True Story: I Let A Guy Lick My Boots for 20 Minutes to Pay Rent

He had a stiffy.

“I’m a magnet for money and opportunity” I’d tell myself every time my card got declined. 

I’d just been fired from my pub job – my boss may or may not have overheard me referring to him as the Antichrist – and, for two months, I’d been struggling to get something else going. I thought I’d just find another job, but Melbourne really said “yeah nah bitch” with a drought of roles. No one was hiring. 


But ask and thou shalt receive? 

I’d crafted countless cover letters, read ‘Think and Grow Rich’ and was trying to make an extra buck or two on Facebook Marketplace. One day, I listed my old Dr Martens boots for sale.


The boots.

These used to be my work boots, still stained with beer and wine. I loved everything about working at that pub, except for the publican. Shifts with him were about as much fun as a sandpaper dildo. 

Soon after putting them up, I received an offer.

“Hey!! This might sound a little strange but if I paid you $50 on the spot would you be down  to meetup at like a park or something and let me lick the soles of the boots? Totally weird asf I know. I’ll pay :)”  

I assumed this proposition was a jest and replied with “Cuzzy, you need Jesus”. 

“Probably do hey HAHA” he replied and admitted he had a shoe fetish.

He was friendly. Funny. Able to take the piss. 

lick boot

dead serious. 100% serious.

I told him I needed the money and upped the price to a grand. He offered $200 for 20 minutes, enough to almost cover a week’s rent, and we had a deal. 

He wanted to meet at Phillips Reserve in Melbourne’s inner north, his favourite place for this type of transaction. 


These boots are made for… lickin’? Don’t laugh. Do not laugh.  

When I arrived at the park, relieved that it was a grey day (fewer people to witness this spectacle), I wondered who else’s boots he’d licked here. Were any of them in survival mode too? Just trying to pay rent? Panting, sweating, jogging to catch up to their mates all flaunting promotions, six-figure salaries and engagements? How had I fallen so far behind? How had I ended up here? I used to have dreams, man, and now what, I’m getting fired from a pub? Having my shoes licked for cash? Humbling.  

We met in a spot secluded by trees. “Do you want me to sit?” I asked, voice shaking as if we were meeting for a first Hinge date. He nodded with a comforting smile. He didn’t look much older than me, late 20s or early 30s. He was well-manicured, with slick hair, an ironed shirt, matching socks and a flashy watch. He wouldn’t get fired from a pub. He wouldn’t work in a pub. Surely, he was getting paid the big bucks if he had $200 to spare for this. 

He had an erection. Do I pretend not to notice? Did he want me to notice? 

“I know, it’s um… bizarre,” he said. 

“It’s okay” I replied, grinning. 

I’m not here to kink shame anyone, who am I to judge? But he’s right, it is bizarre, us sitting in a park. Me, holding my leg up, him licking the sole of my boot as if it were the Messina flavour of the week.  


I set a timer and watched the clouds, the trees, the birds, anything but him.  

I didn’t feel objectified or really that uncomfortable either. I mean I knew I was there for a reason. He could have just bought the shoes and licked them to his heart’s content at  home, but he liked being watched, witnessed, I think. I dunno, I honestly just felt like I was  the microphone for the singer. The battery in the vibrator. The remote for the TV. Necessary and helpful but not the focus. 

When the timer went off, he was a little dazed, awkwardly passing me the cash. As soon as he was out of my sight, I exploded with laughter. Cackling and chortling and crying, the works. What a surreal, absurd moment I’d been blessed with, a pearler of an anecdote I wouldn’t have gained had I not been at my lowest, my most desperate.  

I hadn’t realised how on edge I’d been the last few months, frazzled about money, about life. And then I saw his stiffy. In broad daylight. From a pair of shoes. And it all just disappeared. I was fucking free. We’re all blips on a rock, living ludicrous lives. I’d figure it out. 

I’m a magnet for money and opportunity, after all.

Izzy Parker is a writer based in Melbourne. Follow Izzy on Instagram.