Stu

That last photo is awesome, Gina. I can see why you need to take some time and cool off after that one, but don't stay away too long!

Margaret’s birthday was the following week. The bank staff had a long tradition of taking co-workers out to lunch on their birthday. Enough workers had to stay behind to keep the bank operating, but the rest of the staff often took advantage of the opportunity to get out of the bank and socialize with their colleagues. To encourage the greatest number of workers to attend, the tellers planned the lunch for the restaurant located next to the bank. On the day of the lunch, Ana went to the restaurant with the rest of the staff. The restaurant had set up tables and chairs for 18 people, a little more than the average birthday lunch. Ana went to the restaurant with everyone else, and nobody paid much attention to the shopping bag that she carried with her. Upon arriving at the restaurant, Ana went into the ladies room, and she emerged as a reminder of her former self. The 2-inch business heels she had worn to work were replaced by a pair of red 5-1/2 inch stiletto sandals. She had also changed into a pair of skintight black pants and a tight red sweater. The attire was more daring than what she had been wearing to work prior to Margaret’s hiring, and it got the reaction she had wanted. “Oh, look,” one of the male bank employees said loudly to his colleagues. “Ana’s back!” Another male colleague whistled and started chanting, “Ana’s back! Ana’s back!” Several of the other employees joined in the chant. It was all light-hearted and intended in good fun. “Gee, Ana, we’ve missed you,” one of the female bank tellers said to her. “Where have you been for the last few weeks?” Ana soaked up the attention. She assumed Margaret was noticing, although she did not quite have the nerve to look over at her. After the main meal, one of the bank managers stood up and said a few kinds words about Margaret and wished her a happy birthday. It was then Ana’s turn. She stood up, walked over to Margaret’s table (which drew scattered applause from several of the workers), and presented Margaret with a birthday card signed by all the bank employees. “All of us at the bank, and especially the tellers, wish you the best!” Ana said. She then led the employees in a round of “Happy Birthday”, and returned to her seat. As the lunch ended, Ana hurried back into the restroom, changed back into her 2-inch business heels and conservative attire, and returned to her teller’s post at the bank. About an hour later, she was asked to go see Margaret in her office. Margaret was sitting at her desk and scowling when Ana entered. “What did you think you were doing in the restaurant?” she asked angrily. “What did I think I was doing? I thought I was having a good time. Why?” Ana replied innocently. “Don’t play games with me. You deliberately violated the dress code with those shoes and pants. And furthermore…” “Now wait a minute,” Ana protested. “I was not in the bank, and I was on my own time. We don’t get paid for going to those birthday lunches. The dress code did not apply.” Ana surprised herself with the aggressiveness of her tone. Margaret replied, “The fact is, you were next door to the bank, most of the other bank employees were there, and you deliberately flouted the dress code in order to embarrass me and undermine my authority.” Ana privately agreed with what Margaret said, but she was not about to admit it. “With all due respect, Margaret, I resent your accusations. I was not subject to the dress code during the lunch, and I felt like expressing myself. It had nothing to do with you.” “Enough debate. The first thing I am going to do is to place a reprimand in your personnel file. Disrespect for the dress code, poor judgment, and disrespect for me as your supervisor. The second thing I am going to do is assign you to filing for the next two weeks.” The tedious task of filing bank papers in the back room was normally reserved for newly hired staff or even student interns. For an experienced teller like Ana, it was unquestionably punishment, and something intended for the whole bank to see. “I am going to file a protest…” “There is no protest procedure, Ana. I am your supervisor, and you need to respect my decisions and my authority. If you don’t, your future at this bank will be very dim. You should think about that over the next two weeks. Please report to filing at once. Good day.” Ana left Margaret’s office and muttered a certain epithet in Spanish that she had not used since she lived in Costa Rica. At her next work break, George tried to comfort her. “In a way, you got what you wanted,” George told her. “You challenged her, and now you got in trouble. This will either energize your colleagues, or it won’t. Now it is just wait and see.” The next four work days went very slowly, as Ana worked by herself in the back room filing and processing bank slips and other paperwork. It was quiet and lonely, and she missed the human contact. It got to the point where she actually looked forward to the weekly staff meeting with Margaret, just so she could sit in a room with other people. The staff meeting began as usual, with Margaret bringing the tellers up to date on new developments, and going over yet more changes in procedures that she was implementing. When Margaret asked if anyone had anything they wanted to bring up, Sherry raised her hand. “A number of us would like some clarification, Margaret,” Sherry said. “There is a rumor going around that a teller – no need to mention any names – was disciplined for violating the dress code last week when she was outside of the bank and was on her own time during lunch break. Are we subject to the dress code even when we are not at work?” A scowl once again appeared on Margaret’s face. “Obviously, I can’t get into personnel issues. But to answer your question, the dress code generally does not apply when you are not at work. However, you still need to use common sense. For example, if you go to the restaurant next door during your lunch hour, you are still a recognizable employee of our bank. Many of our customers will still know who you are. You are in the middle of your work day. So you still need to use good judgment and look professional. Does that answer your question?” Another teller, Keesha, raised her hand. “Sherry may not have been willing to name names, but I will,” she said. “Everyone here knows I have not been Ana’s biggest fan. In the last few years, I think she stepped over the line a lot with the kind of clothes and shoes she has worn….” “Let me interrupt you,” Margaret said. “We can’t take up personnel matters at this meeting.” “I’m not talking about personnel matters. I’m talking about your dress code,” Keesha replied. “I haven’t always agreed with Ana’s decisions on clothes and shoes, but I have to admit she is one of our best tellers. She works hard, the customers like her, and she puts a lot of energy into this place. For the last four days, I have had customers asking me what happened to Ana, is she still working here, is she all right. And that is not good, Margaret. If I can be frank, we have had pretty good chemistry with the customers here, and your dress code is messing with that chemistry. I do not think you realize that.” Ana was stunned. Keesha had never been friendly or overly helpful to her in the years they had worked at the bank. But she was one of the more outspoken tellers. For Keesha to be speak up about this was an indication of how disenchanted she must have been with Margaret in general. “OK!” Margaret said defensively. “I cannot and will not discuss personnel matters with you. I have a responsibility to ensure we perform the best we can for our customers, and a dress code is a simple way to ensure we adhere to our high professional standards. I hope you all understand that. The meeting is over, and it is time to go to work!” To be continued.

Gina....If there were a World Cup for high-heel wearers, you would win it. Fabulous! And, in my opinion, jeans and stiletto heels are one of the world's most underrated combinations. Your photo is Exhibit 1 supporting my argument.

