The Revival of One Hundred Steps - Part IX: Fetishes

April 15, 2006 11:02 PM

I've lived in Manhattan for the last few years, and I've been spoiled by Giuliani's legacy. Nearly every neighborhood in Manhattan has been gentrified within an inch of its life. Streets are cleaned, the homeless have become less visible, there's no graffiti on the subway trains. There are many nights I opt out of a cab ride and walk home alone, feeling perfectly safe. I assumed the crazies had moved out of Manhattan; they now commute on the Path or MetroNorth.

But I hear of more than a few murders on the local news, of children left alone in the house unsupervised, of young women abducted from local bars. But it all seemed pretty removed from me until I had my own "New York of the 70s" encounter.

I ordered some food from an Italian joint called La Casalinga. I buzzed up the delivery guy to my door. After he handed me the food, I gave him a few bills and waited for the change. As he handed me the change, he looks me up and down.

(As an aside, I'll give a physical description of this guy in case anyone else runs into him. He has dark skin, a scruffy, unshaven face, dark brown hair that's parted in the middle and comes down past his ears on each side. His hair is curly and greasy with gel. He looks as he would in his own mugshot. He's about 5'10", 5'11".)

So he looks me up and down and asks, "Are you a dancer or something?" (He has a Hispanic accent, less "street" and more like "recent immigrant".)

"No, no I'm not," I reply.

"Oh because you have the legs and the feet of dancer." (I was barefoot and wearing cropped sweats.)

Ok... I was getting slightly uncomfortable, but I was flattered and figured it was going to end with the compliment. But no. The guy bends down, and runs one hand over my left foot. I freak out a little, but I try to keep my cool, hoping he would leave. Then:

"Yes, looks just like a dancer's," he says to me.

I back up from the door and start closing it.

"Thanks, thank you."

"You know reflexology? You Chinese," he asks, trying to re-engage me.

"No, no. Korean. Ok, thanks," I said, dismissing him.

"Reflexology," he responds as though he doesn't hear me, "it's a type of Chinese massage."

This guy gets down on ONE KNEE, runs his hand over my left foot, then my right. He fingers a big toe before I take another step back and thank him once more, more insistently. He's still down on one knee, and it becomes the longest few seconds of my life.

"Reflexology is like... and you push... pressure points..."

I'm not really listening to him at this point because to my horror, he has picked up my foot by the heel. He starts to massage the ball of my foot, caressing it a little. I pull my foot back.

"No thank you. That's alright. Ok, no thanks." I don't know what to say; I'm blubbering ineffectual protests against this Latino delivery guy with a foot fetish. I decided to remain polite because who knows what will happen if I piss him off?

I give my foot another firm tug, and before he lets go, he lifts my foot a little further, bends his head over it, and KISSES the top of my foot.

I jerk my foot away this time, remain polite, thank him, and close the door as quickly as I can push it without slamming it in his face. I hear the elevator take him away, and that's when I breathe out.

There's a particular feeling associated with an unwanted, unsolicited touch. It's a sort of tingling feeling right in the touched spot. It crawls up your body, the way disgust only can, and makes you want to take a shower. The tingling turns into a throbbing sensation like a burn without the pain. And it's one of those physical reactions you'll remember forever.

I understand, on a microscopic level, how women might feel when sexually assaulted or abused. A woman is trapped, usually in terror, then in anger. Even in her righteous fury, she hesitates to report anything because what if her attacker knows her address? What if he is the vengeful type? What if she's followed? It is frightening to think of the possibilities.