I was ten years old when I first realized that I found women's feet intriguing. I never understood the permanence of my condition until I turned thirteen. When I realized that I had a fetish I treated it like it was a disease. I tried retracting my fascination, but instead I became my own worst enemy.
I listened to years of disgusted remarks between my family, and my friends. They inadvertently tore me down with their revulsion's of fetishism. I was still undercover, and too disheartened to confess the truth. My paranoia was tremendous, so my shame stuck to me like super glue.
Cnyway besides the lack of sleep insomnia wasn't really so bad. In my pursuit of self-possession my compulsiveness steered me into a darker path. I denied my poisonous thoughts when I should have accepted them. I was fifteen when I came out of the shoe. I wasn't shunned, but congratulated.