Thanks, Raincat, the positive feedback is always appreciated, and I am glad you like the stories. I think we all wish we had a co-worker like Ana, but unfortunately most of us have probably had a boss like Margaret at one time or another. And now, back to our story....... Ana returned to work the next day in a conservative long skirt and 4-inch heels. She spent much of the night pondering which shoes she should wear. She considered wearing 5-inch heels to send the message that she would not submit easily, but Bob convinced her that she would hurt her case by appearing defiant. But she rejected going down to 3-1/2 inches, as she might appear to be capitulating to Margaret. So she went the middle course with 4 inches, as it would send the message that she was reasonable and cooperative without conceding totally to Margaret. “Can I talk to you, Margaret?” Ana asked when she approached Margaret in her office prior to the beginning of her shift. “Of course, Ana. Sit down,” Margaret said. Ana sat down. “I need to discuss the dress code, Margaret. As you have undoubtedly noticed, I have a taste for unusually high heels…” “I don’t know how you stay up on your feet wearing such heels day after day,” Margaret said, interrupting Ana. “But it is impressive.” “Thank you,” Ana said. “Margaret, this is hard to explain. Shoes are important to me. I grew up in Costa Rica, where high heels are a much more important form of expression than they are here. I know you have the best of intent in making sure we all look professional for our customers. But your dress code would take away something that is very important to me.” “I can appreciate that, Ana. But I hope you can appreciate that we are not in Costa Rica. Our dress code has to reflect mainstream, professional tastes here in the United States. Five-inch heels simply are not mainstream, at least not for professional working women.” “With all due respect, Margaret, I would disagree. I am sure you have looked at my personnel file. I have gotten high marks for my professionalism. I have won the customer service award more than any other teller in this bank branch. I regularly get compliments from customers on my clothes and shoes. I have proven that I have the ability to project professionalism even in very high heels.” “Don’t take this the wrong way, dear,” Margaret said. “I could require all the female tellers to wear miniskirts and Wonder bras, and we would get a lot of compliments from our male customers. But it wouldn’t be the professional thing to do.” “Margaret, most of the compliments I receive come from women. I think if you took a few more weeks to observe how I interact with the customers, you would see…” “Ana, I don’t think this conversation is going to go anywhere,” Margaret interjected. “I know you take your job responsibilities seriously, and I commend you for that. I hope you can understand that I have a responsibility to be sure we all project the most professional image we can. You can still wear high heels, just not quite as high as in the past. In a few weeks, I am sure this won’t be as big a deal to you as it is now.” Ana walked out of Margaret’s office struggling to control her anger. She stormed into George’s office. “It did not go well,” Ana said. “Can I borrow your phone?” George nodded yes. Ana closed the office door and, using the speakerphone on George’s desk, dialed the bank’s downtown headquarters. “Mr. Young, please. Tell him it is Ana from the Metro branch.” Ana was playing her trump card. Mr. Young was the vice president of the bank. No other teller at any of the bank’s branches could have dared to call Mr. Young direct for any reason, but Ana was the exception. Mr. Young had been on a first-name basis with her for some time as a result of his frequent visits to the Metro branch. But her chance encounter with him in a Lake Tahoe casino several months earlier had sealed her special relationship with him. She had been experimenting with tight jeans and 6-inch heels when she ran into Mr. Young and other bank executives, who were up at Tahoe for a management retreat. She was invited to join them for a breakfast, and after hearing her talk about her branch’s operations and how they could be improved, Mr. Young was so impressed that he told her she could call him any time if she ever needed his help. The time had finally arrived for Ana to take Mr. Young up on his offer. “Ana, how is my favorite teller?” Mr. Young asked when got to the phone. “I wish things were better, Mr. Young. I will be real brief. Our new supervisor here, Margaret, has instituted a dress code. She does not want women wearing anything higher than medium heels here. I am sure you understand that will limit me.” “Ana without high heels? Unimaginable. That would put a crimp in your style.” “I have tried to talk to her, Mr. Young. She insists I don’t look professional in high heels. Do you think there is anything you could do?” “Is there any way you can get me a copy of the dress code? I would need to see it.” George spoke up. He had known Mr. Young for a number of years. “Hello, Mr. Young. I have a copy of the dress code on my computer. I could e-mail it to you.” “Great, George. Please do so. I am glad someone out there is looking after Ana. I will look at the dress code and let you know what I can do.” Ana started her morning shift hopeful that Mr. Young could do something to make Margaret pull back. Her spirits sagged at lunch when George showed the reply note that Mr. Young had sent to him. It said, “George: I have shown the dress code to our attorney. Please let Ana know the dress code appears legitimate, and there is nothing I can do. I could get in big trouble if I were to interfere with Margaret’s authority in this area. Sorry I could not help more.” “So that’s it,” Ana said. “No one can do anything. The next step for me is to update my resume.” George convinced her not to give up quite so easily. Following George’s advice, Ana let her attire become increasingly conservative over the next several weeks. Ana’s instincts had been to wear 3-1/2 inch heels every day, along with pants and skirts as tight as Margaret would allow. But George convinced her to play along with Margaret’s system temporarily, rather than challenge it. She wore 2-inch block heels one day, 3-inch heels another day. She went into her attic at home and found a pair of flats that she wore to work at least once a week, along with drab skirts and pants that she had been planning to donate to a Goodwill clothing drive. On some days, she barely put on any makeup. The change in Ana’s appearance was so dramatic that it was impossible for the other employees not to notice it. More importantly, many of Ana’s favorite customers asked her about the change, to which she could only answer, “New dress code instituted by management.” This was all part of George’s strategy: To send the message that Ana was victimized and demoralized by an unfair dress code aimed primarily at her. As a next step, George took a poll among the bank employees concerning their feelings about Ana. He did not announce he was taking a poll, and he realized that, because his friendship with Ana was well known, he could not expect honest answers if he talked to employees about Ana. Instead, he enlisted the support of Sherry, a teller who was not particularly close to Ana but nevertheless felt some sympathy for her. Sherry had taken a dislike to Margaret and was not happy with how Ana was being treated, so she was willing to cooperate with George. George carefully noted the information that Sherry gave him concerning her discreet conversations with other employees about Ana. He was encouraged by the results. “Here is what I am finding out,” he told Ana during one of her morning-break visits to his office. “Virtually all of the men who work here at the bank think it is a shame that Margaret has targeted you with her dress code. As for the women, roughly half also think it is a shame, while the other half feel you had been pushing the limit all along and are satisfied that you have been brought under control.” “50-50. That is a wash,” Ana said glumly. “Hardly!” George replied. About half of the people who work here at the branch are men. That means about three-quarters of the employees here support you, and only one-quarter support Margaret. In political terms, you win by a landslide. Most politicians would love to have your poll numbers.” “But will they stand up for me? What difference does this make if none of my co-workers are willing to support me and confront Margaret?” Ana asked. “That is our problem right now. I think everyone fears that if they visibly support you, Margaret will go after them. She has everyone afraid of their own shadow. The other employees support you, but they are afraid to show it. They won’t stand up and do something bold unless you do something first.” Ana thought for a minute and smiled. “I have an idea. It may be risky, but what do I have to lose?” She told George what she was thinking. George chuckled. “Brilliant, Ana. You would make one heck of a political strategist.” To be continued.

