My wife and I were strolling the streets of the Upper West Side this past weekend and happened upon a window in a local thrift store. This hand-me-down emporium has some pretty high end stuff and always has enticing displays. This occassion did not disappoint. There among the Stickley reproduction, Tibetan throw rug, and Mary Quant style, Sixties-vintage mini-skirt on the deco model, was a gorgeous pair of shiny purple, six-inch spike heels. Sleek pumps with some maribou on the sexy peek toes. I couldn't help myself.
"Nice shoes!", I blurt enthusiastically.
"Oh sure", she snarls. "You would say that."
Big mistake my sharing.
"I know you've suffered deep, unresolved trauma and have to create fetish objects instead of building real intimacy," she starts. "But I've had it. I'm not putting up with it anymore. My shrink has sent me articles that show just how completely damaged and fucked up you are. I know it's not your fault, but I'm just not going to put up with this anymore."
Oy, it was just a paira shoes! I nodded and said I understood.
"Look, I know you're angry and you have every right to be.", I snapped. "But do me a favor. Spare me the value judgement."
A Sunday stroll on Columbo turns into a referendum on Advo's sexuality. My wife and her shrink, our former couples therapist, partner up with the weight of scholarly opinion to searingly brand me - intimacy impotent. The cause? Shoe fetishism.
Okay, I tell you. These shoes were hot. I thought that if I sweet talked 'em just right they might agree to take me home with them - and walk all over me. Just maybe, if I was on a roll and particularly charming, they'd let me lick their vintage soles. Inhale their delicate insteps. Oh isn't she right? Aren't I just so much more comfortable with visions of lovingly soaked and sewn uppers tacked to a luscious last?
But things didn't escalate there on the Avenue as they have so often in the past. Rather than an indictment of what turns my crank, she was the wounded one. Her vitriol interpreted said, "If I won't wear those shoes, you must not be attracted to me." Heartbreaking, really.
I'm a submissive fetishist. She's not a dominant Louboutin wearer. But I'm good with that. The conflict just evaporated and we walked on together, chatting amiably. But I know there's intimacy in what I long after. Nasty, hot, and true. Those shoes fit the feet of a lovely Cinderella domme. She gets me - and loves me for my longings - because she aches to go there too.
So maybe I'll wander through these streets, where bright lights and angels meet. Look ... a new pair of shoes!
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