THE ALLURE OF HIGH HEELS

     There are no men alive today, save religious ascetics, who are not mesmerized by a women in high heels.   I am not talking about the standard one half inch shoe that women wear to work.  The fascination is directed at what, by husbands when not in the presence of their wives, are called “fuck me” pumps.  Like Justice Potter Stewart’s definition of pornography (“ I can’t define it but I know it when I see it”) FMP’s are incapable of an adjective but about as recognizable as a portrait of Winston Churchill with a stogie hanging out of his mouth.  And a lot more fascinating.

Be they red or black, the effect is universal.  They are to a mature man's eyes what a Playboy centerfold was to a 16 year old adolescent's back in 1964.  But it is not the same.  Why?  What is it about the high heeled vixen that strikes a man's juices the way an electric prod grabs a cow's attention?  Bikinis, bras, mini-skirts, lipstick, even full nudity aren't as alluring.  In fact, they are downright boring, especially in an age when sexual fantasies, perverse and otherwise, are just a few clicks away.    

I think I figured it out if that is the correct way to put it.  The woman in FMP's offers something that the naked eye can never provide: mystery.  You don't see her naked but your mind does.  And that provides more sexual scintillation.  Much more.  You can imagine yourself looking at those stilettos from the bottom up as they are dipped into your torso.  Any woman who adorns them emits an air of danger that is intoxicating to the imagination.  She could love you or hurt you but she could definitely chew you up and spit you out and then move on to the next poor soul without blinking an eye.  Years ago, probably thousands, there developed an aphorism about women:  the weaker sex.  How unperceptive.  Physically, yes.  Psychologically?  Never in a million years.  Marilyn Monroe said it best:  give a girl the right shoes and she can conquer the world!  Touché Marilyn.