I first met Erica, a 20 year old podophile, online, through a mutual friend. We chatted a bit before meeting in person and I was amazed at how much she told me, a virtual stranger, about herself. She is a 21 year old undergraduate who is in a long term relationship with another student and is a tall, well-dressed, and somewhat intellectual woman who has a huge range of interests and otherwise a fairly normal university lifestyle apart from the fact that she is a foot fetishist. When I told people I was interviewing a foot fetishist, I was astonished at how many people at least know, or know of, a foot fetishist. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised, since foot fetishism is one of the most common fetishes but it isn’t a huge part of mainstream dialogue about BDSM, despite foot-licking and toe sucking being in the 50 Shades of Grey novels and the fact that lots of famous people, including Elvis and Pharell, have openly admitted to having foot fetishes.  However, no one I spoke to would admit to being a foot fetishist and there were quite a few jokes about dirty old men, so I guess people aren’t so liberal about fetishes and BDSM as one tends to think they are.

Erica was almost the exact antithesis of a dirty old man. The only unusual aspect of Erica’s life is the fact that she is aroused by touching, smelling, and generally interacting with feet and feet-related things, like shoes and socks. Erica and her girlfriend often spend hours looking at shoes and Erica often enjoys giving Maddie (her girlfriend) foot massages. She also, like many of the stereotypes suggest, enjoys sweaty tennis shoes and used socks. She also told me about how she enjoys having her back massaged with feet instead of hands.

The fact that foot fetishism is considered so subversive does seem odd to me, especially since it has a long history in literature and doesn’t generally involve violence. After having explained that to her, Erica said that she still wanted to be anonymous (Erica is a pseudonym and some of the details in this piece have been altered so that she can remain unidentifiable) and I have to say, I really did wonder why.

Apparently even close friends do not know and she said she would never try to explain it to her parents. I ask if she would ever tell her friends and she says that she may one day but that she is currently still uncomfortable with the idea. I am interested in this fact because Erica is openly lesbian and has been since she was thirteen and so it seemed odd that she wouldn’t tell her friends about what she considers a fundamental aspect of her sexuality.

Next, I asked if she felt that coming out as a lesbian woman was comparable to coming out as a foot fetishist and she explained that it was because she was a lesbian woman that she was not open about her foot fetish.

According to Erica, both the LGBTQIA+ and the BDSM communities are extremely accepting of the other but because mainstream depictions of BDSM are so often heteronormative, she feels that the larger society of straight, vanilla people would absolutely not accept her. She felt that it was far easier to hide her foot fetishism than her sexuality so she doesn’t discuss it with anyone apart from her girlfriend. Basically, she said that being a foot fetishist and a lesbian means that people are twice as likely to discriminate against her, so it is possible that coming out as a foot fetishist and coming out as a lesbian are analogous but, in her case, they aren’t at all.

A lot of time has been spent attempting to understand the psychology of fetish with people like Freud weighing in on why people have fetishes. And, it is important to say that psychology has said that people who practise BDSM are not mentally ill.

But still, because I am not a psychoanalyser or even close to one, I really didn’t want to attempt trying to psychoanalyse Erica and I felt (and feel) that it would be entirely inappropriate and offensive to do so.

Erica feels that she works through some of her own personal past experiences through kink and since it helps her feel better, and be more confident it seems ridiculous to judge her.

Erica enjoys sex and the way she has sex does not hurt, bother, or annoy anyone else, so why should I, or anyone else, have any say in how she has sex?

In my opinion, this is a fairly mild kink but it is very interesting that it is so stigmatized by society

The first time I see Rasappan, he is about 20-30m up a palm. His agile limbs cling on to the rough trunk, as he perfectly keeps his balance with his feet so that his arms can hack at the nongu fruits and gather them in his arms – a sweat-inducing task in the sticky 40°C heat, but Rasappan looks unfazed. As he sucks the refreshing juices from the jelly-like flesh of some freshly picked nongu, Rasappan informs me that he has been in the palm-climbing profession for 37 years, having been taught the skill at the age of 14 by his father, who was also taught by his father.

In Tamil Nadu, the products that climbers can obtain from the trees are the ‘nongu’ fruits, its juices, and ‘kallu’ – a beverage formed from the palm sap that can be fermented into an alcoholic palm wine. However, in recent years the Tamil Nadu government has imposed a ban on the extraction of kallu, with detrimental consequences for the palm tree climbing communities. The extraction of kallu is a delicate task. The palm flowers are cut so that the palm sap leaks into a special kallu pot – a process known as ‘tapping’. The white liquid which is initially collected is a sweet, non-alcoholic beverage known often as ‘neera’ with many health qualities such as rehydration and strengthening of the immune system (so much so that it would help to cure chickenpox) and was thus even compared to mother’s milk.

Its prohibition is therefore a great shame for communities based around palm farms, as this drink used to be beneficial to all members of the community. Nevertheless, because of its potential to be fermented into a mild alcoholic palm wine (with around four per cent alcoholic content), the Tamil Nadu government has banned its extraction altogether.

The ban was not introduced, as one might expect, due to health concerns about readily available alcohol, but instead is solely economic. Since the Tamil Nadu government runs all of the legal liquor shops and sales in the state, the cheaper market of kallu was a threat to governmental income. As a result, the financial situation for palm tree climbers is ever worsening. The complete lack of consistent rainfall over the last 12 years had constituted the greatest threat to the climbers’ profession, but their problems have only worsened in the face of this new, unnatural obstacle.

Climbers like Rasappan were promised benefits in order to supplement the income lost since the ban of kallu production, but, rather unsurprisingly, this supplementation has failed to transpire and, as a result, palm tree climbers have had to turn to other means of making ends meet.

