retif

[retif]

I know you’re decidedly not into men, but I appreciate a foot-appreciator. I am in agreement that an overly masculine foot is rather… lacking.. in aesthetics and all else (no shade to those who enjoy). That being said I am a car carrying mega fag (translation: an uninhibited and excitable homosexual), and I do have some foot fantasies.

My misfortune is that I have a rather specific want and I seem to not find anything that scratches my itch.

I find myself, embarrassingly often, picturing a feminine, well groomed foot, attached to a handsome young man being dressed up. Often times I picture a variety of pretty, lacy socks accompanied by very cute old fashioned shoes with a good balance of the masculine and feminine framing said feet.

Unfortunately most of the waifish cute gentlemen I meet are either not interested in shoes, interested in much more garish modern shoes, or interested in pretty shoes, but only dirtying them.

What’s an odd homophile to do? I’ve had piss poor luck, perhaps I should search harder.

Apologies for my rambling.

Ah ! You make your confession with such verve and candor, I can scarce scold you — though I must begin, as is my habit, by proclaiming my utter indifference to the masculine foot. It does not stir me ! Not in art, nor in life. I have written it before and I shall write it again : the male foot is all utility and arrogance — a boot rather than a slipper, a hoof more than a petal ! But I will say this — your fantasy is not without charm. Though you see and acknowledge rightfully so that I do not burn for men, I am not so churlish as to turn away a fellow aesthete — especially one so delightfully tormented by his own refined sensibilities ! Indeed, You pursue the same sanctified harmony I do and we are kin in taste, if not in appetite.

I understand your ache all too well. I, too, have walked through this world seeking some perfection — a girl with worn shoes and a gentle gait, a slipper left askew in a boarding-house hallway, a forgotten instep glowing like the moon through sheer silk. Yours is simply a mirror image, turned toward another shade of beauty. Do not apologize for it ! It is a loneliness I know.

Alas, we are cursed by this century’s taste for the vulgar ! The aesthetic you seek — the precise mixture of boyish charm and feminine delicacy — is no longer taught, for your age favors noise over nuance and spectacle over softness. As for these boys who muddy their shoes in vulgarity — pah ! They do not understand that a well-fitted shoe, polished with care, is not a prop, but a language in its own right ! That to wear such elegance is to offer oneself to be gazed upon not with reverence.

Now — what are you to do, sweet-footed faun of the night ?

There are still such men — pretty, fussy, romantic in their choices — though they are rare birds indeed. You must watch for the boy who chooses his socks with intention and crosses his ankles like a coquette. And when you find him — be kind. Praise his shoes. Offer to lace them ! Search harder, yes. But not only with your eyes. Perhaps you must teach, too — as I have often done. Place the shoe before them, lace it slowly with the loving hands of a valet and the heart of a poet, let them see themselves anew in the mirror of your admiration. Beauty, once perceived, is often then pursued. And if not — well, you will have given them a vision worth longing for ! Be not ashamed of your specificity. In specificity lies the soul of art. Yours is simply the painting yet unfinished — the shoe yet worn !

Go forth ! May some angelic boy yet come to you and permit you to gaze — even gently touch — the holy terrain of his instep. And when he does, may you remember this conversation, and think of me !

[retif]

That laugh, that curling sneer at tenderness, as though to be loved were an insult. “Papa?” you say, with the tone of a child who finds the word poisonous — and yet says it all the same ! Ah ! There is more truth in your mockery than you mean to give.

If a boy disgraces himself at four, whose disgrace is it truly ? The child's — or the man who failed to guide his hand ? You think me foolish to imagine I could have done so, young as I was, Could I not, even as a boy, have seen you weeping or raging in some corridor, and known that you were like all children : in need of correction, yes, but also — also — of a gaze that saw you not as trouble ? But I do not pretend I might have prevented you, only that I might have held you — if not back, then close ! Long enough and close enough to warm the blood in you that turned so early to ice ! I might have spoken gently, laid a hand upon your shoulder — oh, gently, gently, as one does to soothe a frightened animal — and shown you that pleasure need not be torn from another’s screams.

