Foot Heaven

        Women spend more time shopping for, talking about, obsessing over, looking at, and lusting after, footwear than any other article of clothing. This is in no way a bad thing. Just an observation. And I’m all for it.
        For most women I know, shoes take up a larger percentage of a their clothing budget than dresses, pants, blouses, and skirts combined. In fact, even though it goes on her body, just like everything else she wears, things that go on a woman’s feet get their own category: footwear. And footwear gets broken down into its own subcategories: boots, pumps, sandals, wedges, heels, flats,....the list goes on.
        Why the fascination with footwear? Ladies, I’m asking you. I’ll offer my own half-baked theories, anecdotes, musings, insights, and candor here, but I’d love to hear what you have to say. And gentlemen please, if you have anything to offer, speak up.
        Let’s start with the fact that, according to Wikipedia, “Foot fetishism, foot partialism, foot worship, or podophilia...is the most common form of sexual preference for otherwise non-sexual objects or body parts.” Before I get going, let me say I have a problem with the definition. Who’s to say what “body parts” are “otherwise...non sexual”? As far as I’m concerned, the entire body is one big erogenous zone. In the appropriate context, every square inch is sexual. Dividing the body up into “sexual” and “non sexual” areas is not only a complete waste of time, but dangerous. It can lead those of us with fetishes to believe there’s something wrong with us for being into an arbitrarily determined “non sexual” something. Don’t buy it. It’s bullshit.
        Improper definition not withstanding, we see that there’s an affinity for feet and footwear that not only crosses genders, but is somewhat universal. Both men and women, from all walks of life, have a thing for it.
        This is, as far as I’m concerned, great news. Because despite the obvious fact that men and women usually have vastly different ideas regarding clothing, plenty of both agree that women’s footwear is damn interesting and exciting. Women love to have it. Men love to look at it.
        So both sexes are enamored with women’s feet and what goes on them. That’s common ground; another area where the two sexes can connect. As common inhabitants of this planet who often struggle with understanding one another, men and women can never have too many metaphysical places where their hearts and minds meet.
        Think of other obsessions that men have. Take breasts for example. I don’t know any straight women who gets as excited about her own breasts as virtually any straight man does. But shoes and feet? Women are into that as much as men are. That’s fantastic, because we can both share the obsession. Or at least the interest. Even guys who aren’t that into it would probably say that they like the way a nice pair of shoes makes a woman look.
        The sheer variety of choice in footwear is positively staggering, which means that women never get tired of looking for shoes, and men never get tired of looking at them. There’s just so much to see.
        If there’s any truth to the cliche “A way to a man’s heart is through his stomach”, then I offer that “A way to a woman’s heart is through her feet”. How many men pay enough attention to the woman they’re with to know her foot size and her sense of style regarding footwear? Not enough. I happen to be one guy who does, and I can tell you from experience; when a man, all on his own, buys a woman a pair of shoes that she digs, that actually fit her, it is a rare and special event that will be long savored and forever remembered. Flowers are nice. Jewelry is commonplace. Shoes are money.
        Then there’s the pedicure, which most women spend as much time on in summer as men do on football in the fall. Here’s a golden opportunity that most men miss completely. You know how good it feels, gentlemen, when a woman gets into football with you and wants to learn the game? I love that. You get to explain football to her, in all it’s luscious subterfuge and analytical complexity. You get to watch it with her, in all it’s blood and guts glory. You get to guide her through the labyrinth of strategy, the richness of the game’s history, the subtlety of it’s nuances, and the passion of it’s physical mayhem. It feels great to take your woman by the hand and say to her “Come with me, honey. Let me show you the way. Let me enlighten you on the greatest game on earth.”
        There’s a similar opportunity with the pedicure, or with women’s feet in general. This is the man’s chance to become part of a very important element of a woman’s world that he most likely doesn’t have a clue about. Her pedicure, her footwear, her feet; these are a woman’s “Football”. Let her take you by the hand.
        Learn to give a pedicure, or at least how to paint her toes. Notice which toenail polish colors she likes, say something to her about it, and then go buy her some in those favorite colors. Compliment her on how good her feet look after a pedicure. Know her shoe size, her boot size (usually a half size larger), and the kind of footwear she likes, and buy her some. Look at shoes with her in magazines and when you window shop. In other words, pay attention to her feet, however you can, because, and here’s the point, they are important to her. If you make them important to you, even just a little bit, it means something. It means you care. About her and what’s important to her. Think football.
        As I’ve mentioned, lots of guys already have foot fetishes, so there’s plenty of interest. But too many men just don’t take it to the next level. Sure, they may kiss her feet in the bedroom, but that’s only the beginning. To a woman, feet and footwear represent an entire WORLD, full of many facets. Explore it with her. Shoes. Boots. Toenail polish. Pedicures. Lotions. Creams. Et cetera. Become more a part of this world with her, as she becomes more a part of yours. Everybody wins.


