Stories from the Table: Edward and the Language of Feet

In my ongoing series Stories from the Table, I share real encounters (with consent) from my work as an erotic massage therapist and sacred intimate. These sessions are more than physical—they are stories of longing, vulnerability, healing, and sometimes unexpected joy.

This story is about Edward, a man seeking something tender and deeply specific. What started with a request to tickle my feet led us into a quiet space of emotional intimacy and erotic expression—where shame began to loosen its grip, and presence took its place.

When Edward first contacted me through my website, he seemed like many who reach out—curious, tentative, seeking connection. But his message carried a special request: “Would it be okay if I tickled your feet before the massage begins?”

I responded with an easy yes.

When Edward arrived, he was sweet, visibly nervous, and awkward in a way that felt tender, not uncomfortable. I greeted him with a hug, hoping to ease the tension. He undressed quietly. I climbed onto the massage table and offered him my feet.

The tickling was soft and pleasant, but I noticed something behind his eyes—a flicker of disappointment, or maybe disconnection. I sensed that the act alone didn’t quite touch what he was hoping to find.

The massage began. I moved through the familiar motions—oil, pressure, attention—but the energy was distant, as if Edward was watching himself receive touch rather than truly feeling it. It wasn’t that the touch was wrong. It just wasn’t the right kind of intimacy he was longing for.

Then, as he turned over and I worked on his calf, I lifted my left foot and gently placed it on his face.

Everything changed.

Edward’s body softened. His breath deepened. His hands rose instinctively, cradling my foot like something precious. For the rest of the hour, he engaged with my feet with a kind of joy and reverence—a boy in a candy store, savoring every second. He licked, kissed, and held them close.

There was no orgasm. Instead, there was presence. Afterward, he shared that a past trauma had trapped his sexuality in a cage of shame and fear. He was 36, gay, and still learning how to listen to his desires without judgment. He told me his therapist had encouraged this session—as part of his healing.

As he dressed, we kept talking. I sat beside him and rested my foot on his lap. He held it, smiling gently, telling me stories of other moments when his erotic self felt free. It was subtle, but powerful. A sacred exchange.

Not every session needs to lead to climax. Sometimes, the deepest release comes in being seen, accepted, and allowed to play—safely, consciously, and without shame.