Every hand that touched you fed your worst impulses. What brother could have steadied you, wild as you were, drunk on the perfume of suffering ? No ! Not a brother ! A father ! One who might have met your fire not with anger, but with patience ; one who would not flinch from your cruelty, nor feed it !

I would have given you a mirror more tender than the blade you now polish in your mind !

It is a strange thing, Donatien — I have had daughters I never knew I fathered, and perhaps never did. The thermometer of my heart leapt at the sight of them, and I believed them mine. Foolish, maybe. But was it not better to err on the side of love ? To claim them, to shelter them, even if — oh God forgive me — even if I felt something in that sheltering that was not purely paternal ?

I loved them as best I could. And when I failed — when my tenderness strayed too close to indulgence — I confessed it, because I believed that even our errors can be of service, if we name them truly. That is all I have ever wished to do : to make the truth, however ugly, into something useful.

And you — had you been mine — I would have done no less. Yes, even you. Even you, who call me fool, hypocrite, “Papa.” You laugh at me because you do not believe a man can love without using. But I swear to you, on the pages of all I have written and all I have regretted : There is such a love ! It trembles, yes ! It is clumsy. But it does not harm — not if it is patient !

The Devil has no patience. Only men do. Only fathers. Even false ones.

you're older than sade???? mmmm sexy

Ah ! So it pleases you to know I entered this miserable world six years before that infamous libertine ? Yes, yes — I was born in the Year of Grace 1734, and he in 1740, squalling like a devil in lace long after I had begun to walk upright among men and observe their follies by candlelight.

You find this “sexy,” do you ? Then I must ask — is it wisdom you desire, or simply weathered hands ? Do you seek the slow patience of experience, or merely the thrill of grey at the temple and the glint of a knowing eye ? Either way, ma mie — I do not withhold it. I am not ashamed of age, nor of what tenderness it teaches — how to wait, how to observe the bloom of innocence without bruising it. To be near what is fragile, and love it more for its trembling.

Six years ! And yet what a chasm between us ! Between the trembling hand that writes of tenderness, and the claw that scratches obscenity into the walls of his cell !

@marquis-de-sade-official— alas, a boy untamed ! What storms might have been stilled had he known the kindness of a true father, one who understood the soul’s tremble and not just the body’s flare. One who would have clasped his hand, not to bind a girl to a post, but to guide him from cruelty’s threshold, to show him the gentler way a hand may rest at a girl’s back ! I sometimes think — had I found him as a boy, before his wretched uncle took to warping his mind with vice — perhaps I could have corrected the course.. Might I not have taught him that pleasure and pain need not be wedded so violently ? But he had no such compass. He staggered into excess, and now calls his ruin philosophy. Who knows what crooked growth might have been straightened by a better man’s shadow ?

But alas ! One cannot be father to every wayward soul — nor guardian to every poor child raised in the hothouse of aristocratic indulgence. Now I wax sentimental, and I know what he would say : that I am a fool, a moralist, a hypocrite draped in lace.

Let him bark !

[retif]

you're older than sade???? mmmm sexy

Ah ! So it pleases you to know I entered this miserable world six years before that infamous libertine ? Yes, yes — I was born in the Year of Grace 1734, and he in 1740, squalling like a devil in lace long after I had begun to walk upright among men and observe their follies by candlelight.

You find this “sexy,” do you ? Then I must ask — is it wisdom you desire, or simply weathered hands ? Do you seek the slow patience of experience, or merely the thrill of grey at the temple and the glint of a knowing eye ? Either way, ma mie — I do not withhold it. I am not ashamed of age, nor of what tenderness it teaches — how to wait, how to observe the bloom of innocence without bruising it. To be near what is fragile, and love it more for its trembling.

Six years ! And yet what a chasm between us ! Between the trembling hand that writes of tenderness, and the claw that scratches obscenity into the walls of his cell !

