Thursday, August 23, 2012
It wasn't the woman I desired, though I do consider myself bisexual. No, I was salivating over her shoes. There are few things that scream "sex" to me as loudly as a pair of scarlet stilettos. And hers were gorgeous, I could tell. Though dusk was falling, the shoes seemed to glow like the beacon atop a police car. As she strode with confidence along the uneven sidewalk, I couldn't take my eyes off them.
I don't suffer from a foot fetish. I didn't want to lick those ruby beauties, or smell them. I wanted to wear them. I wanted to feel the sense of power, licking up my legs from the fire-engine bright uppers. I wanted to be elevated above the pavement. I imagined the way they'd tighten my calves and make my hips sway. Irresistible.
The crazy thing is, I can't wear any sort of heels. I was born with the world's flattest feet. No arch at all. My feet tend to roll inward, making my balance a bit iffy and putting such uneven weight on my shoes that they wear out in a couple of months. I'm also prone to getting blisters from any shoes I walk in for longer than a few hours. Add to that the fact that I'm still recovering from my broken knee... Nah, those shoes are just a dream.
If you check my shoe closet, you'll find a dozen pairs of sensible footwear, mostly sandals (I live in a tropical climate), with rubberized soles and heels no higher than half an inch. Oh, and almost all of them are black. Because black goes with everything. I am, after all, a respectable but somewhat dowdy woman rapidly approaching the big Six-Oh.
In my fantasies, though, I slip my ballerina feet into crimson slippers, twirl on my impossibly high heels - in perfect balance - and dance!