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xmag.com : August 2003 : I Love Las Vegas

Finally it's August--the one month in Portland when you're guaranteed to feel some heat. And finally the toes come out of hiding!

On the first hot day of the year--usually we get one in May--I go into my basement and unearth my enormous box of summer shoes. I line them up against the walls of my bedroom and then try to wear every pair before Labor Day. This is not an easy task. I own at least 150 pairs of shoes, and a disproportionate number of these are totally impractical summer sandals, stilettos and mules.

I relish the challenge. In winter I roll out of bed and put on a pair of jeans, a black cashmere turtleneck and boots every goddamn day. But summer's a different story. I spend hours in front of the mirror, tearing apart my closet to find the perfect outfit to accompany my chunky platform heels with comic strip straps. Or something special enough to pair with the $350 Chanel sandals (with shiny sculpted metal heels, cork soles and flesh colored satin bows) that my ex-boyfriend bought me.

Speaking of boyfriends, man was he great! When I met him he was squeamish about feet. Disgusted even! About four months into it, I laid down the law: if he was gonna date a stripper--lucky bastard--he was gonna have to rub her feet. Well, the boy took to it like a baby to the breast. By Valentine's Day he was taking me shoe shopping regularly, and by the end of our five years together he was rubbing my feet every morning--in bed-- while he read the paper and drank his coffee.

Cut to New York, where I dated a ready-made foot enthusiast. He was a singer, songwriter and producer who had a studio in the building where Madonna got her start and the Strokes rehearsed. One night in the vocal booth, he coaxed me out of my boots. He sucked on my toes and rubbed my feet until he was rock hard. My feet returned the favor, rubbing him until he came. Then, in a perverse reverse Magdalene, he carefully massaged his cum into my feet until they were soft as bunnies. Well, that put a spring in my step!

Fast forward to present day, when fate finds me in love with a man who doesn't believe in love. Or rubbing feet. "Asshole," as I affectionately refer to him, insists that giving a gal a foot rub is degrading. And believe me I broke up with him when I first heard this, only to crawl back a week later--sore feet and all. Faithful regulars at the titty bars have promised to beat him up, and of course I encourage them. I don't mention how I ask him to marry me on a regular basis. Every stripper in town has told me to lose the bastard, and truthfully I have TRIED... every other week for the last six months! But I keep crawling back, and am getting surprisingly good at it. I love the bastard. I love the challenge. I love LOVE.

My sweet darling foot rubber wanted to marry me and I kicked him to the curb. My New York toe sucker calls me every week to remind me that I will bear his children. I play along, but my heart's not really in it. No, no. It's Asshole for me. I've even started rubbing his long, skinny, horribly-calloused feet and kissing his hairy toes! Meanwhile my feet have gone unadored for a year and my Boots-Made-for-Walkin' have walked out on me in disgust.

Love may be blind, but it is obviously deaf, dumb and stupid as well.




The Exploding Hearts have left the building. They rolled their van July 20th on their way back from San Francisco, where they had just been signed by Lookout! Records. Adam "Baby" Cox, Matt[lock] Fitzgerald, Jeremy "Kid Killer" Gage and Terry Six were featured in February's Exotic. They had perfect record collections, loved a good love song and fully knew how to rock. Adam toured with several bands before the 'Hearts, including my band Coco Cobra and the Killers. I adored him! He was Keith Moon on drums, a guitar savant and a natural-born songwriter, as Guitar Romantic will attest. Any of us who knew these guys felt really fucking lucky. We still are. Exploding Hearts bass player Terry survived the crash. We love you, Terry!





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