Interview: Maria and Steve (as interviewed by Bob) The stunning photo of Ana and Maria on the deck of a cruise ship hangs on the wall and stares out at anyone who is in the living room of Maria’s and Steve’s comfortable suburban home. Clearly, there is something special about this household, and that becomes obvious when the hostess herself comes out to greet the interviewer. This interview is taking place in late summer 2004, almost nine years after the cruise ship photo was taken, but if anything, Maria is even more attractive now. She dresses for the interview in a white tank top and black pencil skirt that shows off her eternal hourglass figure. The black 5-inch stiletto pumps show that her feet still have what it takes as well. Her eyes reveal the energy of someone who still intends to live life to the fullest, and why shouldn’t she? An equally enthusiastic Steve enters the room with her. However, as well as Steve has also held up over the years, the eye still tends to wander towards Maria. We get comfortable with a snack of chocolate chip cookies and hearty Salvadoran coffee, and then the interview begins. Bob: A pleasant good afternoon to the two of you. Maria, it’s clear that there are several factors that led you to become an expert heel wearer, but certainly one of them is the high-heel culture in your native El Salvador. Can you talk about that a bit? Maria: Sure. High heels are pretty much ubiquitous among working-class and middle-class women in El Salvador. But you have to remember that El Salvador is one of the poorest countries in the western hemisphere. The peasant classes comprise most of El Salvador’s population. These are very poor people living in conditions as bad as anywhere in the Third World. They live in tenements or shacks with no running water, have little or no formal education, and most are illiterate. They wear the cheapest and simplest of clothes, and peasant women, of course, do not wear high heels. One of the reasons that women in the working and middle classes wear heels is simply to show everyone they are not peasants. High heels are often a woman’s way of saying she lives in a real house, has had at least some education and, of course, wears real clothes. I don’t think many people in the United States can truly understand a Salvadoran woman’s connection to her heels. For many women, going out in public without heels is simply unimaginable. Older women are rarely able to wear the 4- or 5-inch heels popular with younger women, but they remain attached to heels nevertheless. Women in their 50s, 60s and beyond will still wear 2-inch heels or anything they can manage, just to show they are not peasants. The prospect of losing the ability to wear heels of any kind is not pleasant for Salvadoran woman. A lot of it is about class consciousness, for better or worse. Bob: But there is a feminine aspect about it, too, isn’t there? Maria: Yes, much as there is in other Latin American countries. Salvadorans revere femininity. You have to understand that life is hard in El Salvador. There is a lot of misery and poverty, and very few things lift the spirit of people as much as the sight of a beautiful woman walking in a nice dress and high heels. This kind of thing may be considered fluffy in the United States, but people take it seriously in much of Latin America. Women in the working and middle classes are proud of their femininity and enjoy raising people’s spirits and being the objects of attention. Behavior that is considered vampish or slutty in the United States is often considered very respectable in El Salvador. Bob: You mean things like wearing tight dresses and 5-inch heels, walking suggestively, and that kind of thing? Maria: Yes. That was the culture I was raised in. I make no apologies for it. I’m glad I’ve done those things in the United States. I think North American women who don’t understand those aspects of Latin culture are all the poorer for it. Bob: When you moved to the United States, were you surprised by the different attitudes that North American women have about heels and femininity in general? Maria: I was, but remember I was only 14 years old when I came here. At that age, you tend to assume people are the same everywhere. I knew North Americans had a lot of money, so I just assumed that all North American women walked around in beautiful heels and elegant clothing. When I moved here and saw otherwise, I was disappointed. I couldn’t understand why so many North American women dressed so slovenly. Actually, that is a very common reaction when Latin American women come to the United States. I felt proudly that Latin American women were mas mujer, which roughly translates as “more woman,” than North American women. I realize now that is a little simplistic and unfair, but even now I think there is some truth to that statement. Bob: Why is that? Maria: Maybe I should clarify what I said. Latin American women can learn a lot from North American women. I admire North American women for their determination to pursue careers, for their ability not to be intimidated by men, for their willingness to stand up for themselves. Those gains are all the result of the feminist movement of the last 40 years. I am a great admirer of the feminist movement and I think we all owe a debt of gratitude to the women who suffered so much to make it happen. However, I also think the feminist movement threw out the baby with the bath water. In the 1950s, North American women were delighted to wear 5-inch heels and all kinds of elegant clothes. That was a great thing. Women rightly valued their femininity. At the same time, woman were not allowed to aspire to be anything more than teachers or nurses, and that was bad. That had to be changed. But when feminists in the 1960s and 70s demanded equal pay and opportunity for women, they took off their heels and loosened their clothing in the process because they basically equated those things with the discrimination of the past. That was the mistake. I do not see why it had to be one thing or the other. I have always thought women should be free to have the careers of their choice and still express their femininity without hesitation or second thoughts. Steve: Yes, but you had to understand that too many men in the working world of the 60s, 70s and even later still looked at women as sex objects. In order to be taken seriously in the working world, women had to ‘defeminize’ their appearance, if I can use that term, to convince men they could be valuable workers. Maria: That is probably true. I was not in the North American workforce at that time, obviously. But I do not think it is too late for us to take the attitude that we can have our careers and femininity at the same time. I think most modern men would accept that, and even welcome it. But too many women still have the attitude that it is either one or the other. I try to demonstrate every day that women can have both. Bob: And by that, Maria, I assume you mean you still regularly wear heels and clothes that most North American women consider a little too racy. Steve, as Maria’s husband, how do you feel about that? Steve: Maria’s manner of dress is often on the edge, but she expresses herself as she does because it is right for her. Why would I want to deny that to her? Also, her insistence that we think of her manner of dress as our expression, rather than simply her expression, was a real stroke of genius. We have a mature partnership in which we discuss and reach agreement on how she presents herself to the outside world. I feel more comfortable with her appearance because I have helped to shape it. We avoid the immature fighting that would result if a woman dresses just to please herself and makes her husband uncomfortable or jealous in the process. Bob: You realized relatively late in life that you have an attraction to women in heels? Steve: I guess so, although it is hard to say. I remember thinking there was something special about women in heels in my early childhood. In my early teen years, I felt that women in high-heeled boots were sexy. So I think the innate attraction to women in heels has always been there. But I was never really exposed to women in heels for most of my life, and so I never really knew the attraction existed. Heels were not in style when I was in high school. When I went to college, my two main interests were computers and writing, and neither attracted the kind of women who tend to wear heels. When I was married to Pam, I remember thinking occasionally that it would be nice if she wore heels every once in a while, but the thoughts were so fleeting that I never bothered to mention it to her. When Ana started wearing heels again, it had big impact on me. My early dates with Maria confirmed for me that the attraction was there. I just needed someone to help me discover this aspect of myself, and our two wives did that. Bob: As a male, is the attraction to women in high heels mostly sexual, or is it something more aesthetic? Steve: It certainly starts out being sexual. At least it did for me. When I started dating Maria, it was a turn-on for me that a woman would want to step into a pair of shoes that almost magically make all the erotic areas of her body more prominent, and that give her a sexier walk. So, for me, it was the physical impact of heels and the idea that the woman wanted that physical impact. Since I have been married