My 5-hour stint in the porn industry

While in California, my brother Trent and I decided to go to the beach. We were anxious to stick our feet in the sand, feel the salty breeze and people watch on the Laguna Beach boardwalk.

Walking and commenting on the demographic differences of Utah and California, a man came up to us from an "art gallery" site on beach feet. He said he took pictures for this art installation and asked if my feet could be a part of the gallery.

"Have you ever gotten compliments on your feet before?" he said, pointing at my sparkly purple "I'm Not Really a Waitress" OPI nail color toes.

"I certainly haven't," Trent said, laughing.

"Actually, this is only for women," replied the artist.

I laughed nervously.

"Is this some sick, fetish web site?" I questioned.

...and he was kind of offended.

He handed me a business card, printed with "World Renowned Art Gallery" on the back. I mean WORLD RENOWNED ART GALLERY was highlighted in a gold, cursive font on the back of his card. The business card police don't just let that happen without verifying it, right?

Things seemed fun and legit, he was professional and talked photography shop-talk with me, the beach breeze left me carefree and vulnerable, and both Trent and I thought "Why not?" So I obliged.

He posed me on a bench and began taking pictures of my feet from different angles. He noticed my fresh pedicure, my toe ring. And I kept thinking "This is for an art gallery, nothing creepy." We were in public, and Trent was also taking pictures of what was happening.


Also a candidate for "Pasty white beach people"

Next, the artist asked me to remove my sandals and took silly pictures of me holding them in the air. He snapped pictures of the soles of my feet. Soles which were apparently "dusty," so he asked if he could dust my feet off. He got out a towel, put water on it and washed my feet. Yes, washed my feet. Right there on the boardwalk.

It was at this moment when I thought "OK. This is getting weird." He had me rotate my feet in different directions, meanwhile asking me questions about my feet as if they were a separate being.

"What are your feet's unique qualities?"

"They're small." (Trent: HAHAHAHAHAHAHA)

"Where have your feet been?"

"Oh, um, Europe, Mexico, all over the U.S."

"So they're well-traveled feet?"

"Yeah, I guess."

"What do your feet like to do for fun?"

"...uh...they run...hike...bike..."

"So they're athletic feet?"

His cream-colored fedora no longer looked edgy and easy-going, but the sign of a pervy cameraman manipulating women for a quick buck.

The artist wrapped up, thanked me for my participation and we headed our separate ways.

I left REALLY freaked out about what happened. I was sure I would end up on some fetish site with my name and pictures attached. Trent was laughing about it, didn't think it was a big deal. I relayed the story to other family members, and they were all laughing about it too.

I mean, it's FEET. GROSS. Who wants feet pictures? No biggie, right?

Well I come home that night and all my fears, my worrying, my anxiety WERE CONFIRMED. My pictures are featured on a full-on paid subscription foot fetish web site. Sure, there's no naked girls or anything, but definitely not a site one would want to be associated with.

I, of course, was whirling. WHIRLING. "My employer will find this and fire me via e-mail." "Peanut is going to need so much therapy!" "When I make it on American Idol, I'll be kicked off a quarter-way through the season because of my shady past. THE SHAME."

GJ tried to look it up, and his work computer blocked the site. He thought this was hilarious. "So I married a porn star?" It was not helping the situation.

I wrote the web site manager a strongly worded e-mail.

"I am a mother with a career" I implored! "I did not sign a model release form for this" I threatened! And, just to make sure I didn't piss anyone off, I politely ended : "Can you please remove them immediately?"

I woke up the next morning to find the pictures gone, no cached trace left behind. And an e-mail from the web master: "No problem."

No problem indeed.

And just as quickly as I entered the world of internet porn, I was out of it.

(I'm sure this is how half the women in a "Girl's Gone Wild" DVD got there. Just replace "feet" with "boobs" and "ocean breeze" with "inordinate amounts of alcohol.")

Lesson learned: There is only one man allowed to wash your feet. And that man is Jesus.