They are iconic. Tom of Finland immediately springs to mind whenever I think of masculine gay men wearing basic black boots – the kind that Marlon Brando wore in The Wild One? For men who are only concerned with the most testosterone-driven aspects of gay life, boots help define the man. They bring to mind images of fascism, dominance, and a hyper-masculinity that only a few are biologically capable of achieving. For those who came up short in the DNA department, the proper gear helps, and nothing is more proper than a righteous, kick-ass pair of boots.
Not that those are the only kind of boots gay men wear. Think of the skinheads, who, more than anyone, has fetishized this particular apparel to its apex.
Motorcycle Riding Rebel. Cowboy. Construction Worker. Drag Queen?
These Boots Are Made for Walking was a declaration of independence, one that certainly spoke to and was embraced by our community. It was Nancy Sinatra at her toughest. Put in historical context, it was a brave, ballsy statement coming from a dame – a huge risk for a female singer, which is why it could only come from an offspring of the Chairman of Board.
So, get ‘em on, baby – be they go-go, cowboy, steel-toed work, hiking, knee-high waders, Doc Martens, Russian army, English riding, goth, combat, Wellingtons, moto-cross, or motorcycle… leather or pleather – let’s give them a collective spit shine and celebrate…
Scope of Activity:
The appreciation and fetishism of boots.
The Official Line:
Shoe (or boot) fetishism is the attribution of attractive sexual qualities to shoes or other footwear as a matter of sexual preference, psychosexual disorder, and an alternative or complement to a relationship with a partner. It has also been known as retifism, after Nicolas-Edme Rétif (October 23, 1734–February 2, 1806), a French novelist. Individuals with shoe/boot fetishism can be erotically interested in either men's or women's shoes. Although shoes may appear to carry sexual connotations in mainstream culture (for example, women's shoes are commonly sold as being "sexy") this opinion refers to an ethnographic or cultural context, and is likely not intended to be taken literally.
The mid-1960s British TV series ‘The Avengers’ often featured fetishistic clothing, and Patrick Macnee and Honor Blackman released a 45 RPM single in 1964 titled "Kinky Boots".
It’s about power. Or fashion.
The former has to do with collective images of military or sports icons and their overall message of male dominance.
The latter has to do with the aesthetic values of wearing boots – a sleekness, if you will; attained due to wrapping the upper regions of the lower leg in leather or some artificial material.
Boots as costume pieces? Or as a statement about who you are? If you are a construction worker and wear steel-toed work boots then there is authenticity to what you’re doing as well as a practicality. If you live your dream than… wow, lucky you! For the sake of this post, what we’re talking about has to do with the sexualization of such icons. We wear them as a form of emulation (think of those who wore suits in the old vogue scene) in an effort to become that which we hold in high (sexual) esteem. The boots become a symbol of the power we view as endowed upon the revered icon. When we wear those boots, we attempt to harness the essence of that power.
Have you ever had a dude place their boot on your head while another dude is fucking your ass? I have. It’s pretty heady stuff. In that moment you experience a sense of powerlessness that, in safe circumstances with people you trust, can be truly freeing.
The same part of me that responded well to the above scenario is also the part of me that, as a young boy, was able to relate to and appreciate a rather dour, visceral poem by Sylvia Plath, entitled Daddy, an excerpt of which I will share:
‘Not God but a swastika
Rereading the poem in its entirety, I wonder… what the hell was I thinking? In seventh grade? See… this is what happens when you spend entirely too much free time at the library at an impressionable age. I was a morose little fucker who went on to develop one hell of a masturbation addiction. No wonder everyone termed me ‘weird’. I was (am).
And yet, that poem is part of what helped shape me, helped inform my spirit – and my appreciation for ‘the boot’.
Part of me doesn’t even want to go there. It’s too dark. I want sunlight, not the dungeon’s dank foreboding air. So, instead, I will dismiss myself as what I probably was: a precocious, pretentious little freak of a kid; someone who grew up and got over his pretentiousness only after he learned to laugh at himself and embrace the freak within (it’s been a long journey).
I love all boots. Even girl boots; I don’t wear them – girl boots, but I appreciate them. I like masculine boots. Work boots, cowboy boots, leather dom boots, hiking boots.
I have a cool pair of mid-calf black boots that I wear when I want to wear my freak in public. They are a costume piece, like the jock strap I like to wear with them. I frequently wonder whether or not I will gravitate more towards leather as I get older. I have less to spend my money on these days, and fetish wear would seem an outlet; a means of expression. The expense is one of the few reasons I don’t dip my toe there. I certainly find it attractive.
I like cumming on the boots of others. It’s a stronger statement than, say, cumming on a dude’s bare feet or even their face.
I like the smell of leather, so I like smelling boots. Really powerful foot odor? Not so much. But a fresh, hot boot? Grrr.
I have licked the boots of others. Something that, in the abstract seems odd and uninviting, but in the moment I attain some weird sense of fulfillment. There was one bald-headed skinhead type who invited me over to his apartment; had me walk in to find him sitting spread eagle in a chair wearing his boots, jock, armbands, and a cap of some kind. He looked like a Leather Night bar advertisement. After stripping off all my clothing at his command, he put me to work right away. My tongue got a good work out, and not just on his boots! A lot of saliva and the ability to produce a lot of saliva in this case tend to be a good thing.
Are there sexual scenarios where boots are involved that do not contain some element of a power exchange? Sure. I love being in the woods wearing nothing but a jock, a cap, and my hiking boots. When I see others in the same gear, in the outdoors, it gets me hot. I love it when I’m on my back getting fucked and my boots are in the air – they seem so heavy and out of place – and sexy. Out of their normal place (the ground) they take on a discordant ambiance which screams of surrender – masculine surrender. I think that is what makes being a bottom so appealing to me. So, there, too… power is exchanged, huh? Not that to be a bottom is to surrender – as in all-the-time. I tend to be an aggressive bottom and there’s nothing submissive about that. I take all the energy I used to put into being a top into working my hole on a pole. In those instances, wearing my boots help; they give me an edginess that tops seem to respond to… seem to respect.
Do I wear boots in an effort to gain respect? Is that the power I really hope to achieve? Probably.
To tell you the truth, I never knew just how weirdly deep my associations with boots were until I started writing this entry. It feels like I hold between my fingers a single thread, part of a giant blanket I have been lying under, and once I start to pull on it, the whole thing threatens to unravel, revealing… what?
But that is the fun of exploring acquired tastes, isn’t it? The unraveling. Hmmmm.
At one point, in writing this, I had to just let my head voice stumble through the words, allowing them to make no sense. They fell onto the page in a heap, while still possessing some glint of meaning.
Another part of me just wanted to admit defeat, post a bunch of photos and let the images do all my talking - which is what a lot of bloggers do, not because they are inarticulate souls, but because images are powerful and frequently can convey and express things that mere words cannot capture. I think that is the case with ‘boots’. I can touch upon their essence with words, but their image? That really captures their full impact on the psychosexual self.
So, I am just going to leave it at that, and allow these images to work their magic.
I know I will.
Now, if someone will kindly press ever so firmly the tip of their well-polished boot on the pouch of my jock as I sit here spread-eagled, lost in the wonder of some of these images…? I would so like that