to Maria, I have gained a much greater appreciation for the non-sexual appeal of heels. You know, feminine expression, elegance, and so on. But I think the appeal of heels for men is almost always more squarely focused on the sexual than it is for women. Maria: I have tried to educate him, but it is slow going! (Laughs.) Bob: Maria, could you bring us up to date on what you are doing now in terms of work? Maria: I am a regional manager in charge of purchasing for a prestigious national retail chain of clothing stores. Bob: My, oh my! Who would have thought you would end up in the clothing field? Maria: Yes, that is what everyone says. Bob: All sarcasm aside, it sounds like you have done very well for yourself. Do you think your penchant for heels and nice clothing helped you get where you are? Maria: No question about it. My grandmother said heels and feminine expression would enable me to get ahead in this world. I took her advice seriously, and she was right. I hope I have made her proud, wherever she is. Firstly, I don’t know where I would be today if I had not met and married Steve. Steve’s story goes into the role that heels played in our relationship, and of course he made it possible for me to get my college degree in business. Late in my senior year, one of my professors pulled me aside after class and told me that a major clothing-store chain was accepting applicants for a management training program. “Maria, that training program was designed for you,” he said. Why did my professor have so much confidence in me? I was getting good grades, but so were a lot of other students. However, most of my fellow students were wearing jeans, sweatshirts and tennis shoes to class, while I was wearing 5-inch heels and professional-looking business attire. It was obvious to my professor that I knew something about clothes and shoes, and in business, you need to know your product. If you have a genuine passion for your product, that is even better. My professor gave me a top recommendation and I got into the training program. I did well in the program, and at the end the company offered me a job in their purchasing department. It would have made more sense for them to offer me a job in their accounting department, as I had taken a lot of accounting courses at college. However, I continued to wear 5-inch heels and good business clothes to the training program, despite advice from some that 5-inch heels would make me look unprofessional and therefore hurt me. But successful business people are not dumb. They know it is important to match the right person with the right job, and a woman who wears high heels and good business clothes every day knows clothing and heels. I have been with the company for almost seven years and have been promoted twice. I analyze marketing trends and help make decisions about the clothes and shoes that we purchase from manufacturers and then sell at our retail outlets in my region. Bob: Very impressive. Not many people get to merge their personal and professional interests in the way that you have. Do you still wear 5-inch heels on the job? Maria: Yes, 5-inch heels are my standard shoe, although in recent years I have started to get lazy and I often move down to 4-inch heels on Fridays. As for the rest of my work wardrobe, it is mostly professional business suits, usually blouses and skirts as well as dresses and, occasionally, pants. Nothing too tight or sexy like the stuff Steve described in these stories. Not at work. Bob: No, but I’m sure the heels are sexy enough. Maria: Yes, I think some people feel that way. But I think that still works to my advantage. On most days, I work in a regional office where everyone has known me for years and knows I am a heel wearer. I honestly do not think anyone there notices. But I do a lot of traveling to clothing manufacturers and also our retail outlets. They notice the heels. Bob: Is that good or bad? Maria: Oh, it’s good. It proves I mean business, quite literally. I get a lot of looks, particularly from the men who work for the clothing manufacturers. But because of my Salvadoran background, that stuff does not unnerve me at all. If you want to look, then look. If it convinces you that I know the product line and you had better take my business proposals seriously, then great. If I turn you on, that’s OK, too, as long as you keep those thoughts to yourself. I really like visiting our retail outlets. A lot of our retail clerks are younger women who are really into fashion, and a lot of them are trying to wear heels on the job. It’s tough, though, because they are on their feet all day. When they see me, they know I am not just another manager from the regional office. I really wear the clothes and shoes we sell, and that gives me credibility with them. I have coached a number of our clerks in moving up to higher heels, either at work or in their personal lives, or both. That has nothing to do with my job duties, it is just something I do for personal interest. I never offer unsolicited advice, but if they ask for advice or help, I give it to them. Bob: That sounds like it jibes with your philosophy of challenging people to embrace fashions that are boldly feminine. Maria: That is right. I am a lot less militant about it now than I was when I was first married. But I also feel very gratified by my experiences with the store clerks. There are people out there who agree with my ideas about feminine expression! Bob: So is there any room in your life for sexy dresses and even more daring heels? Maria: That is what weekends and vacations are for. Steve and others have helped me develop a greater appreciation for, well, what would you call it…. Steve: The recreational aspects of heels. Maria: Of course! That’s what I meant to say! (Laughs.) Bob: I suspect we do not want to go into that subject any further at this time. Do you see yourself continuing to express yourself in nice clothes and very high heels for a long time to come? Maria: I am only 34 years old. So, yes, I think I have a lot of good years of heel wearing left in me, if that is what you mean. I take care of myself, eat right, select my shoes carefully, and do exercises to make sure my tendons and arches stay healthy. I intend to make 5-inch heels my standard shoe for a long time to come. And when I finally have to go lower, I’ll accept it, but I will stay as high as I can as long as I can. That’s the Salvadoran way, and it’s the way my grandmother and mother taught me. And when Steve and I are old and gray, and I am tottering around in one-inch heels, we will still have notebooks and CDs full of photos of me in all kinds of shoes and dresses, with the cruise ship photo on page one. Those photos are a record of me, and I sure as hell want future generations to know how I much I enjoyed my life, and to enjoy it along with me.

My romance with Maria progressed very quickly. After our first series of dates in November and December 1994, we became engaged in April and were married in August 1995. Our wedding reception was in her family’s restaurant. Maria wore a full white wedding gown, and her 5-1/2 inch white stiletto pumps drew nods of approval from her family and expressions of surprise from mine. Our honeymoon in Hawaii was, for lack of a more descriptive term, enjoyable. Shortly after our engagement, I encouraged Maria to apply for admittance as a business student to the state university in our city. She had completed a two-year program at a community college several years earlier, but was unable to continue at the university level because of her family’s limited finances. I was happy to pay her expenses from my salary. She was admitted to the university beginning the following January. The next development in our lives that is relevant to this series of stories concerned my two friends, Bob and Ana. By the time Maria and I became engaged, Ana had returned to being a full-time heel wearer after having largely abandoned heels following her marriage to Bob and her move to the United States from her native Costa Rica. After gradually moving up from lower heels, she was able to regularly wear 5-inch heels at her job as a bank teller without physical discomfort or any trouble from her employer. She routinely wore heels of 5 inches or higher on her own time as well. Bob and I thought that Maria and Ana would hit things off immediately, given their Central American backgrounds and their common interest in heels and feminine fashion. The four of us got together for the first time while Maria and I were dating, and while Maria was polite with Ana, no friendship developed. Similarly, nothing developed when we all got together several more times during the ensuing months. Maria had no problem with Ana, but she considered Ana as well as Bob to be my friends, not hers. Maria was still very close to her family and continued to spend a lot of time with them even after she moved into my house following our marriage. Under such circumstances, she had little inclination to spend time with Ana. For her part, Ana had no family in the United States other than her husband, and welcomed the opportunity to make friends with Maria. She was a little perplexed that Maria did not feel the same about her. Bob and I sat down one day to figure how to get Maria to bond with Ana, and I came up with a devious plan. I felt we had to get Maria out of town and away from her family, and put the