The Photographer -- A Confession

I have been holding this secret in for quite some time, not sure when and where to let it loose. But, now I guess is as good as time as any...
During my freshman year of college, my roommate noticed that my dating life wasn't up to par and decided to set me up on a blind date. Being from out of state, and forced into the culture shock of late night pizza runs and beer pong tournaments, I decided one blind date would be harmless...something I could at least laugh about when I nostalgically looked back at my college years. What could it hurt?
Francisco...that was his name. I rolled the name around in my mouth like a watermelon jolly rancher. No other hints, no other clues, just a name to let my imagination run wild.
When he came to pick me up, I thought, "Wow! Maybe she was right. Maybe I was missing out by only hanging out with dorm room guys playing vampire roll playing games, while eating Ramen noodles from a slow cooker." He was definitely tall, he was definitely dark, and he looked like he had just stepped off the cover of G.Q. (which, in my experience, probably meant he was gay, but I was up for a challenge). He kissed me gently on the cheek as he handed me a single long stemmed rose. As our eyes met, I felt a spark of chemistry and twinge of nauseousness. When I finally opened my mouth, all I could manage to purge was the word, "bathroom". Upon my return, he waited with a roguish grin, and tenderly escorted me to a car I was sure no student could afford.
Francisco was quite the lady's man. Throughout our date, he opened all my doors, made the right compliments, was a great conversationalist. So, naturally after dinner, when he asked me back to his apartment, I said, "yes."
While he was driving, I couldn't help but notice, whenever he talked to me, he never looked at my face; he was always looking down -- at them! And when we got to his apartment, there were nothing but pictures...of bare -- pictures all over the wall. And when I summoned the courage to ask him about them, he casually replied, "Oh, I'm a photographer. I thought you knew that."
"Take your shoes off and stay awhile," he said, pouring me a glass of Pinot Noir. I couldn't resist the lure of his smile, and I acquiesced. But as he handed me my glass of wine, he never stopped staring at them. He got out a sponge and some lotions he had bought in Italy. He slid next to me on the couch and slowly began to pull off cloth. It was romantic at first. Gently washing and rubbing lotion on them -- kisses all over.
But when he got out his CAMERA and wanted to make me another victim on his wall, I screamed, " NO, these are my feet and nobody but nobody will touch them, kiss them, or take pictures of them, without my permission." But he wouldn't take "no" for an answer. He kept shooting pictures, forcing me to show him my ARCH!
I finally broke free, and ran to the nearest pay phone to call my roommate. She said I was a liar."Francisco wouldn't do anything like that. He's a gentleman." For days after that, I felt so alone. I had no one to turn to. My friends and family tried to understand, but they really never could relate. I couldn't help but think this was my fault in some way. If only my feet had been smellier. If only my socks had been longer or dirtier.
Then Tootsie came along. She was the first to really understand what I had been through. Two years earlier, her feet had been molested as well. She taught me that it wasn't my fault. That Francisco would have done the same thing no matter how smelly or dirty my feet had been.
A couple of days ago, a man came up to me, slyly mouthing foot obscenities. "Oh baby, let me see those metatarsals. I want to suck your big toe." At first I started to run away. But then, I regained my pride. I stood up straight, looked him right in the eye, and said, "That's foot harassment, and I don't have to take it."