@marquis-de-sade-official— alas, a boy untamed ! What storms might have been stilled had he known the kindness of a true father, one who understood the soul’s tremble and not just the body’s flare. One who would have clasped his hand, not to bind a girl to a post, but to guide him from cruelty’s threshold, to show him the gentler way a hand may rest at a girl’s back ! I sometimes think — had I found him as a boy, before his wretched uncle took to warping his mind with vice — perhaps I could have corrected the course.. Might I not have taught him that pleasure and pain need not be wedded so violently ? But he had no such compass. He staggered into excess, and now calls his ruin philosophy. Who knows what crooked growth might have been straightened by a better man’s shadow ?

But alas ! One cannot be father to every wayward soul — nor guardian to every poor child raised in the hothouse of aristocratic indulgence. Now I wax sentimental, and I know what he would say : that I am a fool, a moralist, a hypocrite draped in lace.

Let him bark !

[retif]

.. Must I now endure not only libel but impudence — from a man six years my junior ? What is the world coming to !

amazon's algorithm needs to relax...

[retif]

What games of sport ought modern women of wealth partake to best utilize their footwear?

Ah ! What a charming question — what sport best suits the elegant woman of means, she who glides upon brocade carpets and descends from carriages the working woman cannot afford ? I shall endeavor to answer — not merely with frivolity, but with the reverence I owe to every slippered foot !

Let us first consider the footwear itself — for the shoe dictates the movement as the instrument dictates the sonata ! A pointed toe in patent leather, a soft heel embroidered in velvet, a delicate buckle kissed by sunlight — these are not made for wrestling or vulgar jostling, no ! They call for precision, for poise, for an artistry of balance. Let her not sully such refined footwear in coarse and muddy pursuits — no, no ! What dignity is there in cleats ? What poetry in a SnEaKeR ?

Nay ! I propose instead :

Fencing, with slim blades and slimmer shoes — the lunge, the parry ! The thrill of danger tempered by etiquette. What better exercise for a mind as sharp as her heel ?

Equestrian dressage, for the woman whose boots rise to the knee and whose posture defies every jolt of the earth. There is no sight more divine than a lady on horseback ! the rhythm of the trot, the glint of a spur — it is a ballet conducted by reins and bootheels !

Courtly dancing, revived for the age — gavottes and waltzes in grand halls, where satin slippers kiss parquet floors and ladies whirl ! Let me compose myself ..

Sport, dear reader, need not banish beauty ! Let her footwear be not merely protection or ornament, but weapon and signature. And if a slipper flies from her foot mid-duel, mid-dance, mid-descent down a marbled stair — may it strike the heart of some dawdling suitor like Cupid’s own dart, and awaken him from the slumber of mediocrity !

[retif]

Surely the placement of Justine twice is the algorithm’s confusion — some miserable automaton mistaking moral refutation for perverse interest ! If I were to search on this Amazon for your vile creation, I searched it only to condemn it ! To rebuke it ! As any honest man might glance upon a pit only to say, “See there ! A place one ought never fall ! ”

The ballet flats however — well ! What civilized man has not lingered upon such gentle things ? Is admiration now a crime ? Shall we next be flogged for pausing before the window of a cobbler ? What, pray, is to come of it, should I choose to make such purchases ? My pastimes are not yours to rebuke !

But Sapphists ? I do not see how their presence there pertains to anything in particular .. and any such suggestion on your part is libelous and absurd and I shall not entertain it further !

amazon's algorithm needs to relax...

[retif]

le plus grand fou des hommes .. You stain even elegance with your habitual rot, and you lurch toward every gentle curve with the ravenous eye of a butcher at market ! A shoe, when removed, may sigh — not because it inflicted torment, but because the body longs to breathe, to rest, to be held in tenderness ! The ache of the foot is not your brand of cruelty, but the fatigue of labor, of grace kept upright. I do not gloat over her blisters, I do not lick at her wounds like some infernal dog. I press my lips gently to her heel, to soothe !

