On Wednesdays, Amanda Chatel will be sharing stories about her strange, fascinating and sometimes wonderful dating life. If it makes you want to date, check out TheGloss dating page.

Oh, there is no shortage to the strange people who come my way. This particular person, we’ll call him Lester, came courtesy of a friend of a friend who thought that we’d hit it off. Although Lester does not live in New York City, he does live relatively close to Key West where I’ll be heading next week. Our mutual friend thought we could meet up at some point because we’re both writers and a bit weird. Comparatively speaking, however, I’m sane to the point of boredom.

So we’re having these really great emails that are going back and forth, and I’m getting excited to finally meet this person in real life. I feel there’s a possibility for chemistry, because our banter and saracasm in our written words are going together like peanut butter and jelly.

Eventually things turn toward sexy talk. I am, of course, not opposed to sexy talk or erotica, and based on his novels, neither is he. As our emails get more and more detailed, I was hoping that we could carry over all this into real life or if it only had a home online. Although I’ve always said I’d never date a writer, the idea of a possible fling while I’m away for a few days sounded like a great idea. I was also intrigued by his hotheaded ways and the bit of notoriety for his behavior that has followed him around since his days when he worked at some major publications and websites.

But then sexy talk turned into fetish talk. His fetish? Shoes. Not feet, but shoes. The dirtier and more disgusting the shoes, the better. In one of the scenarios, he wanted to get down on the floor to worship me, then lick my shoes clean. I kid you not. I was so overcome by shock and the germ factor, that the first person I called was my mom. Naturally, she had never heard of such a thing, so she was probably the last person I should have called. But sometimes you need your mom to tell you that the world isn’t completely as terrifying as it may occasionally seem.

When I finally found it within me what I thought was an appropriate inquiry, I asked: “But how do you kiss someone after that? If I’ve been walking these dirty NYC streets for hours upon hours, there’s no way I’m going to kiss the mouth of the person who just spent the last 20 minutes lapping away at them as if they’re an ice cream cone.”

“I’d brush my teeth, of course,” he said. Ah, yes! Silly me! Of course you’d brush your teeth! But I’m not sure a single tube of Colgate is going to cut it.

I indulged in his fetish a bit by sending him photos of my dirty shoes, because I didn’t see the harm in it. I also thought it was amazing that someone was getting off on my filthy Chuck Taylor kicks that I’ve owned since college. Psychologically, it’s a stunning concept.

Tragically, our short-lived flirtation came to an end last night. We got into an argument about WWII and he insisted that all of France was a bunch of Nazis, he wished death on my grandparents who, mind you, weren’t Nazis but just happened to live in France at the time, then he called me a racist for being the offspring of Nazis even though I am not the offspring of Nazis. Basically, Lester has more than a few screws loose.

So off to Key West I’ll go next week without the potential of meeting this strange writer guy. But as I told a friend of mine last night, it’s just as well. I love my dirty Chucks. They’ve walked the sidewalks of some of the most beautiful cities in the world, they’ve rocked out at SXSW three times, and have danced on many a beer-sticky bar and club floors. Yeah, they’re dirty and they’re gross, but they’re mine and I don’t want those memories being licked away and swallowed by someone who doesn’t even deserve a speck of all that romantic nastiness.

I am a sentimental fool after all.