Читать книгу Dressed to Impress - Elizabeth Coldwell - Страница 6

Call it lust at first sight: I wanted to get fucked in those shoes from the moment I saw them, singing their siren’s song to me through the glass of the store window. I stopped, my stride arrested by the sight of them, gleaming black and beckoning me. I dragged my friends into the store with me, making them wait while I tracked down the elusive salesgirl and asked her if I could try a pair on in my size. When I slid my foot into the first one, I looked straight down and the angle of the top of my foot, criss-crossed by the broad elastic straps, made me feel my heartbeat throb in my throat. I knew these shoes would be perfect. I knew I had to have them.

I’ve been a fan of stilettos since I met Victor, an old boyfriend who had infected me with his enthusiasm. It was from him that I learned of their power, not only over a man, but over myself as well. I thrilled to the contradictory feelings of vulnerability and power that wearing high heels gave me.

Victor told me and showed me that it wasn’t the trampy bad-girl associations with spike heels that made the sight of a woman wearing them force thoughts of urgent and ferocious sex to course through his mind and body; for him, a woman in heels conjured up more than just thoughts of trollop/dominatrix.

It was the contradictions inherent in a woman wearing high heels that appealed to him.

He taught me that it was the contrast that affected him so strongly, the contrast of the woman’s elegance and grace and the vulnerability that threatened to overtake her when her pace and agility were constrained by unstable narrow heels; her gait shaky, her feet arched dramatically to show her calves to greatest effect. He can do anything to her when she’s so beautifully hampered, and she is utterly defenceless against either his need or her own stroked and fanned desires. Just as Victor saw careful construction as an irresistible invitation to deconstruction, elegance as begging for defilement, grace as needing to be disgraced, he responded to the dichotomies of femininity that were aroused when he saw a woman wearing stilettos. Both images of woman were simultaneously present, conspiring to get him hot and hard. With stilettos, a woman approaches iconic femininity and grace, underscoring the man’s rough maleness. To him, when a woman wore high heels, the extremes of masculinity and femininity were emphasised. And his response to perceived feminine weakness was twofold and immediate. Something about female vulnerability aroused both his protective tendencies and his consuming need to exploit that vulnerability, to take control of her body, her will. Her responses would be beyond her control, dictated solely by him. The shoes give her elegance and in the elegance is an invitation to defile. Lipstick is there to be smudged. Mascara is there to run. Beautifully styled hair is there to be pulled and dishevelled. High heels are a constant reminder of that ambiguity.

At his insistence, the heels always stayed on.

Teetering, unsteady, riven by lust, I would lean towards him, or, thrown off-centre by too sudden or swift a step, fall against him, needing to be rescued, needing to be ravished. I’d look at my legs, lengthened by the stilettos, my shiny scarlet toenails accented with the criss-crosses of strappy sandals. The arch would shorten the perceived length of my feet, feminise and round them. I felt delectable, sultry and tempting, a victorious vixen, an enchantress and goddess of the sensual: regal, commanding, hotter than hell. In short, I felt like someone completely different.

But that was standing. It’s a paradox: standing in heels makes you more vulnerable, less steady, yet you feel more powerful, more in control, the essence of feminine supremacy. When you’re lying down in heels you are no longer in danger of falling, the physical problem of hampered mobility no longer exists, but the increase in psychic exposure rises in inverse proportion to the security of your ‘stance’. Supine, I gave myself over to sensation. I lost my authority, or let it be taken from me, as I gave myself over to drifting down the dark current of desire. I don’t know whether I surrendered myself to the Bad Girl lurking inside me or Victor turned me into one, but when I wore high heels lying down, when I glimpsed them against the mattress or the heels became tangled in the sheets, there was no doubt that I was one, that I behaved as she did, and more importantly was driven by the same always gratified desires as she was.

Victor had encouraged my purchases and enriched my collection, which included pumps with impossibly skinny silver metal spiked heels, high-heeled and high-topped boots, lacy or strappy stiletto sandals, and criss-cross, kinky-ballerina shoes with wide leather straps to wind around an ankle and calf, inspiring thoughts of both graceful dancers and raw bondage. I discovered that it was precisely this juxtaposition of class and trash that embodied the appeal of high heels. To wear them made me ultra-feminine, graceful and ethereal; it also made me earthy and sensual, vulgar and direct. I owned several pairs of what would have been demure, ladylike pumps if not for the height of their heels or the angle to which they pitched my body. I became a high-heel devotee; hell, even my rain boots were a pair of shiny black vinyl spike-heeled ankle boots, whose heels were made of rubber.

But it had been a long time since I had added to my shoe rack. After Victor and I had broken up, I hadn’t had someone who appreciated the allure of high heels enough to justify my breaking my budget to buy a tempting new pair. Besides, I had plenty of old favourites to wear to the theatre and to dinner, to nights out with the girls, and to enliven otherwise boring meetings. I had a good variety to wear not just to incite admiration and lust from friends, co-workers, acquaintances and strangers, but also strictly for myself, for my own sensual enjoyment, walking into a café with a magazine to grab a selfish hour of latte-fuelled dalliance, feeling inspired and inspiring as I luxuriated in decadent deviance. And in addition to the defiance of reading the latest New Yorker when I should have been working, wearing a pair of sexy shoes and drinking a rich and slightly bitter drink, I also wore them when I was back home, alone on my bed, wearing nothing else, rubbing my aching clit to a lather, pressing the heel of my hand up into my pulsing pussy. I guess you could say that Victor’s shoe appreciation had rubbed off on me.