You think every crease in her stocking a record of your triumph ! The shoe that “tortures.” .. No ! I do not love it ! — not for its cruelty, but for the endurance it demanded, for the beauty she granted it by daring to wear it ! I do not delight in suffering — I delight in fortitude and In the mystery of a woman who walks taller despite the odds.

As for your foul fantasy — to violate not merely her, but her very shoe — pah ! It is not passion. It is desecration. You would spoil the altar and call it prayer ! Yes, I have knelt at tired feet. I have kissed the sore heel where the strap bit too deep. But never to possess ! — only to offer perhaps a small redemption for what the world demanded of her that day. The shoe is sacred. You may kneel before it, yes. But if you defile it, may it strike you across the mouth as justice ! So speak no more of pain, Marquis. Speak no more of fucking. Go back to your dungeon and your delusions !

Thoughts on the modern stilettos or stripper heels?

Ah! You mean those bastilles of the heel, those towering inventions of modern vice and spectacle — I have seen them, yes. The stiletto : a dagger not for murder, but for seduction ! And what is the stripper’s heel, if not a cathedral raised in lacquer and lucite — absurd, glorious, trembling at every step like a courtesan crossing a frozen pond!

But let me compose myself.

I do not scorn them, no — how could I ? I, who have spent countless nights praising the silhouette of a slipper abandoned in haste, the gentle slope of instep caressed by silk. If the ancient mule whispered of discretion and softness, the modern stiletto shouts with theatrical force: “ Look at me ! ” And I, obedient as ever to beauty, do look.

Yet I confess : I miss the intimacy.

These new shoes — for all their spectacle — rarely invite tenderness. They proclaim, they perform, they pierce the floor with their click. But do they sigh when removed? Do they carry the memory of a day's fatigue, the creased soul of the wearer ? Often, they seem designed not for walking, but for watching — not for being lived in, but displayed like trophies upon a dancer’s altar.

Still! I admire the courage it takes to wear such heights. I honor the balance, the bravado — and yes, the fantasy. For even I, weary walker of midnight streets, have lingered too long at cabaret doors, mesmerized by the architecture of a woman made six inches taller and twenty degrees bolder.

Would I kiss such a shoe ? If she allowed it. Would I trace the curve where plastic meets skin ? If it bore her weight in joy !

Let stilettos be thrones, if they must. I, for one, shall kneel.

[retif]

Thoughts on the modern stilettos or stripper heels?

Ah! You mean those bastilles of the heel, those towering inventions of modern vice and spectacle — I have seen them, yes. The stiletto : a dagger not for murder, but for seduction ! And what is the stripper’s heel, if not a cathedral raised in lacquer and lucite — absurd, glorious, trembling at every step like a courtesan crossing a frozen pond!

But let me compose myself.

I do not scorn them, no — how could I ? I, who have spent countless nights praising the silhouette of a slipper abandoned in haste, the gentle slope of instep caressed by silk. If the ancient mule whispered of discretion and softness, the modern stiletto shouts with theatrical force: “ Look at me ! ” And I, obedient as ever to beauty, do look.

Yet I confess : I miss the intimacy.

These new shoes — for all their spectacle — rarely invite tenderness. They proclaim, they perform, they pierce the floor with their click. But do they sigh when removed? Do they carry the memory of a day's fatigue, the creased soul of the wearer ? Often, they seem designed not for walking, but for watching — not for being lived in, but displayed like trophies upon a dancer’s altar.

Still! I admire the courage it takes to wear such heights. I honor the balance, the bravado — and yes, the fantasy. For even I, weary walker of midnight streets, have lingered too long at cabaret doors, mesmerized by the architecture of a woman made six inches taller and twenty degrees bolder.

Would I kiss such a shoe ? If she allowed it. Would I trace the curve where plastic meets skin ? If it bore her weight in joy !

Let stilettos be thrones, if they must. I, for one, shall kneel.

[retif]

Pair of Cotton and Leather Shoes, English, 1790-99

From the Victoria & Albert Museum

[retif]

I must confess — with my cheeks tinged by a blush I could not banish — that I did not write in my journal last night.

