Suits & Feet.

Screenshot from a handsome Instagrammer who describes himself in his profile as a "Footwear enthusiast." But he isn't gay, of course.

As I wrote this little essay about foot fetishism, I began to wonder whether all fetish play is about the appeal of the taboo. If a heteropatriarchal society tells us that only heterosexual, procreative sex is acceptable, then it follows that anything outside of that tidy little picket fence is “the wild,” the strange, the dangerous. The heteropatriarchal perspective on sex is the default in U. S. culture: we need only look to the wave of anti-lgbtq+ bills across the U. S. that attempt to erase us from school curricula, that attempt to bar trans people from participating in sports, that attempt to characterize us as “groomers.” The groomer narrative presupposes that anything outside of heterosexual, procreative sex is deviant and wrong. According to this oppressive point of view, erotic worship of a part of the body is also taboo—especially erotic worship of the male body, which is never supposed to be the object of erotic attention at all, and is only supposed to be the actor or doer in a heterosexual intercourse.

Or, more simply, we’re supposed to think guys’ bodies are unsexy and gross, and being turned on by guys’ body parts is also supposed to be unsexy and gross and creepy, because Republicans said so. (But they’re not homophobic, of course.)

This is all a preamble, then, to thinking about one particular turn-on: the image of a guy’s feet framed by his suit and tie. It’s that juxtaposition between the high formality and structure of the suit, obscuring and emphasizing the guy’s body, and the bare, humble vulnerability of his feet. Or, as is often the case, the suited dom is the one who is barefoot, and, bare heels propped on his mahogany desk, he urges his underling to worship his soles.

There are also some other ways to explore foot fetishism with suits: dress socks and sheer socks, the phallic extravagance of dress shoes, the lavish ritual of shoe polish, accessories like sock garters and shirt stays that accentuate the shape of the calf. All of these accessories act as erotic coverings for the foot, draw attention to the shape of the foot in particular ways. Sheer dress socks act as a commentary on the thinness, silkiness, and transparency of ordinary business hosiery already, exaggerating that luxury to an effeminate, seductive, seethrough garment that recalls women’s hosiery, contrasting and subverting the stark masculinity of the suit. Or non-sheer dress socks themselves, as a visible undergarment peeking between the trouser cuff and the lip of the gleaming dress shoe, either dark and conservative or brightly colored, highlighting the shape of the foot by a smooth silhouette. Or the dress shoe, mirror-polished, with a long, phallic toe either cinched by laces or buckled by monkstraps, encasing the foot in an armor of unassailable luxury, tantalizing with a glimpse of the guy’s foot underneath. Loafers, too, have this same appeal, as a shell of gleaming leather that cups the guy’s foot, yet reveals more of the top of his foot, or, with a flex of the toes, just barely tipping off his arch, offering a glimpse of that gap where a finger—or a tongue—could so longingly explore. I view all of these reiterations as a version of foot fetishism.

Many articles about podophilia (not pedophilia) begin with a vague, uncited statistic about how the feet are one of the most often-eroticized parts of the body. They are second only to genitals, apparently. Yet, as with most kinks, foot fetishism, despite its broad appeal, exudes a whiff of the taboo. We’re not supposed to worship parts of the body, after all. Sex is supposed to be vanilla and procreative, or so the heteropatriarchal “groomer” narrative goes.

Connected with this fetishism is the fashion statement of wearing shoes sockless with a suit and tie. This trend crested sometime between 2011 and 2013, evidenced by highbrow fashion blogs that posted “rules” about when a fellow could show his ankles beneath the cuffs of his suit. Even at the height of the sockless-with-suit look, menswear purists complained about the violation of dress codes, as well as the sight of a guy’s ankles. (Many such straight fuddy-duddies would have no qualms about seeing a woman’s ankles supported by heels or revealed by sandals, of course. See “guys’ bodies are gross and unsexy” above.)

In this decade, in a post-pandemic world, “rules” and “dress codes” seem quaint and antique. A recent kerfuffle at the Royal Ascot suggests that the pendulum of socklessness has begun to swing the other way: socks are now required at the event, lest one afflict an I'm-not-a-homophobe onlooker with “snow blindness from milky-white mankles.” The phrasing suggests the same kind of heteromasculine revulsion: women’s bodies are desirable, therefore mens’ bodies are hideous and must be covered, and there are of course no men who are attracted to men’s bodies, and everybody is cis and straight and we don’t talk about other people because those people don’t exist. They’re “groomers,” after all, and we must protect the children. Cover up those ankles, hussy.

In my mind, both the fascination with foregoing socks and the heteronormative revulsion at guys’ feet point to the same fundamental eroticism. Men’s feet are sexy. Both those who sport the sockless look and those who sneer at it seem aware of this fact. It is only the straight guy who regards his own feet as ugly, after all, but to the rest of us they are a tantalizing sight, and all the more jarring when juxtaposed against the formality of the suit.

We are still Victorian in our sensibilities, ogling over ankles and sneering about dress codes. It’s a shame, really. Such 19th-century snobbery suggests that the liberating promises of the Civil Rights era were strangled (aborted, perhaps?) by Reagan-era neoliberal mores that continue to crush social progress to this day, and that all the gestures of “body positivity” on social media are merely performative, skin-deep. But by the same token, I’ll be first to admit that I’ll thirst over a well-turned ankle just as much as my mustache-twirling forebears. There is always that tension between a fetishism for outmoded dress—sock garters, anyone?—and the acknowledgement that the era represented by that mode of dress would have prosecuted and oppressed me and others like me.

Perhaps we’re going back to that era, given the political state of things. I hope not. The end of Roe v. Wade poses an existential threat to LGBTQ+ rights in the U. S., after all. But I’m going to try to set that anxiety aside for now.

Screenshot from a now-defunct Instagram account. The original caption read, "Tried on my tux. Got tired."

In the southeastern U. S., guys have worn suits and ties with loafers sans socks for years. Traditionalist style blogs see the sockless look as a southern offshoot of “ivy” style. It was nice too see the world catch up with us southerners, for a time. I think, having watched menswear rise, peak, and fall over the past decade and a half, I find myself drawn to any trend that upsets the gatekeepers. Such snobs often reveal themselves either to be homophobes, or the accessory to homophobes. And, frankly, I delight in pissing those people off. The flash of bare ankle, or the glimpse of socked ankle, or the choice of hosiery, or the choice of shoe, or the gleaming polish of the leather. All of these layer together to direct as much erotic attention as possible to the feet, inviting the imagination downward, prostrate, devout in a worship of the forbidden.