©2009 Clint Piatelli. All Rights (and a woman’s shoe closet full of Wrongs) Reserved.

Mean Street

        I am more responsive to music today than I was when I was eighteen. Because I’m more comfortable with myself. I’m happier, and I like myself a lot more than in the halcyon days of my youth. I’m more myself than ever before, which means not only do I let it all hang out more, but I know more of what I’m hanging.
        I find myself energized by a youthful exuberance that I haven’t felt in a long time. I feel younger today than when I was...younger.
        Music ignites that youth within me. It’s always been there, but now the flame is very close to the surface instead of buried beneath layers of emotional insulation. Like a load of napalm held in a very thin membrane of tissue, music is the catalyst that sets me off. Not only do I “explode” more easily, but more “violently”. And I don’t mean that in the context of temper or anger. I mean it in terms of excitement, joy, passion, and self expression.
        The other day, I found a 1983 live recording of “Mean Street” by Van Halen on YouTube. My favorite song by one of my favorite bands, and the quality wasn’t bad at all. “Mean Street” is one of those songs that I never tire of; one of those songs that automatically pushes the thrash button. I pulled up the video to watch it, but soon found myself looking for my tennis racquet. The tennis racquet that I keep near my music source in case I get an attack of air-guitar-itis. I’ve never found playing air guitar very satisfying; I need a tool in my hand to complete the effect, and a tennis racquet is my weapon of choice. And a quarter does just dandy as a guitar pick.
        So instead of watching the video, I crank up my computer driven audio system, grab my tennis racquet and quarter combo, and I’m off. I can’t play a lick on the guitar, but you would never know it from watching me. You’d swear I could play my ass off. I hit all the notes, utilizing both hands in a flurry of strokes and fingers. I flawlessly mimic dozens of actual guitar techniques (and even a few impossible ones). I strut and preen and have more moves than a box of Ex-Lax. My facial expressions include snarls and sneers, cheshire smiles, bug-eyed stares, pouts, lip-puckering kisses to imaginary groupies, and a variety of “fuck faces” normally reserved for orgasm. By the end of the song, I’m sweating profusely, out of breath, and my heart feels like it’s in my head. The bottom line is that this is about as much fun as I can have by myself with my pants on.
        The point is that although I’ve been doing this since I hit double digits, I enjoy it now more than ever. Playing like this is actually more fun than when I was a teenager. And I ask myself why. Is there something wrong with me because I get more out of it today then when I was in high school? Does this mean I’m regressing? Going the wrong way? In need of a padded cell, even? Does having this kind of fun in this kind of way somehow hard wire me for immaturity? Am I stunting my own development by continuing to enjoy such goofy activity?
        After a few moments, I realize who’s asking such questions. It’s my judge. My critic. My internal drill sergeant. The inner control freak who needs some air time. So instead of ignoring the questions, I answer them. Because these parts of me are still me. I’ve come to understand that these critical, judgmental voices inside of me can’t be ignored. They have to be engaged. I have to talk to them. But I have to know what to say. I do now, more than ever. So I’ve got a better relationship with these parts, which means I’m a more whole person. A fuller person. More myself. More ME. I’m more integrated, as opposed to more separated.
        What this means is that I can enjoy the harmless and not-so-guilty pleasure of playing the guitar on a tennis racquet because I’m letting more of myself be. The kid in me who wants to rock out like this gets his chance, and then so does the piece of me who thinks this kid is nuts and should just go away because, damn it, you’re too old for this shit. I don’t spend much time with that judgmental part, but I spend enough time to answer his questions and let him know that I hear him. And that’s really all he wants. To be heard. To matter. And as long as I use him as a check and balance, as long as I keep in relationship to him, he can help me know when I’ve gone too far. The judge, the critic, in me can’t run the show, but he can play a small part in it. He can bring me back from the brink of disaster should I ever get too close. And sometimes, I do.
        I encourage you to get in touch with all those little pieces of you who either don’t get enough air time or get too much. What I’ve found is that by doing that, they are all able to live inside me, side by side, all at the same time, much more comfortably. I don’t vacillate between the fun loving manic and the harsh critic as much as I feel them both alive in me simultaneously. I appeal to my higher self to help them live more harmoniously. Because they both have something to teach each other. And neither of them can run the show without getting me into trouble. I have to run the show. I let my kid play as often as possible, and I incorporate him into all of my activities. I do the same with the critic, but his role is a much smaller one, and much more limited. Which is fine, because he knows his place. If he doesn’t, then he’s all over me, beating the crap out of me for everything I do. I’ve done that gig before. It doesn’t improve me or lead to happiness.
        I’d much rather crank up “Mean Street”, grab my racquet and my quarter, and just let it all hang out. Maybe you would too.


