Julia's sneakers

Leon was new in Cologne, like most in the auditorium. The city smelled like rain, asphalt and late ice. It was the second week of the first semester, and Leon had already learned a few names. Julia was one of them – perhaps the most important. She sat two rows before him in social psychology I. Blonde hair, narrow shoulders, laughing like sun after November.

But that wasn't what brought him out of the concept.

It was the moment she pulled out her white sneakers and stretched her feet. Without any hesitation, of course. Their toes moved slightly, almost volatilized, like someone who never learned to be ashamed. And Leon felt something he didn't know. No sudden excitement – rather an electric knee. Irritatingly clear. Two weeks later... They drank beer at the Aachener Weiher, talked about everything – parents, politics, music. When Julia walked barefoot through the damp grass, it was like a Déjà vu. Leon could hardly look away. And he felt how it overwhelmed him.

At home he typed into the search field:

"Why are some men on their feet?"
"Foots fetish: sick or normal?"
"I'm funny?"
The answers were factual: Foot fetish is one of the most common at all. Psychologists suspected embossing, some talking about neuronal overlap between sexual and foot areas in the brain. It wasn't a sick compulsion. Rather a preference. Leon felt relieved. But also insecure: would Julia accept that?

A few more meetings later.

They lay on his mattress, next to half-eaten pizza, heard music. Her naked feet rested on his thigh.

"You're staring at my feet all the time," she said.

Leon got hot. Not for pleasure – for fear.
"I know.

She looked at him, not shameful, not irritated. Just interested.
"For long?"

"Ne, first since I knew you. So... since I noticed this with you."

Silence. Then she took his arm, put his back on her foot.
"So?"

He nodded, wordless.

"And what exactly do you like?"

Leon swallowed. "The form. The movement. The vulnerability maybe. And... how you just show them."

Julia grinste. "I like it when people know what they want."

A few days later.

Julia had asked him to close his eyes. When he opened it, she sat in front of him on the sofa, wearing only a black tank top and dark red nail polish on the toes.

She stretched her legs. "You can," she said.

Leon bowed, kissed the big toe, then the bow of her sole. Oh, thank you. Julia barely sounded.

And for a moment, in the middle of this strange, intimate proximity, he knew: There was nothing wrong with what he felt. It was just different. And Julia – she was ready to take new steps with him.

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