Sadly, other forms of farming, such as rearing cattle and bred with the skills that enabled them to excel in such a niche form of agriculture. There is little backing from other communities in the state to re-legalise controlled practices of tapping – seemingly unjust given that it is legal in other states, such as the neighbouring Kerala. Additionally, illicit production of other indigenous alcoholic drinks, such as ‘moonshine’, is said to occur in the absence of cheap kallu. These are often contaminated with dangerous substances such as methanol, which can have deadly health consequences.

It was saddening to leave Rettiapetti, the extremely remote village where I met Rasappan. With a population of about 40 people, it was only accessible via a two-hour motorbike venture from Madurai. Despite his relatively poor English, Rasappan was overwhelmingly enthusiastic, and talked to me about his profession with pride and incredible insight. Some local teenagers leapt at the chance to translate for me and even made me a delicious homemade masala served on, inevitably, a palm leaf.

The tradition of palm tree climbing in Indian culture, the health benefits of palm fruits and the welfare of local climbers such as Rasappan all mean that a redundancy of the profession would be a huge shame, and yet its decreasing earnings offer little hope for a revival of the profession.

It seems likely, then, that this tightly-knit community will be forced to find new ways to sustain itself, and palm tree climbing will exist only in stories from the past, of which Rasappan’s tale is only one.

Friday approaches, and I get out of here. I pack my rucksack, cramming in, amongst other things, a towel, a sheet, and a wine bottle filled with what a Sharpie labels as ‘Bex Mix’. I actually bother to lock my door, and turn my fairy-lights off. (My Anti-Everything housemate describes them as making it “look like you’re in an indie film”. Which apparently is the worst thing that could happen to anyone, ever.)

I say my farewells. I will be back within 24 hours, but leaving Oxford for any time at all is like slipping through a wardrobe into Narnia. And so later I find myself settled in London, at a house party. The sheet and bottle are emptied from my bag. A few Oxonians have joined me, and we nonchalantly toga up. My previously prepared mix seems to have begun to separate. But the first rule of Bex Mix is that one does not question. And so I sip on. The house is filled with Oxford graduates. The Merton stereotype, I learn, is not a new thing. I do very little to help this as the house welcomes more guests, and the air fills with the dust of illegality.

A stranger splutters as I reject his offerings, and demands why on earth not. Now I must begin my regular explanation. “I actually do this thing where I, like, want to see if I can never smoke a cigarette in my life. Or, um, do drugs.” Bemused faces surround me as I mutter about not wanting to prefer another reality/the classic family-cancer-tales. White sheets blur as the crowd stampedes away from crazy-girl-who-doesn’t-take-drugs-or- smoke. That is, apart from one. One sheet clad stranger.

He takes a long drag on his cigarette, and nods his head. “Fair enough.” Huh. As I meet the more inviting glare of this stranger’s eyes, I hear a cry. Great. I reluctantly break off the tension that I probably created in my delusional head anyway, and search for the source of the noise. Because, oh yes, I recognise the sound. Sure enough, dilated pupils of clumsy-Oxonian-friend look up at me from the bottom of the stairs. “I don’t think I can walk.”

I help her to bed to dream of the A&E trip that awaits us. When I return downstairs my friend has outrageously decided to begin cavorting with her boyfriend.

I guess there’s nothing left but to seek the eyes I left earlier. I look at the sea of sheets before me. This may take a while.

Somewhere online I came across an article that promised to tell me all about a super dirty sex act shunned by all of society, except the extremely kinky ones. Naturally, I was curious as hell. What could it be? Clit-whipping? Anal fisting? Something only the Urban Dictionary could come up with? The truth did indeed shock me, but not because of the depths of human depravity.

Instead, I was just dismayed at how anyone could think that having sex whilst on your period is in any way depraved. Yeah, it may not be the most glamorous thing in the world, but neither should it be a taboo. I won’t get into a feminist rant about how menstruation is not inherently disgusting. I’ll just say with a little bit of care and hygiene sex is still possible and enjoyable and thank the lord for spacious showers. The way I see it the problem lies not so much with practicalities, but with finding the right partner. You’re hoping for an awkward story here, right?

Well, I don’t like to disappoint. My first encounter with men and blood was indeed very awkward, and very unplanned. After a few tame meetings, one of the most beautiful men I’d ever known finally invited me over for dinner. I hoped that ‘dinner’ in this context meant lots of food and then lots of nudity, and he wholly met my expectations. However, I do not think that me suddenly leaving copious trails of redness on his white sheets was what he expected. At the time I was changing my contraception, and the new pill (trusting a condom alone? I’d rather die) temporarily unsettled my cycle. Bright side? He was not going down on me right then. Downside? Although he was perfectly understanding, I’m sure that a) those sheets had to be thrown away and b) in his head I’m forever the Period Girl.

After this sad little encounter, it’s no wonder I thought that attempting sex at ‘that time of the month’ was out of the question. Fortunately, another set of circumstances made me see the light.

I don’t know about anyone else but during my period I am constantly horny. Deeply, achingly horny. I mentioned this inconvenience once to a long-term lover of mine, and his solution was so heartbreakingly simple and perfect that I was astounded at never having thought of it before. “It’s only some blood. Why don’t we go for it?” And next time the occasion arose, go for it we did. And the next time. And the next. After a while it was a perfectly routine thing to do, and every month the good shower would be occupied and potentially a little bit noisy.

Suddenly my life was no longer regularly punctured by enforced celibacy. I still need a regular, trusted partner to make it work, but blood equals sadness no longer.