©2009 Clint Piatelli. All Rights (and a Mean Street full of Wrongs) Reserved.


To hear a bit of “Mean Street” by Van Halen, go here. To see the video that inspired this post, go here.

The Back Line

      

        In the vernacular of live rock ‘n’ roll, the row of instruments and amplifiers behind the band is called “The Back Line”. To a gigging musician, there are few sights more joyously heart thumping than a selection of drums, guitars, and various electronics at the back of a stage. Especially if it’s the stage that you’re soon going to take.
        Iconic logos and names from companies like Marshall, Gibson, Fender, Tama, Zildjian, Ampeg, Shure, and Alesis brandish the equipment. Lights of all colors twinkle and blink, barely hinting at the amount of raw electric power that’s corralled within a plethora of circuits, tubes, wires, magnets, transistors, and computer chips. All that power focused through dozens, sometimes hundreds, of speakers for one objective: the creation of loud, passionate, emotional, body shaking music. Made by people, but delivered through machines both primitive and complicated.
        It’s simple. Without the back line, there’s no show.
        This particular photo is what the Back Line typically looked like at my house when I threw a party and asked my band to play. In addition to the music equipment, I have a good friend, the same guy who took this picture, who’s absolutely brilliant with interior space. He’s responsible for all the lighting and set design. Having a live band at a party always adds something special, making the evening an “Event”. But having the room the band plays in transformed into a rock club for the night, complete with colored, flashing lights and a disco ball, made these Events legendary. People would talk about them for months, often years, afterward, and always inquire about the next one.
        Throughout the years, I’ve thrown over fifty of these parties, far more than anybody else I know. I’ve been blessed with the physical space needed to host these shindigs, as well as all the necessary resources; including helpful, talented, and generous friends without whom I could never have pulled these off. I was also given the gift of knowing how to throw a party. A combination of ability, skill, sense of humor, instinct, talent, desire, and luck. Some of it in my very DNA, and some of it acquired through the lessons of life.
        Hopefully, one of the legacies I leave will be the parties I threw. And not just because they were lots of fun. I look at a party as a special gathering of my tribe. A ritualistic and somewhat sacred event that brings out not only the best in me but the best in other people. I try to impart that philosophy, that vibe, that energy, into every party I throw. If I’m successful, the event is not only a rip-roaring blast but also possesses that je ne sais quoi that transforms such events into truly magical gatherings where life long memories are born. Like a World Series game that you went to, or the first time you got laid.
        I know that’s shooting for the stars, especially when we’re talking about something as potentially perfunctory as a Halloween party, but if my reach exceeds my grasp, so be it. I’ll die with a smile on my face, knowing that I threw some of the best parties anybody whoever attended one had ever been to.


©2009 Clint Piatelli. All Rights (and a Back Line of Wrongs) Reserved.

Growl

        One of the things I love to do when I’m with a woman is growl. Like an animal. What you do is suck air in through your nose, kind of like you’re snoring while awake, and let the incoming air reverberate against the back roof of your mouth. Then you manipulate the noise with your mouth, changing the pitch so that it sounds like a growl. That’s the best I can do in describing the process. I’ve been doing it since I was a kid, although back then, it’s application was in an entirely different context. I learned to do it as a way to imitate imaginary dinosaurs or tigers when I played. Girls were still the enemy then, and I never dreamed that one day I’d use the sound as a sort of mating call.
        Actually, there’s a specific application of the growl that’s most effective. I’ve always found a woman’s neck to be a beautiful, smooth, soft, sweet smelling landscape upon which to orally explore. Lots of guys dig a girl’s neck. And most woman I know love it when a man pays attention to it. Maybe because it’s so close to the mouth but yet is an entirely different erotic canvas. There are lots of nerve endings in the area, just below the ears, under the chin, and all along it’s sinewy curves. And since it’s right near the ears, a woman can hear your heavy breathing and the sounds your mouth makes when you’re going to town there. The audible dimension of eroticism is sometimes overlooked, but it’s a gorgeous and powerful stimulus that can have a huge impact on the quality of a sexual relationship.
        Lots of guys love kissing a woman’s neck. Very softly. Or more aggressively, breaking out the turbo tongue. I like to bite it, gently but with a little force, like a benign vampire, then nibble. Licking is always fun, like a yummy flesh lollipop. And I’m constantly inhaling as much of her scent as I can during all of this, because smell is very evocative. And there are few, if any, places on a woman’s body that carry as much of her natural scent as her neck. And I don’t even have to mention how much most men love the smell of a woman’s hair. Plenty of those sexy fumes are dancing around her neck as well. It’s a schmorgasborg.
        Once you’ve perfected the growl, the best place to use it is on a woman’s neck. What you do is stick your whole face right into a soft fleshy area; your open mouth gently but firmly engulfing a patch of skin, your nose resting there as well. Then growl. The act of placing your mouth against all that soft skin lowers the fundamental pitch, making it sound even more like a growl; more bassy, more animalistic, more playfully sinister. And you’re doing it right under her ear, so she can hear this loud and clear. In fact, that could be all she can hear, which is even better.
        The vibrations caused by the growling reverberate against her skin, creating a sensual rapid fire caress. And it lightly tickles her. Nine times out of ten, she’ll start to laugh. But not the type of laugh that says “What the hell are you doing buddy?”, but the kind of laugh that says “This feels really good, it tickles, it’s fun, it’s different, it’s passionate and wild, it’s turning me on”.
        The growl is playful and passionate. It’s fun and sexy. It’s primitive, reminding our modern DNA’s that we were once much more animalistic. It evokes a primal lust that’s completely non-threatening, and completely natural. Remember the old Esso (now called Exxon) ad that said “Put a tiger in your tank”? Well I say “Put A Tiger In Her Neck”. Wearing loin clothes and animal pelts is optional.