four of us in a setting where Maria would feel somewhat out of place and would turn to Ana for support. I decided that a vacation on a cruise ship was what we needed. I had never been on a cruise and had never had much interest in them, as I felt they appealed to people who mainly wanted to lie around in the sun and eat. I did not think Maria would have much in common with most cruise ship passengers, which is why I thought a cruise would be perfect for the four of us. Bob thought the idea was brilliant, and we booked passage for the four of us on a week-long cruise from Los Angeles to Mexico for the upcoming December, the month before Maria was to begin college. We flew to L.A. on the scheduled day, spent the night in a hotel and boarded the cruise ship the following morning. Bob and I lost track of Maria and Ana by early afternoon, and we did not see them for several hours. That alone was probably a good sign. Bob and I spent most of the afternoon walking around the ship and observing the passengers. They were pretty much as I had expected: a lot of Americans, many of them fairly overweight, dressed in tee-shirts and shorts or slacks, and seeking a respite from the cold winter weather. We saw a lot of birkenstocks, tennis shoes and flip-flop sandals. I mean no disrespect for people who enjoy cruises, as there is an unquestionable appeal to a casual, restful ocean voyage. This simply was not Maria’s type of crowd, which was just as we wanted it. I returned to our cabin in late afternoon to get ready for dinner, and I heard Maria in the bathroom. “I’ll be out in a minute,” she said. “How do you like things so far?” I asked. “The ship is very nice, the weather is lovely and the ocean is inviting. I’m not sure about the people, though. I think you and I have seen better displays of fashion when we’ve been camping in the mountains.” “I’m sure you’ll do something about that.” Maria opened the door and walked out of the bathroom. She approached me and asked in a seductive tone, “How do I look?” This was a little ritual that Maria and I developed early in our relationship. At my company’s Christmas party a year earlier, Maria said that her feminine expression had become our expression, and she meant it. She required my approval any time she dressed in a way that would challenge or shock people with her high-octane femininity. This served an important purpose: If we both took responsibility for managing her steamy public image, the risk of a rift occurring in our marriage due to a disagreement over her attire would be minimized. Also, our collaboration made this quirky pastime of ours even more enjoyable. Maria’s jet-black, shoulder-length hair was styled perfectly. Her black eye shadow and red lipstick was bold but not overdone, and both jibed elegantly with her bronze skin tone. She was wearing the body-wrapping black dress that we had bought just for this cruise. It was tighter above the waist than her older Salvadoran dresses, which reflected her steady integration into U.S. culture and its preference for dresses and tops that placed greater emphasis on the bust than Salvadoran fashion. Below the waist, the dress unashamedly broadcast the curvature of her hips and thighs before ending just above the knee. Last but not least, Maria’s black seamed stockings and 5-1/2 inch black stiletto pumps rounded out the picture. Simply put, she was drop-dead gorgeous. “It’s a go,” I said with considerable understatement. “My only concern is that you may cause someone to choke on their cheesecake.” “I don’t want that, but I’ll be satisfied if I can get one person on this ship to realize there can be more to a cruise-ship vacation than wearing Bermuda shorts and a tee-shirts.” Bob and Ana, who were staying in the room next to ours, knocked on our door. After Maria, I did not think anyone else would impress me, but Ana made my heart skip a beat. Her brownish-reddish hair was also freshly styled, and she wore a tight-fitting ankle-length black dress with a slit up one side that reached almost as high as her waist. The dress also allowed full viewing of a wonderful pair of 5-1/2 inch black stiletto sandals. I had to take a second look at Ana, and then a third. Maria said, “My compliments to you, Ana. You are one hot senora,” she said. Ana seemed genuinely touched by the compliment. “Thanks, Maria. You’re not looking so bad yourself.” We made our way to the dining hall, where a large buffet had been set up. We ate our first helping, and Maria and Ana got up to study the dessert offerings. Knowing Maria as well as I did at that point, I knew part of her motive for lingering by the food was to make sure as many diners as possible were aware of her presence. It would have been hard for anyone to miss the two of them. A small number of the other diners were wearing dresses or other suitable evening wear, but the great majority were in shorts or slacks. I saw a few three-inch heels here and there, but nobody else came close to Maria and Ana in dressing up for the occasion. Something struck me about our two wives. Standing together in their eye-catching attire, each woman’s beauty seemed to be magnified by the other. It was almost as if they were a team, rather than simply being two beautiful women who happened to be together. Perhaps this was due to their similarities. They were both about the same height (5 feet, 5 inches barefoot), and obviously had similar tastes for very high heels and tight clothing. But there were important differences, too. While both women would be immediately recognizable to most observers as Latinas, Maria had a dark-brown complexion representative of the mixed Spanish-Indian blood of most Salvadorans, while Ana had a lighter complexion consistent with the European heritage of most Costa Ricans. Maria had a voluptuous hourglass figure, while Ana was more petite (although not without impressive curves of her own). Whether it was the similarities, the differences or a combination of both, there was something about the two of them that was intriguing. I shared my observation with Bob, and he agreed that the women as a pair had an indefinable quality that neither of us had expected. “It’s exponential in nature,” Bob said. “The two women together don’t have twice the impact of either woman by herself. They have four times the impact.” The women rejoined us, and we sat around at the table and talked for a while until two men approached our table. They introduced themselves as Bernard Higgins and George Shane, and said they handled customer relations for the cruise ship company. They gave us their business cards, and we each introduced ourselves. “Excuse us for interrupting your evening,” Mr. Higgins said. “We couldn’t help but notice that Ana and Maria look very glamorous this evening. We would like to offer the two ladies a chance to pose for some photographs that might be used in future pamphlets and informational literature to promote our cruises. You convey just the image we like to promote – two healthy, vivacious ladies enjoying themselves very much on our cruises.” “Don’t you normally use professional models for this sort of thing?” I asked. “We often do, but we have the discretion to use passengers if they meet our needs and are willing. We like to be able to say the people in the photos are real passengers, if we can say it truthfully,” Mr. Higgins replied. “It’s up to you. If you’re not interested, we understand perfectly, and we’ll be on our way.” Maria said, “You bet I’m interested. If you want style, we can give you style. Ana, are you up for this?” “Absolutely,” Ana said. “What do we need to do?” *** *** *** Mr. Shane, who was the ship’s photographer, went to get his camera and lighting equipment, and began setting it up in the dining hall as dinner was winding down. In the meantime, Mr. Higgins had Maria and Ana sign a release giving their permission to be photographed and agreeing to a stipend of $100 each for any photograph the cruise company used in its literature. The photo shoot began with Maria and Ana in front of a dessert display with all kinds of cakes, pies and other sweet things. Mr. Shane began snapping photos at a fast pace, muttering things like, “Doing great, ladies, stay relaxed, you’re looking great.” I knew from my own experience with Maria that she was a natural model, with an innate ability to make love to the camera. Ana was almost as good, looking feminine and sensual, and standing at the corrrect angle for her leg to be fully visible within the slit of her long skirt. Mr. Shane did not ask her to change her position. As Mr. Shane continued shooting, a small crowd of people gathered around, attracted initially by the bright lights that had been set up for the photographs. I smiled to myself when I heard some man mutter to a friend, “Now those two make one helluva dessert, don’t they?” Mr. Shane moved them to another part of the buffet, so they were standing in front of an impressive display of turkey, roast beef and other main course offerings. They set up the photographic lights there and began shooting again. After shooting several rolls of film, Mr. Shane and Mr. Higgins conferred, and Mr. Higgins said to the two women, “I know we’ve taken up a great deal of your time, but we think these photos are going to be really special. Would you be willing to pose for some photographs on the main deck? We have some really nice backdrops that work well in