You gotta be shittin’ me. You gotta be absolutely shittin’ me.

You see, for me to come into any contact, whatsoever, with shopping is the equivalent to having my toenails ripped out…with rusty pliers. It’s not that I won’t recover; it just hurts like hell while it’s going on and it gives me the willies.

So when she bounced into my room and asked if I wanted to see what she’d bought today, the only reason I didn’t toss her out on her ass is because she’s Marie. Anyone else? Toss. Out. Ass.

She plopped an armful of brightly colored bags on my bed as I popped open a fresh brew and mentally prepared myself for a shopping induced catatonic state.

There were some shirts. Yeah. Uh huh. They’re nice. Different pairs of pants. Mmm hmm. Whatever. A skirt. Blah, blah, blah. Something called leggings. What the fuck are leggings? Then, just as sweet as you please…

“Oh and I bought some shoes.”

Oh. Excellent. Shoes. Add some lemon and salt to the toenail ripping.

I was busy thinking I’d need a cigar to survive this ambush, when she bent over to put on said new shoes. You know the kind of bending I mean? Knees locked, folded in half at the waist, ass thrust right up in the air. Seriously. Right up in the air. Maybe shopping has its benefits. She sat down on the bed then, fidgeting around, but I was still in a catatonic state, this time, luscious Marie-ass induced.

“See! Do you like ‘em?”

Huh?

“What?”

She was speaking so I needed to focus. Focus. On her feet, dammit.

“What the? Where in the world…?”

What the fuck is on her feet?! Those aren’t shoes! Those are a foot fetishes wet dream!

The pout was immediate.

“You don’t like them?”

Oh no. Here we go. How do I handle this with at least a little bit of couth; without sounding like the old letch that I am?

“No, no – I like ‘em. It’s just…”

Damn it, Marie! Those things are just sex on heels! Little straps around the ankles, heel at least 4 inches tall, and black leather…she knows how I feel about black leather. She’s got her jeans rolled up; revealing shapely calves of smooth cream and the black slash of the shoes cuts a contrast that makes my crotch ache.

The maiden in stilettos. I repeat; you gotta be absolutely shittin’ me.

Somehow, somewhere, I have seriously pissed off the gods of self restraint. Oh man, now she’s raised a foot off the floor, flexing and pointing her toes in contemplation.

“Logan, if you don’t like them, just say so. It won’t hurt my feelings.”

An idea strikes me like a fist to the face.

“Know what? I um…I don’t like them. Not really. They’re, uh…just not…you.”

“What do you mean, not me?”


Oh fer Christ sake-cut me a break! I cannot get into a philosophical debate on why these shoes are not Marie. They cannot be Marie. Marie in those shoes will drive that heel right through my carefully constructed self control and wrap those little ankle straps around my cock to lead me wherever the hell she wants me to go. No. No. No. Just say no to the shoes!

“I just…I don’t like ‘em.”

Lie. Lie. Lie. I am so full of shit. I don’t like the shoes, I fucking love the shoes!

Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes to the shoes! Yes to the shoes wrapped around your ankles which are wrapped around my waist. Yes to the shoes gouging holes in the upholstery of my truck. Yes to the shoes strewn recklessly under my bed. Abso-fucking-lutely yes to the shoes!


She’s smiling at me then and I’m too stupid to know why. She gathers up her bags, tossing her old shoes in one and leaving on the stilettos of sin. I know she can’t be put out with me because the pout is nowhere in sight. She sashays (yeah I said sashays) towards the door, and then stops, throws out a hip, and I swear on the Stanley Cup, quirks her eyebrow at me.

“Well I kinda like ‘em Logan…and who knows, maybe they’ll grow on you.”

Lyric excerpt:
Those Shoes by The Eagles

God knows, you're lookin' good enough,
but you're so smooth and the world's so rough.
You might have somethin' to loose.
Oh, no, pretty mama, what you gonna
do in those shoes?

Got those pretty little straps around your ankles
Got those shiny little chains around your heart.
You go to have your independence
but you don't know just where to start.