feet has made him far too anxious to date. He says he can’t believe her boyfriend has a girl like her and doesn’t want to keep her all to himself.

One night, a few weeks in to talking, Andrew tells her that he’ll be in her city for a sporting event. He had mentioned a local landmark in his home city once while they’d chatted, and they had discovered, to their surprise, that their cities were only a few hours drive apart. He wants to see her and asks if she’ll meet him for a drink.

She reminds him that she has a boyfriend and that chatting is fun, but meeting up in person wouldn’t be appropriate. Not that she’s not tempted. Her boyfriend has begun talking about how hot it would be for her to video herself getting fucked for him. She suspects it’s just a fantasy and that if it actually happened, he’d freak out, but part of her wants to do it—just to punish him. Despite enjoying all the attention, she knows deep down all of it is superficial and feels hurt that he doesn’t want to keep her all to himself. She feels more like entertainment, a plaything, than something to be cherished.

She gets a message notification from another account, a burner with no profile picture, and logs off her chat with Andrew to open it. She's always a bit curious to see what men send her.

Hey, I know this is kinda a weird ask… but could U do me a favor?

The little ellipsis lights up as the sender continues to type.

I’m really anxious about my d**k, and I was hoping U could look at it for me. Tell me if U think it looks normal.

She usually doesn’t respond to the messages, but there is something incredibly sad about the request. She replies, I bet you’re just fine. All dicks are normal; they come in lots of shapes and sizes. Unless it’s not working properly, in which case you need a doctor's opinion, not mine, I’d say you’re just fine!

I’m 16 and I’ve never been with a girl b4 and I’m too embarrassed to ask anyone I know irl. Not even my doctor. I’ve been following ur account for a while and just thought U seemed really nice. Was hoping U would help me out.

She feels nauseous, wonders how many other underage boys are lurking around her account, looking at her content. She hates the word content, a seemingly innocuous word encompassing everything from recipes and photos of kittens to extremist politics and hardcore pornography. She begins to wonder if any of the previous photos she’d received had come from minors. Her palms start to sweat and her mouth goes dry. She feels negligent, almost criminal. Of course kids were looking at this stuff. Why hadn’t she thought about that possibility before?

I’m sorry, I really can’t help you with that. Please DO NOT send me any photos, you could get me in big trouble. This account isn’t intended for minors. You should find kids your own age to follow.

I’m sorry. Pls don’t report me for asking, they’ll suspend my account.

She feels bad for him. She remembers what it was like to be a teen, the awkward embarrassment of an ungainly new body. Part of her wonders if maybe she should look at it, just to reassure him. She discards the thought almost as soon as it enters her head and feels gross for even thinking it. 

I won’t, but I’m going to block you. Please find more age-appropriate accounts to follow.

This isn’t even the first unsettling thing to happen to her. One guy had sent her death threats and told he'd like to sever her head from her body and fuck her skull when she’d ignored his attempts to chat, and another guy had sent her photos of what looked to be a diseased or maybe even slightly mutilated penis, oozing red sores running up the length of his shaft. Both had left her feeling sick for days after. She takes a deep breath, a voice in her head that sounds much more like her own begins to bleed through the overlay of her boyfriend’s louder, more persistent voice. She opens the chat with Andrew.

Hey, I think I’m going to delete this account. I’m sorry, I just don’t feel great about being here anymore.

Wait! What!? You can’t go!

I’m sorry. I have to delete. Things are getting… weird.

Can I at least get your number???

A little knot forms in her stomach at the thought of giving up her daily chats with Andrew, and before she can stop herself, she types in her phone number and hits send. She rationalizes it. What’s the difference if they chat on the app or via text?

He’s grateful. Tests out the number right away and when she responds he tells her to have a great night and that he’ll text her in the morning after he checks in at his hotel.

Her boyfriend seems disappointed when she tells him that she deleted her account. “But you have so many fans, baby. You’re so popular! You seriously just deleted your account?”

“Yeah. That kid freaked me out. Made me feel gross. I just didn’t feel right about doing it anymore.”