photographs.” “Well, let’s see…..yes!” Maria said, as she winked at Ana. We moved up to the main deck. Mr. Shane knew where he wanted Maria and Ana, posing them at various locations such as the swimming pool and the main sun deck. People continued to gather and watch the photo shoot as we moved around. Before the photography had even ended, a rumor had started that Maria and Ana were professional models were Mexico. I heard it from a man in the crowd who, unaware of who I was, asked me if I knew how well-known Maria and Ana were in Mexico. Bob got the same question a short time later. When the photo shoot finally ended, Mr. Higgins and Mr. Shane thanked all four of us profusely and said we could stop by the cruise ship’s public relations office in the morning to view the photos. Maria and Ana seemed confused when several passengers asked them if they were indeed Mexican models. While Bob and I hoped they would play along with the rumor and say they were, the women were honest and told them no, they were not. “How do these rumors get started? Do I look Mexican to you?” Ana said to us in mock indignation. We spent the rest of the evening dancing to rock music in the ship’s discotheque. We got back to our rooms quite late. I lay down on the bed with Maria and said to her, “You proved your point, not that I needed convincing. The cruise ship company saw your style, your expression, and they will use it to entice people to take their cruises. You made your impression.” “Yes, it’s exciting to think that Ana and I will be selling cruise ship vacations. But half the passengers on the ship think we are professional models. In their world view, only models dress up like we did, but real people don’t. That is a little disappointing.” I helped Maria get out of her dress. She then stepped out of her heels, and carefully took off her seamed stockings, garter and underwear. I disrobed as well. Maria put her heels back on and lay down on the bed. My jaw dropped. The month after our wedding, I suggested to Maria that she wear heels during lovemaking, and she told me in no uncertain terms that heels were for feminine expression in public, and not for use as sex toys. I never brought up the subject again. “What’s this all about?” I asked with a smile. Maria giggled. “Ana often wears heels when they make love. We talked about it this afternoon while we were walking around the boat.” “Great,” I said. “When your husband suggests something, it’s one of those filthy guy things. But if a woman suggests the same thing, it’s worth trying.” “Don’t take it so personal,” she said, wrapping her arms around me and giving me a wet kiss. “Sometimes we ladies just need to hear things from a woman’s point of view.” At breakfast the following morning, nobody asked Maria or Ana if they were professional models from Mexico. Instead, several people simply approached them in the buffet line and asked if they could have their photo taken with them. Rather than protest, Maria and Ana gave their best smiles as people took photos of their family members standing with them. The two women quickly developed a policy for handling these requests: They would not turn down anyone’s request for a photo, but if asked, they would tell the truth and explain who they really were. But the rumor had become so accepted that not many people bothered to ask. At least our spouses dressed for the part. They both dressed casually, by their standards, in light colored tops and tight-fitting capri pants. It was the heels that made it easy for others to believe that the two women were models, as Maria wore a pair of 4-inch mules, and Ana sported a pair of 4-inch wedge sandals. After breakfast, we walked over to the public relations office. Mr. Higgins greeted us and sat us down, and Mr. Shane showed his photos. We all took a deep breath as we looked through them. In photo after photo, Maria and Ana really did look like professional models. “You do good work, Mr. Shane,” I told him. “I know my profession,” he replied. “But I can’t make a beautiful photo from nothing. Your wives are quite stunning. We don’t get many passengers like the two of you.” He then took a photo out of an envelope that was separated from the other pictures. “This is the cover of our next year’s booklet. The folks in headquarters will have to make that decision, of course. But I'll bet a year’s salary on it,” he said. We all gasped when we saw the photograph. Maria and Ana were standing on the deck of the ship, with the ocean in the background glistening in the moonlight. Our two wives were looking invitingly into the camera, radiating femininity through their dresses, their hair and their shoes. Absolute perfection. “There is no way you can see this photo and not want to take one of our cruises,” Mr. Shane boasted. “I’ll get my Christmas bonus for this photograph.” Mr. Shane turned out to be right. The cruise ship company’s 1996 booklet features the stunning photo of Maria and Ana on the cover, and a number of other photos of the two of them appear in the booklet and other promotional materials. Framed copies of the cover photo provided to us as a courtesy by Mr. Shane are prominently displayed today in both our homes. When we left the office, I told Maria, “I think you owe the passengers an apology, Maria. Ana and you are now professional models. You’re just not Mexican, that’s all.” Maria lightened up after that. People approached our two wives and asked them to pose with their children, babies, and their elderly parents. Some just wanted pictures of the two of them. The rumor even evolved. They were no longer just Mexican models, but well-known Mexican models, perhaps even two of the top models in the country. “There is a store in our neighborhood that sells all the top Mexican fashion magazines. Which ones have you been in?” one woman asked them. When Maria and Ana denied being models, people just assumed they were saying that to deflect attention and to get some privacy. One woman insisted she had seen Maria in a Mexican fashion magazine the previous year. Maria laughingly asked for the precise issue in question so she could check it out when she got home. Bob and I felt left out. After all this time, no one had asked about us! The cruise ship made several stops on the Mexican coast, with the principal stop being the resort town of Puerto Vallarta. The ship arrived in the morning, and all passengers were free to spend the day and even the night in town, if they wanted. Maria and Ana were dressed for the occasion. Ana looked great in her trademark skintight blue jeans and 5-inch stiletto mules. Maria looked similarly dashing in a white top and white pencil skirt, and 5-inch stiletto sandals. Several passengers inquired politely as to whether they were going to a modeling assignment in town, and they seemed surprised when Maria and Ana said no, they were just going to spend the day sight-seeing and shopping. One woman said she could not believe anyone could walk around for an entire day in such high-heeled shoes. “Honey, you’re in Latin America. This is our part of the world,” Ana said, waving her right foot in the air and dangling her shoe. “This is how real women dress here.” The four of us spent the day wandering around the shops and soaking up the pleasant small-town atmosphere of Puerto Vallarta. At one point, the women got ahead of Bob and I while we stopped to look at a sports display in one of the stores. We started walking again, and were about 100 feet or so behind our wives. I could not help but notice Ana’s wiggle, with her tight jeans broadcasting the wonderfully heel-enhanced movement of her behind with each step she took. For her part, Maria was in her relatively mild sensual walk mode, rolling her hips slowly and fluidly from side to side. Her particular style was less dramatic when seen from behind, but it nevertheless complimented Ana’s body language nicely. Bob was admiring our two wives as well. “Just think, my friend,” Bob said, as he put his hand on my shoulder. “Ten years ago, as college students, you and I would go to parties and stand around in the corner and drink beer while other guys got the action with the women. Look who we ended up marrying. Now, not to overlook the fact that we are two sensitive, intelligent men who have forged tight intellectual and spiritual bonds with our wives. But I see these two women from this angle, and I have to conclude that, god damn, you and I did all right.” “Well put,” I said, and I gave Bob a high-five. “But you know, there is something odd about this place,” I added. “There are a lot of women in this town, but none of them are wearing high heels. Back at home, we see Mexican and Mexican-American women in heels all the time. What do you think is going on?” “Beats me,” Bob said. But we would soon find out. *** *** *** The four of us entered a little store that sold women’s clothing and shoes. A Mexican woman inside the store greeted us in English, introduced herself as Sarah, and encouraged us to look around. She heard Maria and Ana speaking in Spanish and immediately asked them in Spanish where in Central America they were from. How ironic: The North Americans on our cruise ship were convinced Maria and Ana were Mexicans, but a Mexican could hear their Spanish-language accents and know immediately they were not Mexican. Sarah appeared to be about our age, and she was wearing a simple dress and low-heel loafers. She