it's August--the one month in Portland
when you're guaranteed to feel some
heat. And finally the toes come out
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.
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
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
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!
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
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.
may be blind, but it is obviously deaf,
dumb and stupid as well.
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!