This little piggy went to the market, this little piggy stayed home…

So as usual I have been trying to find ways to make more money. Frustrated and broke, I scour Craigslist for more jobs, usually as the baby I nanny yanks my hair and smears snot on my shirt. Typically I would scroll right past the ads titled “Girls, Girls, Girls!”, but curiosity and desperation is a dangerous combination. I click on the ad and discover that I could make $800 a night working at an up scale foot fetish club in Midtown. The ad is vague as to what is actually required. I mean, if I just have to make small talk with business men while prancing round in strappy sandals, then yeah I’m in, but letting some middle aged man with a pop belly and reseeding hairline put my toe in his mouth is a different story. I’d be willing to touch my own feet while they watch (I don’t know if that’s a thing, but I could handle that). So I go back and forth like this in my head. questioning how far I’d be willing to go, and ultimately decide hey what the hell, and I send in my picture. I figure if I actually go through with the job it could make a good Performance Studies essay. It could be my attempt at a Sophie Calle style (whenever I’m considering doing anything scandalous, I use the “Sophie Calle” justification). I didn’t hear back from them. They were probably more interested in bubbly, leggy, blonds in spandex dresses, than in angry, 4’11” lesbian, brunettes in Dr. Martins, so I didn’t stand much of a chance.  In reality, I’m sure my feet are too flat and ticklish for me to make it big in the foot fetish world. But hey, a girl can dream.   




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