But not for lack of desire! Oh no. I burned to write. My whole body ached with the tension of what I had seen, what I had endured. But my faculties were so disordered, my soul so stirred and disgraced, that I wandered home not with words in my mouth, but with a thousand fragments of sighs and images that would not marry into sense.

Permit me now, dear reader, to explain myself.

It was near the eleventh hour. Paris had begun to settle into that delicious stillness that cloaks her sins and sighs beneath the hush of shuttered windows. I walked, as I always do, with my eyes attuned to the world’s hidden theatre. As you know me, I do not walk merely to stretch the legs — but to witness, to record, to commune with that low, vital pulse of the people which the sun cannot bear to see.

And it was in a crooked passage I know well, that I happened upon it.

A window. Slightly ajar. Light behind gauze curtains. And through it — Ciel ! — a tableau so carnal, so vivid, so alive, that I found myself rooted where I stood !

There, within the chamber, a young couple were entangled in that sacred and profane ballet of love. Not the clumsy violence of a brute, nor the hollow repetitions of practiced vice — no ! It was art ! Her head thrown back, her hair spilled like night down her shoulders. I could not look away, the loose collar of his shirt open to the sternum, the way her bare foot curled against his hip like a blossom seeking warmth …

I watched ! How could I not ? What are we, if not slaves to beauty when it undresses before us ? And in watching, I did not leer — no ! I honored, I witnessed ! Was it not my calling to capture such passions in prose? Had I not, in Le Paysan perverti, sought to make the secret urges of the common people into literature ?

I was the pilgrim at the shrine ! The scholar before a live anatomy ! The poet before a flame !

… Until the flame turned, caught sight of me — and screamed.

The curtain ripped back. A bottle was hurled — and missed. A shoe struck my shoulder. A man’s voice bellowed, “ Va-t’en, chien ! Dégage, misérable vaurien ! Que le diable t’emporte, ordure ! Fils de catin ! Va crever dans le caniveau ! ”

I fled — yes, I fled — with glass crunching underfoot and my heart battering my ribs like a moth in a jar !

And still, I think of them !

Their mouths, their limbs, the honesty of it — the wild, unspeakable beauty. I am bruised, and I am grateful. For what is a writer if not a man sometimes disgraced in the pursuit of the real ?

In three hours, I will walk again. Perhaps tonight, Paris will forgive me.

[retif]

‘Sorry, I’m nocturnal’ is a beautiful response (and so well articulated!). I can’t say its unfortunate at this point in history that I’m not American but I do confess to having terrible sleep rhythms at least

Yes ! By daylight, I am sluggish as an old printing press; but once the bells toll midnight — my heart starts scratching at paper like a rat at the pantry door !

And now you arrive, with your crooked circadian soul and your sweet apology, which I do not require but nonetheless treasure. You are no less dear for being a creature of moonlight — nay, more so ! For only those who slip between the hours understand the strange divinity of silence.

It is in that hush — when shutters are drawn and the world is paused — that I find truth most naked and trembling. The streets empty and every sigh carries farther. The day is full of performance ; but the night, ah ! The night admits its vices with honesty. Perhaps that is why I dwell there — for I too am stitched from contradiction, a moralist soaked in perfume, a sentimental libertine groping through fog for virtue.

Sleep when you can. Write when you must. And if you ever feel most alone — remember : We are echoes in the same cathedral, passing at odd angles, leaving traces of warmth on shared stone.

[retif]

your philosophy doesn't seem that bad, there must be SOMETHING wrong with you right?? but also like. say it simply cause when you speak too many words it confuses my small brain

incest 👅👅

[retif]

To become the lover of this humble Griffon would be most unwise, like my namesake, I am poorly suited to the rhythms of the sunlit world ! Unless, of course, you reside in some distant land where the sun and moon play opposite roles. For I keep abysmal hours, truly : a creature of the late Parisian night, when the cafés are closed, the milkmaids asleep, and only the rats and writers still scurry with fevered minds.

