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Agony of de Feet

Reliving the innocence of youthful flirtation, scenesters take up Footsie.

by B.D. | 2005.06.01

The resurrection of childhood pastimes as quasi-ironic foils for encroaching middle age is nothing new. For decades, adults have employed sock hops, model trains and sand castles as affordable time-machines to a period of their lives when the only worries were if their hair ribbons were shiny and if their alcoholic uncle would creep into their bedroom again with a copy of Hustler tucked under his arm. As of late, activities ranging from kickball to dodgeball to Scrabble have been enthusiastically embraced by the fattening offspring of baby-boomers for even more sensible reasons: alternatives such as racquetball, squash and bridge are lame, strenuous and require goggles. The most pressing question facing those who wish to be on the cutting edge of rekindled merriment is whether Freeze Tag or Television Tag will be the tag of choice for 2005.

Quietly, it is the flirtatious toe-tangling practice known as Footsie that seems on the verge of breaking into the mainstream as the throwback game of the summer. Best known as Junior High’s under-the-table-and-dreaming precursor to stairwell make-out sessions, Footsie has been reinvented as a pressure-free method for New York singles to get familiar and frisky with members of the opposite sex without the awkwardness of having to tell a tight-vested boy that he “really looks a lot like Edan". And despite the reverberations of foot fetishism, the activity has thus far managed to stay within the realm of PBR-swilling scenesters with Crazy Frog’s “Axel F” in the iPod and away from those Menthol-scented men who place personals in the back of the New York Press for nubile slim-soled Asians.

“I wear Converses ‘cause there’s less material between our skins,” says Jessica Sposato, drummer for Greenpoint girl-band Goodnight Gunfight. Crediting the fad for strengthening her bass kicks, Sposato has attended weekly Footsie gatherings at Alligator Lounge (600 Metropolitan Ave.) since early March. “It’s not super sexy or anything nasty,” she explains, “but I can’t lie – when you’re matched up with a good-looking guy, you really feels the balls of his feet. The worst thing is if you got a Frito-foot and people notice.”

Unfortunately, the exact rules to Footsie remain as unclear as a teenager’s complexion. Some bars, such as Park Slope’s Patio (179 5th Ave), allow participants to play in socks, while more straight-edged venues demand full footwear and require up-to-the-ankle coverage. Teams are generally split along gender lines, with males and females adorning opposite sides of the table. After a stopwatch, egg-timer or other timing device is activated, the participants mash their feet together in a similar fashion to that employed during “thumb-wrestling”, a sport where combatants attempt to pin down their opponents’ extremities. Though challenging the referee’s rulings is as much a part of Footsie as is the necessity of clean socks, winners are determined by judges who crouch on all-fours beneath the table with a whistle tucked between their lips. After an allotment of time is exceeded, players rotate seats clockwise (except for when playing “Eastern Footsie”, of course) and pair up with a fresh pair of arches. As one might expect, the jambalaya of beer, pheromones and toenail clippings can make thing pretty saucy. “This one bitch broached my inner thigh,” recalls Adrian Liriano, who plays occasionally on weekdays at The Dark Room (165 Ludlow St.) in the LES. “Then the buzzer rang, and I had to bounce to the next chick with a semerection, which was wack as fuck.”

Although Footsie remains thus far unregulated, attempts to set up leagues, tournaments and footwear sponsorships with Bathing Ape are currently underway. For those interested in flesh-on-flesh Footsie events, try Craigslist.

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