I love these boots. I love zipping them up over my calves, I love pulling them them up towards my thighs and gingerly standing up. I love knowing what it’s like to see the world from that vantage point- they add four inches to my height but I feel 6 feet tall. They change the way I see the world but mostly they change the way I see myself.
For a long time when I looked in the mirror a very particular kind of woman looked back at me. She wore long cardigans and dirty Converse Allstars, her posture wasn’t great (it’s hard, when you’re very shy and your tits enter any given room before you do, to feel like you have control over what is said about them or to you, and it’s sometimes easier to take control of the conversation by looking at the ground and rounding the shoulders into a protective curve). It’s not that the woman in the mirror no longer exists, it’s just that she sometimes hands over her reflection time to a woman who is her exact opposite in character. This woman doesn’t want to hide, but to be seen, exposed. This woman doesn’t object to being defined by her massive tits, quite the opposite. She actively invites it, welcomes it. Objectification is not an insult but an endgame.
But she knows you’re unlikely to objectify her in long cardigans and Converse Allstars, she needs to wear clothes that serve as an invitation to appreciative insults. Clothes with underwires and quarter cups, legs cut high on the thigh, harness straps, cut- outs, hems that creep up with wear to reveal chubby thigh and suggest the shadowy places between.
But most of all she needs to wear boots. These boots don’t just invite you to objectify her but render it an imperative. The way they cling, they way she totters, the way they hurt, lifting and moulding her arches, pressing on the tops of her toes, her insteps aching. The pain starts immediately and it is not the good kind, not like being spanked, or caned, or gnawed on, teeth sinking into the flesh where nape meets shoulder as her arms are gripped behind her back by the man slamming into her from behind, the sting of his bite blooming and expanding as he fucks faster, his orgasm approaching.
No, more accurately it is not that kind of good pain but a new, different kind. Sometimes metamorphosis is painful. Sometimes becoming who you really are has to hurt a little bit.
She thinks about being asked to wear these boots out of the house for the first time- not carrying them in a rucksack to a play party, where they can be changed into in the lobby, but being told to wear them on a date. Being seen by her neighbours clopping down the stairs, holding tight to the bannisters, picking her way over cobblestones. Being seen on the UBahn but the teens in sportswear, the black clad hipsters, the woman with the mic and amp on a trolley who moves from carriage to carriage singing ‘My Heart Will Go On’. The discomfort of that, of not being able to hide behind the flat shoes and baggy knitwear. In a setting where everyone is dressed like that, in pleather and leather and latex and vinyl, and heels that tell no lies, it’s easy to blend in. In that setting those boots can be worn without attracting value judgements. They’ll probably attract expressions of appreciation, and a sense of camaraderie and belonging will likely follow.
But worn on a date? With a man who either is or isn’t expecting such a brazen expression of intent? Hard to imagine leaving the safety of the Scene, where dressing like the slut you are is fairly compulsory, and going out into a world where it’s largely expected that a woman’s clothes might suggest she is a slut, give strong hints or subtle signposts, but never shout the fact as unarguably as these boots do. The girl in the cardigan is worried that, even in the boots, her presence will still be felt, and that she will come across as a pretender, a little girl playing dress- up, writing checks that her mouth will be expected to cash.
She thinks about the things she cannot do in these heels: run. Squat. Dance. Pretend. She thinks about what might happen if she wears the boots for so long that the pain becomes unbearable and she is forced to crawl. She thinks about how she will see the world from down there, how she will see herself. She thinks about teeth sharp against her flesh where nape meets shoulder, and imagines the feeling of cum dribbling out of her, down her thigh towards the black of the boots. Her cunt aches, and she is so glad that the boots won’t let her pretend.