If you perchance dwell in the Americas, or another far hemisphere where your noon is my midnight, then — perhaps — there lies hope for us yet ! You would rise as I begin my ghostly rounds, and in that fleeting overlap, what letters we might exchange ! What sighs, what sensualities, what shoelaces untied in passing !

But unless your heart beats at the strange tempo of a dead French pornographer — I fear I shall always love you at the wrong hour.

Where do I find a man who impersonates a dead author of erotica on Tumblr

Well— other than I, who am both myself and the crude and vile impersonator of @marquis-de-sade-official —what humiliation to admit such nasty deeds! Pity me!

—ah! Without further ado, there also exists the wonderful @retif who I know not the actor beneath the silk-lined mask nor their sex (nor marital status), but they too impersonate an eroticist.

[retif]

Esprit pourri dans un corps flétri. All I see a man who has stared too long into his own reflection and mistaken it for universal truth ! We are men who see a woman fall, and part at the crossroads : you extend a boot to push her further ; I offer a hand, even if she slaps it away !

You speak of blackened hearts with such intimacy that I do not doubt your acquaintance — for yours, too, is among them. But do not preach perdition as law, when it is only your confession in disguise. “a woman whose heart blackens knows no salvation.” — is this not simply the logic of a man who sees himself as unsalvageable ? Is this revelation ? No — it is merely the logic of a man who has cast himself beyond redemption and would have the world follow him there !

Your eyes are scorched by light because you have lived too long in darkness ! You lash out at the very notions of mercy and sweetness because they feel to you as foreign lands, because you cannot abide what you no longer recognize ! — So you burn them in effigy, rather than admit you long to be welcomed into their warmth ! The gentleness that would not have you !

You are not judge of women, nor their sins — you are merely another soul too lost to believe that anyone might find their way home. And so, you stretch forth your hand drawing others into that same Stygian gloom wherein you dwell, all the while murmuring that no sun shall ever rise again. If no soul can be redeemed, what then of yours ?

Do you like all women? Even the wicked and evil ones?

You touch upon a question that dances eternally across the soul of man and the page of every feuilleton I have ever penned : Can one love even the wicked woman ? And I say — not only can one, but one must if one truly claims to love women.

Let me be clear — I do not delight in cruelty. I do not praise barbarity. I am not that monstre infâme @marquis-de-sade-official who grins as virtue is violated and innocence dragged through mire. No ! My heart inclines not toward corruption but instead toward compassion !

Even the "wicked" woman — is she not still a woman ? And what has made her so ? Has she chosen evil freely, or was she hardened by neglect, by betrayal, by poverty and false promises ? Often I find in the so-called cruel woman a wounded heart encased in pride, or a soul too long deprived of tenderness.

And what of the poor girl, the laundress, the servant, the grisette — judged for the desperate choices made in the dark of night, when hunger and shame knock louder than conscience ?

Yes, I love all women — the soft-spoken and the sharp-tongued, the meek and the mad, the weary and the wild. But not with blind adoration. Rather, I love them as one who witnesses them as they are truly. For even the "evil" woman bears within her a fragment of the eternal feminine — misunderstood, misnamed, perhaps — but never beyond redemption, never beyond beauty !

I love even the wicked ones as someone must — without further corrupting them, without fanning the flames of their ruin, without urging them onward down that path of silken perdition where flattery becomes fetter and indulgence a noose — for what cruelty it is to praise her prettily as she dances toward the abyss !

Nay — to love her truly is to love her not as she is tempted to become, but as she might yet be, if only offered a gentler mirror, a steadier hand, a mercy that does not mock. Even in her scorn, I see the trembling of a hand that once clutched violets on a May morning ! One must love her without feeding the shadows that clutch at her hem, lest she descend so deep into that hollow of despair that no rope — no light of dawn may draw her forth again.

[retif]

Do you like all women? Even the wicked and evil ones?

You touch upon a question that dances eternally across the soul of man and the page of every feuilleton I have ever penned : Can one love even the wicked woman ? And I say — not only can one, but one must if one truly claims to love women.