©2009 Clint Piatelli. All Rights (and a Serengeti plain of Wrongs) Reserved.

A Little Bit Biff, A Little Bit Larry

        Biff is a buff, athletic, gym rat. He’s there every day for at least two hours. From across the room, he spots a guy he doesn’t know, but sees there all the time. He doesn’t say anything to the guy, ever, but the monologue in his head about him goes like this:

        Repulsive. Absolutely re-fuckin-pulsive. Fat droops everywhere, draping over you like an enormous, saggy, flesh cape. The very ground seems to grunt trying to support your mass. People practically scurry out of your way, probably afraid that they’ll be unable to avoid your girth and brush up against you. That can’t be pleasant. Even the air avoids you, appearing to rush away as you move, as though it were escaping from a balloon. Your movement looks unnatural, your very bones moving in ways unintended by God. I refuse to call that a body, and obese is too kind a word. Inhuman is more accurate.
        No self-control. No discipline. No life. You spend your nights gorging yourself on pizza and ice cream while watching Star Trek reruns. Then you call whatever few pathetic friends you have and argue with them over who’s better, Kirk or Piccard. Why bother coming to the gym? Save your money fatso. Spend it on ring dings. At least you’ll enjoy them. You can’t possibly like being here. And you have no idea what you’re doing. I watch you go through your half-assed excuse of a routine, barely breaking a sweat, not using proper technique or form. I hope you live close by. Any more than a twenty minute round trip commute would officially qualify your experience here as a colossal waste of time.
        And I can’t understand your expression. A peaceful smile plastered on your face, from the moment you get here to the moment you leave. Even while you’re working out, if you could call what you do here that. I don’t get it. Where’s the struggle? Where’s the pain and sacrifice? You talk too much while you’re here, saying hello, striking up conversations with the person next to you on the treadmill. You mock this sacred ground, where people come to work and change their bodies.

        Larry is a large, heavy, reluctant exerciser. He doesn’t like being in the gym, but he comes anyway, because he knows it’s good for him. From across the room, he sees a man he doesn’t know. He never talks to this man, ever, but the monologue in his head about him goes like this:

       Stop staring at me with contempt. I feel your eyes boring through me, struggling to get through all this fat and reach the other side of judgment. You probably hate me. You don’t even know me. But I know you. A thousand times. God smiled on you, blessed you with genetics and motivation, and physical fortune. Be grateful.
        My outsides appear hideous to you, but how I look is not who I am. I know that. But you don’t. So while the world is at your feet, you kneel before a false god.
        I did not choose this body. It chose me. My will power. My desire. My pain. None of it has been enough to free me from this biological prison. My prayers remain unanswered. But I still pray. For the act of prayer soothes my soul. I learned how to leave this body a long time ago. I learned to go away to a safe place where the words and the stares and the stones would not hurt so much. I still leave, but now I leave for a different reason. When I meditate. When I pray. I travel to a safe place within myself not to hide but to heal. And now I choose to go, instead of just suddenly finding myself someplace else without even realizing I’ve left.
        You move so stiffly my friend, as though your own body resists itself. Every movement seems strained and calculated. Every action reeks of pretense. Posing as a maverick, as a man who is beautiful and free, I see through the façade. I know your prison: unbridled vanity.
        I recognize your pain. I grasp your story. Because your story is my story, just turned on its head. An upside down quarter is still a quarter. I know that, but you don’t. Ego clouds your vision, and truth remains a hidden treasure.
        I will pray for you. I will pray that you see yourself, and free yourself. Then maybe you will see me.

       We're all a little bit Biff. We're all a little bit Larry.

©2009 Clint Piatelli. All Rights (and a Biff & Larry amount of Wrongs) Reserved.