exchanged brief pleasantries with Maria and Ana, and then walked behind the counter and stood for a few seconds by the cash register. She walked back out and began showing Maria and Ana some of her merchandise….but she was now wearing 5-inch stiletto pumps! “What the hell. Did you see what I just saw?” Bob whispered to me. Indeed, I had. My high-school Spanish had improved significantly in the months since my wedding with Maria, and Bob’s Spanish was pretty good, too, so we could follow Sarah’s conversation in Spanish with our wives. They discussed dresses for a few minutes, and then the conversation turned to shoes. The store had a pretty good collection of high heels, with a few reaching 5 inches in height. Ana mentioned to Sarah that Bob and I both spoke some Spanish and were high-heel lovers, and Sarah turned to us and said in English, “You married well, gentlemen. And if you know any single North American men like yourselves, please encourage them to come to Puerto Vallarta. We don’t get many like you.” “And feel free to visit us in the United States. We don’t have enough women like you,” Bob said. “That was quite a change in shoes you made several minutes ago. We don’t see things like that at home.” Sarah chuckled. “You are in Puerto Vallarta. This is a tourist town. If I had my way, I would wear 5-inch heels every day. But sometimes foreign tourists get the wrong idea about women who wear very high heels, so I wear low heels to avoid problems. But I always keep a pair of heels by the cash register. When Latin visitors come into my store, I change into higher heels immediately. In their eyes, how can I be a credible vendor of high-heel shoes if I don’t wear them myself?” “Makes perfect sense to me,” Ana said. “Is that why we have seen so few women in high heels in this town?” I asked. “At home, we see many Mexican women in heels.” Sarah turned more serious. “If you want to see a city full of beautiful Mexican women in high heels, go to Mexico City or Guadalajara. But Puerto Vallarta is a tourist town, and we must be careful here. Many of your countrymen come down here and they think it is acceptable to be drunk and rude because they are in Mexico. They do things they would never do at home. If they see a woman in high heels, they may assume she is looking for sex and they may say things to her that are very distasteful. There may be unpleasant confrontations, even assaults. So women dress conservatively to avoid difficulties with tourists.” “I know what you mean,” Ana said. “I had one bad incident in the United States, and it took me several years before I could wear heels in public again. It is almost as if you lead a double life.” “Exactly! It is a double life,” Sarah said. “Because when we are in private, or if we are in a place where we know most or all of the people will be Mexican, we wear all kinds of beautiful high heels, just like women in the rest of Mexico. We feel proud to be Mexican, and make our men feel proud, too.” “It is exactly the same in El Salvador, and in Costa Rica, for that matter,” Maria said, as Ana nodded in agreement. Maria and Ana decided to buy identical red-orange dresses and matching 5-inch stiletto pumps. The thought of seeing them together in identical clothes was appealing. They made their selection rather quickly, and then spent considerable time talking about a black dress and black 4-1/2 inch pumps. They finally agreed on one dress and pair of shoes, and bought it on our credit card. I knew the dress and shoes did not fit either Maria or Ana, but they refused to say why they bought the dress. After several more hours of shopping, we returned to the ship to rest. I was resting in our cabin with Maria when there was a knock on the door. Ana was standing there with the maid who had been cleaning our room every day, a young Mexican woman named Helena. The women came in and shut the door. Maria took the black dress and shoes out of her shopping bag and said in Spanish to Helena, “This is our gift to you.” Helena was so touched that she had to dry away tears while she profusely thanked Maria and Ana. Helena thanked me as well when Maria said they bought the dress on my credit card. Maria later explained to me that Helena had told Ana and her several times during the trip how lovely they looked and how, unfortunately, she was not able to afford a pair of heels and a nice dress. The gift was a very nice gesture on their part. Maria and Ana banished me to Bob’s cabin while Helena tried on the dress and shoes. Our wives also gave Helena a minor makeover by brushing her hair into a new style and applying their makeup on her. Helena was a different person by the time I returned to our cabin with Bob. She left with her gifts and profusely thanked us all again. We celebrated our wives’ good deed that night by going out on the town in Puerto Vallarta. We did not get back on the ship until quite late and slept in the next day. By late morning, the ship left Puerto Vallarta and began heading north back to home. After lunch, we returned to our rooms and found a note that Helena had left thanking us again for our gift and inviting the four of us to a party that evening on one of the lower decks where passengers normally did not go. At about ten in the evening, the four of us took the elevator down to the lower deck and walked a long corridor to find the party. Maria and Ana were wearing their identical red-orange Mexican dresses and pumps, and were generating as much heat as the tropical sun at high noon. We found the room and opened the door to find a large storage room that was half full of equipment. The party was taking place in the empty half of the room. Helena saw us when we entered the room and came over to us. She did indeed look like a different person in her black dress and 4-1/2 inch stiletto pumps. If I had not known, I would have never guessed she was the same person as the maid who had been cleaning our rooms. All of the partygoers were Mexicans, and some of them shot unfriendly glares at the four of us, and particularly Bob and me. Helena turned to them and said, “Esta bien. Son mis amigos.” It is OK, we were her friends, she said. And so we entered. There were some folding tables set up with tacos and other Mexican foods, as well as bottles of beer and tequila. A boom box was playing Mexican music. All in all, it was a strange setting for a party. There were perhaps 30 Mexicans in this room. They were all employees of the ship, mostly maids, waiters and waitresses, busboys, dishwashers and janitors. I recognized several of the men quickly, but it took me a while to recognize most of the women because, like Helena, they were wearing dresses and high heels. Helena explained to us in Spanish about this party. On every voyage, the cruise ship company allowed the Mexican crew members to have one party in this storage room, far removed from areas of the ship where passengers went. The crew members were allowed to take leftover food and alcohol from the ship’s kitchen for their party. The party was intended for Mexicans, and this was the first time in anyone’s memory that any passengers had been invited. That explained the icy reception we had received. It all became crystal clear to me as I recalled what Sarah had told us in her store the previous day. These little storage-room parties were the Mexican crew members’ inner sanctum. It was their chance to get away from being the servants of North American tourists and to assert their own Mexican identity. The men were dressed in nice shirts and pants. Some of the women wore nicer dresses and shoes than others, but it seemed to me that most of them were going for maximum heel height whether they were capable of managing it or not. Many of the women were in 5- or 5-1/2 inch heels, and only a few were in anything less than 4 inches. About half the women wobbled a bit as they struggled to walk elegantly in their shoes, but it did not seem to matter to anyone. These women only had one night to compensate for an entire voyage of mundane work, and they were going to reach as high as they possibly could. By the look in their eye, the men appreciated the effort. No wonder Helena had felt horribly left out by not having heels to wear! We stayed longer than I would have thought. Maria and Ana spent much of the evening talking to the women about shoes, how to walk properly in them, and how to select the right shoes. Bob and I talked to some of the men, who warmed up somewhat to us once they learned that we had bought Helena’s dress and shoes. They mainly wanted to know where in Central America our wives were from, and how we had met them. As the hour got late, many of the Mexicans began pairing off. When Helena sat on her boyfriend’s lap and began kissing him passionately, we knew it was time to go. We got back to our cabin, and I had visions in my head of all those Mexican women in their dresses and high heels as Maria and I made love. We finally fell asleep around dawn. *** *** *** The return voyage to Los Angeles was, for the most part, restful and non-eventful, except for the continuing stream of passengers who wanted to have their photos taken with Maria and Ana. The rumor continued to evolve: Not only were the two women among the most famous models in Mexico, but they had also starred in several major Mexican motion pictures as well, and they were continuously asked which movies they had been in. “If