heelsnwheels

According to a BMW commercial I just watched, I'm not the only one who has difficulty driving in high heels. The scene opens with a well dressed woman removing a pair of beautiful black stiletto pumps from her briefcase. We next see her at a workbench operating a power saw as sparks fly in all directions. As she removes her safety glasses to inspect her work we see that she has sliced the heel completely off one shoe. As she walks to her car with a lopsided gait it is apparent that only the right shoe has been mutilated. The purpose is revealed in the final scene as she floors the accelerator of her new 3 series BMW with her homemade "flat" shoe. I've had my share of difficulties driving older cars with extreme heels (and loved every minute) but modern cars are so high-heel-friendly there is no excuse for such extreme measures. When I was an impressionable young boy in the 1950s car commercials frequently depicted women driving in high heeled shoes to emphasize the ease operation with then-new conveniences like power brakes and automatic transmissions. I'd love to know what thinking went into this new BMW commercial.....

I finally got that flooded '55 Ford started after a pause to regain my composure and allow the excess fuel to evaporate. Traffic was light, allowing me to concentrate on my high-heeled footwork and drive to the dance with no problems. My appearance as a "lady of mystery" was actually an anticlimax; I paraded across the balcony, down the spiral staircase, and across the dance floor without tripping or having any close encounters. I don't think I fooled the valet parking attendant, but a generous tip in advance kept his mouth shut and ensured my car would be ready and running if a hasty exit was required. Eager to escape the attention of a couple who had come outside to smoke - or engage in some other mischief - I pulled the car into gear and stepped on the gas. My high-heeled pedal control still left something to be desired, and I stomped down so hard the car leaped forward and squealed the tires. When I lifted my foot the engine stumbled, and when I put it back down again much too abruptly the car backfired loud enough to wake the dead and stalled out. It rolled to a stop about fifty feet down the driveway as I gave the gas pedal one last futile pump. Now I had plenty of unwanted attention as half a dozen guys and girls came outside to investigate the noise. Frantically, I twisted the key with my white gloved hand but the Ford just cranked and cranked and cranked. I flexed my ankle and pointed my toe but those heels didn't give me enough leverage to floor the accelerator and clear the flooded engine. The crowd was walking in my direction when, in desperation, I pulled off my right shoe and flattened the gas pedal beneath my stockinged foot. They were about ten feet from the back bumper when the Ford erupted with a ragged roar that sent clouds of black smoke rolling up the driveway and into their faces. Without regard to abuse of the transmission and drive train, I slammed the car into gear and fishtailed into the street and around the corner. I began to laugh when I realized that my discarded right shoe had nearly bounced out the window when I threw it onto the seat; it would have been the 20th century equivalent of Cindarella losing her glass slipper. When we met for dinner the following day my roommate (who had been among those in the driveway) related the story of the mystery woman and asked, in jest, if that had been me. After swearing him to secrecy, I laid a photograph on the table. It showed me standing beside the pink and white Ford in my gown, gloves, and heels but without the wig and makeup. He was, probably for the only time in his life, absolutely speechless.

I was so sure the Yankees would win the 1960 World Series that, after one beer too many, I made a foolish bet with my college roommate. When the underdog Pirates stole the title with a 9th inning home run in the seventh game, I was obligated to appear at the fall formal dance dressed as a woman! I planned to "ham it up" with a comical outfit and combat boots, but a female friend convinced me I could have the last laugh by making a cameo appearance as a convincing "mystery woman" and revealing my identity later. At 5'7" and 135 pounds, I needed only a padded bra to fit perfectly into her long black sleeveless gown. The dress had a high collar, shoulder length white gloves covered my arms, and dark stockings disguised my shaved legs when the floor-length skirt swirled up. An expensive platinum blonde human-hair wig gave me a "Marilyn Monroe" look and my smooth complexion responded convincingly to a bit of make-up. As a competition springboard diver and gymnast, I was accustomed to moving on the balls of my feet, and my "coach" couldn't believe I could walk better than she could in strappy sandals with the latest style spike heels. I was ready! She even found me a suitably "girly" car for the 2 mile drive to the hotel, and on the big night I walked carefully across the parking lot to a pink and white two-tone 1955 Ford hardtop that looked good but was mechanically tired after almost 100,000 miles. As I slid behind the wheel and balanced my high heels unsteadily on the pedals my confidence wavered, and I wished I had brought flat shoes to drive like most women I knew. My grand entrance, however, depended on using the valet parking attendant under the main portico, and changing my shoes would ruin the whole effect. At least the car was an automatic, so I wouldn't have to worry about slipping off the clutch and stalling once I got it started. That was easier said than done, I was about to discover. I fumbled the key into the slot with my silky gloves and tried the starter as I planted my right heel at the base of the floor-hinged accelerator and pushed down. This was the last year Ford used 6-volt electrical systems and the little V8 cranked slowly with no sign of life. I stretched my ankle and pushed harder, unable to feel how much gas I was giving the car and surprised when my toe thumped against the floor. When it still wouldn't start I realized I would have to try pumping the gas pedal, something I had hoped to avoid while hobbled with high heels. With my sexy sandal positioned for the best possible leverage, I twisted the key, pointed my toe, rocked on the tip of my spike heel, and began to pump. The car sputtered weakly and resumed cranking. I gave the accelerator five or six hard pumps before I tried again and the car responded by sputtering and chugging several times before it choked and quit. Over and over it teased me with false starts, but it would backfire and stall because I couldn't "milk" the gas pedal gently enough to rev it up. My heel slipped and wobbled on the pedal, my ankle hurt from flexing, and I finally managed to get the car hopelessly flooded. I knew I would have a better chance of getting it started if I removed my shoe and pumped the gas barefoot, like I had seen my mother and aunt do on several occasions. However, I realized - to my surprise - that I was enjoying my first experience as a helpless "damsel in distress". I looked down at my slinky dress, glamorous gloves, and sexy shoes - an outfit more appropriate for the back of a limo than behind the wheel of balky old car. I felt a strange tingle of excitement followed by the unmistakable stirring of arousal and soon my silk panties were "flooded" just like the old Ford. I was hooked, and I knew this would not be the last time I would dress up in high heels to struggle with an old car that was stuck or stalled in a difficult situation.