Entertainment: Starting as a Succubus, Taking Hollywood by Storm

Inside a Miramax office, Harvey suddenly flashed a sly grin.

"Quentin, I heard a rumor—you licked Uma Thurman's feet in the dressing room. Is it true?"

Quentin Tarantino laughed unabashedly, showing no embarrassment. "I love the taste. Really. The feet of a beautiful woman—it's even more intoxicating than sex."

Tarantino was well-known in certain Hollywood circles as a hardcore foot fetishist. It wasn't exactly a secret.

In fact, he often partied with like-minded individuals who shared his peculiar interests.

As expected, a director capable of crafting such unconventional and edgy films was himself quite the eccentric. Evidence of Quentin's obsession could even be found in his movies. Both Pulp Fiction and Kill Bill prominently featured close-up shots of Uma's feet. And in Death Proof, Tarantino took his fetish to new extremes.

He had even paid $10,000 at the Hollywood strip club "Crazy Girls" just to lick a dancer's feet. Surveillance footage later leaked to the media, sparking backlash from some who found his behavior deeply unsettling.

In the clip, Quentin is seen licking and sucking on the woman's toes for over thirty minutes, until her foot looked "like a prune."

(A/N: The photos are out there. You can look them up yourself if you're curious.)

Strangely enough, the incident also earned him a peculiar fanbase, who admired him for his "authenticity."

The truth is, Hollywood has always been a haven for oddballs:

James Cameron: A control freak and strict vegan who forced all his cast members to go plant-based.

Christopher Nolan: Hates anything digital. Despite the rise of digital filmmaking, he insists on using film stock and avoids smartphones and emails entirely.

Wes Anderson: Obsessive about symmetry. His films are renowned for their painstakingly precise compositions, where every shot looks like it was measured with a ruler.

The Coen Brothers: Fans of fat. They adore overweight actresses and frequently cast plus-sized performers in pivotal roles.

David Fincher: Openly admits his attraction to men, though this is hardly unusual in Hollywood.

Woody Allen: Eats the exact same breakfast every day—orange juice, skim milk with raisin bran, and seven banana slices. He believes any deviation could bring bad luck.

Takeshi Kitano: Enjoys scrubbing toilets. Once, during a visit to a Japanese restaurant, the famed director was found in the restroom, diligently cleaning it.

Hitchcock and Buñuel: Both were also foot fetishists.

With a cast of characters like this, Quentin's quirks don't seem all that bizarre.

(Fun fact: Quentin's wife, Daniella Pick, is rumored to have "exquisite" feet.)

But let's get back to the story.

Harvey smirked at Quentin's candid confession and shook his head like a seasoned mentor. "Kid, that's a waste of potential. A stunning woman is right in front of you, and you're only interested in her feet?!"

"Do you know why I got into this business?" Harvey continued.

"Why?" Quentin asked, indulging him.

"Obviously, to sleep with women. All kinds of beautiful women!" Harvey declared with unrestrained bravado.

Then he leaned in conspiratorially. "Quentin, do you know about the red couch?"

"Of course. The legendary perk of Hollywood's golden age," Quentin replied with a shrug.

Back in the 1920s and 30s, the "red couch" was a well-known signal in Hollywood. If a casting director or producer placed a red sofa—or even draped a red blanket over a regular one—it was an unspoken agreement that any actress willing to "audition" on it would earn a role in exchange for... favors. It was entirely voluntary. Those who complied were rewarded; those who didn't, walked away without complaint.

"I've got one in my casting room," Harvey bragged, "and you wouldn't believe the stars who've sat on it."

Before Quentin could respond, Harvey started rattling off names:

"Julia Roberts, Judi Dench, Meryl Streep, Kate Beckinsale... the list goes on. Oh, and don't forget Gwyneth Paltrow."

Harvey looked smug as he listed both A-listers and lesser-known actresses, some who had since left the industry and others who were still active.

"Quentin," Harvey said, puffing up with pride, "once you hold power in Hollywood, women are easy to get. It's not just about sex—it's about the thrill of conquest."

Quentin shifted uncomfortably. Harvey's blatant arrogance was unsettling. Sure, Quentin had his own quirks, but they were harmless. What Harvey was describing sounded predatory, even criminal.

Unlike foot fetishes, coercion wasn't just immoral—it was illegal. Quentin debated saying something but ultimately held his tongue. He knew Harvey wouldn't listen, and calling him out might provoke his wrath.

"Come on, Quentin. Don't waste time with your little kinks. I'll show you how it's done. It's not just sex—it's the power. The control. We decide who makes it in this town. We decide who the audience gets to see. We are Hollywood."

Quentin watched Harvey, wondering if the man had drunk too much—or simply let power corrupt him completely.