Remember the Sex and the City episode where Miranda discovers the joys of the Rabbit? “I think I'm in love,” our Harvard-educated, career-minded lawyer informs her fashionable friends, probably over brunch. To which sexually liberated Samantha replies: “Oh, come on. If you're going to get a vibrator, at least get one called the Horse.” Samantha always had the best lines. Anyway, the conversation prompts buttoned-up WASP Charlotte to embark on her own journey of self-discovery. She may never have left her apartment again, enjoying the perfect coupling with her new, battery-operated friend, had it not been for an intervention from Carrie and co. I’m experiencing a similar moment; one that is equally (possibly more) pleasurable and almost definitely more kinky. Those of a sensitive disposition, look away now. I tried my first foot peel mask last week. While watching the final season of Schitt’s Creek, a combination of acids was slowly but persistently dissolving the hard skin on my heels, while wrapped in a plastic sock. “It’ll take about a week to work,” my more experienced friend told me. So I waited, skeptical, for the results to kick in. After about five days, it started; slowly at first, a thin piece of skin parting company with my right sole. I gently pulled. The feeling was intoxicating. So I did it again, a growing pile of dead skin gathering at my side. By the end of the week, I was cracking up. I had full-on zombie feet, shedding skin like a snake. Just walking to the bathroom would leave a trail of skin crumbs, and after a shower, the soft, deceased layer would fall away tenderly, willingly, surrendering to my touch. I’d spend hours picking and pulling, with a growing sense of gratification when a particularly large sheet of epidermis would give way, revealing the soft, pink, virgin skin beneath. When my grandchildren ask how I spent the Great Pandemic of 2020, this could be my answer. If you need me, I’ll be in my room.
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