When I saw the pair in the window, I knew I had to have them. It had been far too long since I’d been this excited about footwear. I was pleased and surprised to learn that the shoes were priced reasonably. I guess the manufacturer figured shoes like this weren’t going to get much actual wear and tear, and thus didn’t need to be made with pricey materials. But that just enhanced their appeal. There’s such a thing as being a Bad Girl, and then there’s plain old fiscal irresponsibility; it’s nice when one of these conditions doesn’t necessitate the other. Fetish on a Fixed Income: if I’d written the book, those shoes could be the centrefold. And the fact that the shoes were cheap – literally – underscored the part of their appeal that was predicated on the fact that they were the footwear of a cheap woman – a tramp, even. These were not the classy footwear of my sueded-silk slingbacks with the gathered and pointed toes; they didn’t confer elegance or sophistication, delicacy or fine-boned, highly strung beauty. These shoes proclaimed their origins; they announced the wearer’s designs and motives. These shoes screamed of sex.

They flaunted their low class. They revelled in their purpose: to get you hard or wet, to turn your thoughts immediately and irrepressibly to hard, grunting, animalistic fucking.

So I bought them. And I wore them – to dinners, to parties, alone in my bed. Then I waited for the right man to wear them for.

And waited.

One guy I met was so self-conscious about his height that I couldn’t even wear low heels when we went out. While under some circumstances I would have enjoyed feeling like an Amazon, towering extravagantly over my lover, he, I could tell, would feel all his masculinity drain away at the sight of my stature, and I would end up envisioning him as a bug I could crush under my sexy foot.

I thought for a little while that Arthur, a guy I dated briefly, might be in sync. But the first time I undressed yet left the shoes on, he seemed disconcerted.

‘Um … your shoes are still on,’ he noted.

‘I know,’ I purred. ‘Isn’t it hot?’

‘Yeah, I guess so,’ he said, dubiously.

And then he looked anxiously at the sheets as if I’d soil or tear them. We didn’t go out long.

Then I met Mark, a furniture restorer who was performing a miracle on a friend’s family heirloom when I first saw him, the tattoo of the 1940s pin-up, naked except for her retro pumps, smiling at me suggestively from the swell of his left bicep.

‘Why that tat?’ I asked, meaning, ‘What 1940s cheesecake actress do you drool over?’

‘Because The Shoes Stay On,’ he answered, staring into my eyes with a challenge. I felt my face get hot as I murmured something in reply. We had a chance to try out his creed. Me naked and exposed, legs spread wide, pussy open and ready; him making his way from my strong thighs, past ankles circled in leather, to the arch, lifted by the shoe, and the heel, resting on the stiletto point sheathed in leather. I admired the way my legs looked, elongated, resting on his shoulders as he plunged into me; I got hot looking at my feet, toes kept pointed, feet arched, level with his ears.

But although Mark knew his way around my body as if he had written the owner’s manual, it soon became obvious that owners’ manuals were the only reading material he was familiar with. He thought books were for propping up stereo speakers, couldn’t tell Dante from Dentyne, and I soon said goodbye to him and his shoe admiration.

When I had a date with Jackson, I didn’t try to bring up the topic. But after several dates I got the feeling that my shoes would be appreciated, that keeping the shoes on would go over more than all right. We had a date set for Friday night; I began on Thursday to prepare myself.

Long ago, I differentiated between women who get fucked and women who allow themselves to get fucked. Initially, I thought I belonged to the latter. But as I reflected further, I realised that there was a third choice: that there are women who get fucked, women who allow themselves to get fucked, and women who arrange to be fucked. There is no violation for someone who is willingly violated. As I was in that last category, all my preparations were directed towards that end. Everything had, as its goal, my getting fucked. This had always been the case; I’d always assumed that the ultimate goal was to inspire lust, to make a man interested, to keep him in my thrall; but, if I were being honest, I’d have to refine that thought. I put the prep time in, not merely to attract a man and drive him mad with longing, but because, if I did it well, I’d be supremely well fucked. And I wanted that to happen.

‘Tell me how you prepared your pussy for me,’ Victor used to rasp. I’d tell him, and the preparations would start far earlier and be far more extensive than he’d have realised.

‘I wear makeup to make my eyes look dark and inviting,’ I’d say. ‘I make sure that my underwear is lacy or silky, that it teases and torments my nipples and my clit, keeping them aroused and waiting for your touch. I get Brazilian waxes, baring myself entirely to the scrutiny of a woman whose eyes I can barely meet, enduring embarrassment and discomfort so that, when I am with you, you can see everything, so that there is no barrier, not even that provided by hair, to our bodies’ coming together.’ I’d tell him that even as I lay on a tissue-paper-covered table, my fingers holding my lips open, I’d imagine it was his cock rather than hot wax that I’d feel at that invitation. I’d tell him about the rest of the hair removal, shaving my legs so they’d be soft and silky to his touch, about choosing clothes for the amount of flesh they’d reveal and conceal, about keeping an eye on how easily they could be removed. I’d tell him about choosing shoes to arouse him, and knowing that while some girls got fucked because