~~~ My hands sweat; my heart races. I get a sugary sweet sensation inside the core of my stomach.
This is what shoes do to me; this is how shoes affect me. And I’m not talking about any shoe; I’m talking about shoes in the window of Saks or Jimmy Choo; I’m talking about Sex & the City shoes; the shoes Carrie Bradshaw wears when she goes out with her girls for pink Cosmopolitans and one night stands. I’m talking Prada, Louis Vuitton, Fendi, Blahnik, Klein, Dior, Gucci, and Mizrahi…The exotic shoes with colours dripping upon the Italian tiles like a Monet painting, babe.
I’m referring to shoes that entice, seduce, and rip off your clothes one slice at a time; shoes that grab your hair and arch you back like a passionate lover…
Bitch red stilettos, shiny ebony pumps, satiny crimson sandals, creamy white ballet slippers, hip suede ankle boots, soft leopard flats, and patent leather platforms.
I simply fall to pieces. I simply lose control
Did you expect me to stand there as if I have no feelings, as if I were strong, as if this addiction were manageable, controllable, understandable?
I run my fingers over each lush body; lift each delicious heel to my nostrils inhaling the soft, marshmellowy leather. I whisper inside their soles…
“I love you. I need you. I want you.”
It is my Obsession. It is my Art.
I observe the sales clerk, a snooty looking Tyra Banks biach- watching me, sneering at me. I smell her breath of superiority like raw silk. I hear her Manolo’s clicking on the expensive terrazzo as she sneaks closer.
“Can I help you, Miss?” She asks.
But it’s not really a question; it’s more like she’s telling me to exit; It’s more like she’s pushing me with her long phony acrylic nails; It’s more like she’s uttering; get your nose out of my Choos!”
Because I just adore the rows and rows of lushness and shine, the symmetrical delicacy of design, the sophistication of shoes. I love how my calves look taut and Ava Garner like when I wear them out at night. I love how just inserting them on my feet feels like foreplay.
Sometimes I stroll around downtown to catch a glimpse of the latest fashions: the tigers, leopards, velvets, and the shimmering, glimmering of the shoes…The pleasure of buckles, straps, lush lines, curves, arches, and pointed toes thrill me.
Sometimes they speak to me in Italian or French, and the most searing tongue was Brazilian.
I suppose this obsession could be related to childhood and my old strappy patent leather shoes, the sound of the clicking created as I danced on the dull green linoleum, the random pirouettes in the middle of supper, the glissading across the wooden floors, or the tap-tap-tapping of heels pretending I was Dorothy from the Wizard of Oz.
I suppose I could make excuses and analyze my Freudian Freakiness, or I can merely live with it. After all, who am I hurting by coveting and living vicariously through Carrie Bradshaw shoes?