“I wouldn’t worry about it. Boys that age are getting it wherever they can, if it’s not yours it’ll be someone else's feet. Trust me. You’re providing a public service. I started looking for porn on the internet when I was like twelve, and before that I was rubbing it out to my mom’s Victoria Secret catalogues. And hey, I turned out just fine.”

That night, they curl up in bed together and instead of running his hands up her curves and whispering into her neck about how sexy she is, he shifts the bulk of his body away from her then turns to face the opposite wall and within a few minutes she can hear him snoring softly.

***

In the morning she gets another text from Andrew.

Hey beautiful. I’m in your city! I’m staying at a hotel across from the stadium Downtown, come spend the day with me…

She doesn’t respond right away. Instead, she runs all the scenarios through her head and lets them play on loop while she showers and cleans the house. She’s never cheated before, although her and her ex had ended up in a bit of a free-spirited friend circle and had swapped partners a couple times. She’d found the experience kind of lacklustre. All sizzle no steak. That was the thing with sex, it was always a bit tepid without the heat of real passion. She could play out a fantasy and imagine a spark chatting online, but would she feel anything when they met in person? She’s not in love with this guy; they have a comfortable rapport but there’s not enough in common to go on for much conversation beyond daily mundanities. Her boyfriend is intelligent. Much sharper than Andrew, even if most of his wit seems to be reserved for insults and biting sarcasm. Andrew is sweet, but a bit dull by comparison. Not to mention that he’s quite a bit younger. What could a guy his age have in common with a woman in her thirties? What would they have to talk about beyond basic day to day stuff? And what if she meets him and does fall for him, what then? She discards the idea. It’s just too complicated. She finally texts back that she won't be able to meet him.

He’s upset. Not just upset, but frantic. He tells her they have to meet. That they were destined to meet, and that he’s madly in love with her. He’s decided he wants her to leave her boyfriend and move in with him. He had planned to tell her that day in person.  

She doesn’t understand. He knew she had a boyfriend when they started chatting, she was upfront about it. She thinks back, wonders if she led him on or gave any indication that it was more than what it was. She had been explicit on more than one occasion that they were just playing around, but of course you can set boundaries and sometimes despite best intentions people still catch feelings. She feels guilty for ever having talked to him. For having started her stupid fetish account in the first place.

I can’t just leave my home, my JOB to move in with a stranger I met a couple of weeks ago on the internet. You must know that’s crazy, right?

So that’s all I am to you? A stranger?

Yes, of course, she thinks, but she doesn’t say it.

Look, I’m really sorry if I gave you the wrong impression.

You know he doesn’t love you, right? He can't possibly love you. Who the fuck whores their girlfriend out like that? All you’ll ever be to him is a filthy fucking slut. You're just a toy for him to play with. Have fun getting used up and then kicked to the curb you dumb bitch.

She looks at the screen in stunned disbelief. Her first instinct is to apologize, her second is to tell him to go to hell. Finally, she decides to block his number without responding. She sits down on the floor and wraps her hands around her knees. A tremor begins to work its way out from her chest and into her limbs, the sensation spreading through her until her entire body begins to vibrate.

Finally, she calms down enough to tell her boyfriend. She finds him in his office and tells him all about the conversation. She can’t stop shaking.

Her boyfriend is incredulous, “He actually wanted you to move in with him? He thought some random chick he met on a foot fetish account was just going to pack up her life and shack up with him? God, what a loser. I’m sorry that guy was such a jerk to you, babe. And, hey, don’t worry, we can always find you a new, better boyfriend.” He smiles and kisses her on the forehead, then turns his chair back to his computer dismissively.

As her eyes trace the line of his shoulders and neck and the familiar whorl pattern of the cowlick on the back of his head a calmness comes over her and her tremors begin to subside. The nebulous liquid feeling inside her cells begins to shift, to crystallize into something firmer, less yielding. Yes, that's it, she thinks. Maybe a new, better boyfriend is just what I need.