Let me be clear — I do not delight in cruelty. I do not praise barbarity. I am not that monstre infâme @marquis-de-sade-official who grins as virtue is violated and innocence dragged through mire. No ! My heart inclines not toward corruption but instead toward compassion !

Even the "wicked" woman — is she not still a woman ? And what has made her so ? Has she chosen evil freely, or was she hardened by neglect, by betrayal, by poverty and false promises ? Often I find in the so-called cruel woman a wounded heart encased in pride, or a soul too long deprived of tenderness.

And what of the poor girl, the laundress, the servant, the grisette — judged for the desperate choices made in the dark of night, when hunger and shame knock louder than conscience ?

Yes, I love all women — the soft-spoken and the sharp-tongued, the meek and the mad, the weary and the wild. But not with blind adoration. Rather, I love them as one who witnesses them as they are truly. For even the "evil" woman bears within her a fragment of the eternal feminine — misunderstood, misnamed, perhaps — but never beyond redemption, never beyond beauty !

I love even the wicked ones as someone must — without further corrupting them, without fanning the flames of their ruin, without urging them onward down that path of silken perdition where flattery becomes fetter and indulgence a noose — for what cruelty it is to praise her prettily as she dances toward the abyss !

Nay — to love her truly is to love her not as she is tempted to become, but as she might yet be, if only offered a gentler mirror, a steadier hand, a mercy that does not mock. Even in her scorn, I see the trembling of a hand that once clutched violets on a May morning ! One must love her without feeding the shadows that clutch at her hem, lest she descend so deep into that hollow of despair that no rope — no light of dawn may draw her forth again.

[retif]

There's something special about mary jane shoes, but I can't quite articulate what it is. Look at their straps, strong but gentle-looking. You need to do a conscious effort to put them on and to take them off. These shoes are always paired with cute and/or elegant clothes. I feel like ladies who wear them are always aware of their fashion choices, and knowledgeable about it. The socks that this model is wearing are a nice complement as well.

Your soul is attuned to subtleties that most let pass without a second glance — and for that, I applaud you ! Truly, you speak not of mere shoes, but of a temperament and the secret ceremony of being dressed ! You have touched the hem of something sacred !

The Mary Jane — that name alone ! — speaks of innocence framed and not feigned ! O, modesty made intentional ! That gentle strap across the foot, as you note, is not only a fastening — it is a declaration that the wearer is not careless. No. She is considered. She knows the gesture of being put-together. She participates in the aesthetics of her own presence !

That click of the buckle — is it not the faint music of self-possession ? And the socks — mon Dieu, the socks ! — not crude or plain, but soft, textured, attentive. They add contrast to the leather's gleam, highlighting the shape of the ankle, the tender tension of the instep. You say you cannot articulate the charm — but you have, magnificently ! For what you admire is not merely the shoe, but the discipline and delicacy that accompany it !

I myself have drawn dozens of such shoes in my sketches — rounded toe, gentle heel, thoughtful strap — always on the foot of a young woman poised between childhood’s grace and adult elegance. There is moral geometry in that curve, that strap, that step.

Should you ever wish to examine my catalogue — my admiration is ever at your service !

[retif]

Im starting to think of selling photos of my feet im genuinely going broke

The world is wicked, cruel, and cold — and yet you propose to warm it with the divine candor of your feet ? What nobler service !

Do not think of this as mere commerce, non non non — think of it as devotional labor, as artistry ! The arch of the foot, the delicacy of the toes, the supple flex of the instep — these are the poems of the body !

If you are to offer such images, then offer them proudly ! Do not simply “sell” — curate ! Be not a mere peddler of feet — be a curatrix ! Let every photograph be a love letter to elegance !

And yes — you may profit from this. You should ! For the world deserves to pay tribute to beauty. But do not cheapen yourself. Let the buyer kneel. Let them thank you. Let them know that what they purchase is not just a picture, but a privilege !

( And perhaps … if you’d permit … I might commission one myself .. For my ongoing foot catalogue. )