we’re such high-paid models and movie stars, then why are we in the economy cabins for this cruise?” Maria asked, playfully poking me with her elbow. For a trip that had been planned for the cynical purpose of not being too enjoyable, the cruise was turning into a surprisingly delightful vacation. We all found the cruise to be a needed break from our work-a-day lives, and Maria and Ana had clearly become good friends, so the trip surpassed all of its objectives as far as I was concerned. On the last night before our return to Los Angeles, a Mexican salsa band played in the dance hall. Ana once again wore her classic jeans and 5-inch mules, while Maria wore her red-orange Mexican dress and matching 5-inch pumps. However, this was a night for Bob and Ana. While Maria could be as extroverted as anyone in her manner of dress and walking style, she was not a passionate dancer, and my own dance skills were absolutely woeful. In contrast, Bob and Ana could both light up a dance floor. Maria and I went back to our table after realizing it was more fun watching Bob and Ana than it was to dance ourselves. And we were not alone: a number of people enjoyed watching our two friends swivel and gyrate to the infectious beat of the salsa music. After each song, at least some of the applause in the dance hall was for them. Watching them dance reminded me of my own fateful night dancing with Ana more than a year earlier. Maria and I finally went to our room and made love, as we had every night of the cruise. Afterwards, Maria was in an unusually chatty mood as we cuddled in bed together. “This turned out to be a very nice trip,” Maria said. “I have really made a connection with Ana. We feel like we have known each other all our lives, even though we were barely acquainted before this trip.” “That is good,” I replied. “The two of you have so much in common, I always thought it was just a matter of time before you struck up your own friendship.” “You think Ana is really sexy, don’t you?” “Oh, Maria, what kind of question is that? I’ve told you the story. Ana really opened my eyes when she resumed wearing heels and tight clothing, and that inspired me to go out and find you. So, of course I think Ana is sexy, but she is just a platonic friend who is married to my closest friend. There is nothing more to it than that.” “I’m sorry, Steve, I shouldn’t have asked the question in that way. I’m not jealous or angry. I would be worried if you didn’t think Ana was incredibly sexy.” She thought for a second. “Steve, you and I have spent more time in bed on this trip than we did during our honeymoon. Why is that? I think it is because we are spending so much time with them. Ana and Bob. The four of us just have this chemistry. We wind each other up, so to speak.” “That is because Ana and you are world-class heel wearers.” “Oh, it is much more than that, Steve. The heels and the clothes may be the spark. But it takes more than an ignition system to run a car. You guys have a big part in this. In our marriage, you and I have a stated agreement that my heels and clothes are not just my expression, but are our expression. It must be the same in Ana’s and Bob’s marriage. Even if they do not consciously talk about it as we do, they must have an implicit agreement over the way Ana expresses herself. When Ana wiggles in her skintight jeans and skyscraper heels, it is as much his doing as hers. Each of the four of us generates a lot of energy, and when we all get together, our energy reflects off each other and builds up to a boiling point.” “And sex is how we dissipate that energy, even though the expression the four of us have developed is about more than just sex.” “Now you get it!” Maria said. “So what do we do about it?” I asked. “We just enjoy it. We recognize it for what it is, and be thankful we have a special friendship with another couple that few others have.” She then climbed on top of me. “Think of it this way: You spent the evening with a sexy Costa Rican model in her tight jeans and heels, and an even sexier Salvadoran model in her tight dress and heels. Seems like it is only natural for you to make love twice tonight…to me, of course.” “Of course,” I said as I pulled her down on to me. We arrived in L.A. and flew home the following day, all of us rested and pleased with our week on the ocean. My conversation with Maria that final night made me understand that we did have a unique relationship emerging with Bob and Ana that we should explore further. Even more importantly, I thought the solid friendship between the four of us would provide Maria with additional moral support she would need as she began the rigors of her university studies. I had no clue that a totally unexpected development was about to occur that would drive the energy level between us higher than we could have imagined.

The trail was flat and dry, and we encountered no problems in the first half-mile. The route then led across an area of exposed granite. Fortunately, granite tends to be smooth and easy to walk across, and Maria walked on top of it as easily as she would on a sidewalk in the city. We came to an area with a nice view of the lake, and I took out my camera to take a picture. “OK, one for the memory books. Smile,” I said to Maria. Maria turned a little to the side but then looked back at me and smiled with the ease and poise of a professional model. God, I thought to myself, is there anything relating to being attractive and feminine that this woman cannot do? I snapped one picture, and then another. The blue lake, green forest and silvery mountains made a great backdrop for this shapely, bronze-skinned woman in her red sweater, tight black sweatpants and heels. “Would it help if I changed my pose? How’s this?” she asked. Before I had realized it, I had snapped a dozen photos and finished my roll of film. We did not know it at the time, but the impromptu photo session was the beginning of a tradition that would provide many pleasurable hours for us at a multitude of interesting places. But I should not get ahead of the story. We continued our walk, which took us off the rocks and back onto the dirt trail. We then came to a small saturated, muddy area that required about five steps to cross. I tiptoed across the mud and turned around towards Maria. “I can help you, if you want,” I said. “I don’t need help. You walked across putting your weight on your toes, just like a woman in high heels. That proves my point that walking here in heels is no big deal.” She took one step into the mud with her left foot, and then a second step with her right. As she transferred her weight from her left foot to her right food, her right foot slipped out from under her, and to prevent herself from falling, she swiftly moved her left foot out in front and slammed it into the mud with a loud PLOP. Her heel sunk all the way into the mud. “Oh, no, look at this!” she cried. I looked at her calmly. “You were right to put your weight on your toes, but your shoes failed you in one critical area.” I turned around and lifted one of my feet so she could see them. “My boots have hard, rubber soles with ridges and grooves that provide for stable footing in the mud. Your shoes, on the other hand, have simple flat soles for walking on floors and sidewalks. They provide absolutely no traction for walking in mud.” “Thank you, mister ourdoorsman!” Maria exclaimed. She pulled as hard as she could to get her heel out of the mud. As she did, she had to put her weight on her other foot, which began sinking in the mud as well. “OK, you win!” she said. “I don’t want any lectures, no I-told-you-so’s. Just get me out of here!” I extended my hand to her, grabbed her arm with my other hand, and pulled her to safety. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to laugh at your predicament,” I said. “I hope your shoes aren’t ruined. There is a creek a little bit ahead, and we can wash the mud off there.” “Don’t worry about the shoes. They’re an old pair I never wear anymore,” she replied. We arrived at the creek about five minutes later. There was no bridge, and there was a lot more water than I had been expecting for that time of year, due almost certainly to an unseasonable rain storm earlier in the week. We washed as much mud off Maria’s shoes as we could, and then I took a second look at the creek. “To cross, we’ll have to hop along the tops of a number of rocks,” I said, pointing out the route to Maria. “It’s easy for me, but it could be difficult, perhaps even dangerous, for you. I wouldn’t want you to slip and turn an ankle, or perhaps bang your knee against a rock if you fall down. Maybe we should turn around and go back the way we came.” “Nonsense,” Maria said. “I can do this. I appreciate the fact that you helped me back in the mud. But with all due respect, you underestimate me.” I looked again at the creek and verified that the top of each rock we would need to use as a steppingstone was dry. That was important, because wet granite rocks are extremely slippery and can easily cause a person to fall even if they are wearing hiking boots. I would not have let Maria try to step on wet rocks in 3-inch heels, but in this case the risk seemed manageable. I warned Maria to step only on the topmost parts of the rocks and avoid any part of a rock that was wet. I went first and hopped along the rocks – eight rocks in total – until I got to the other side. “That’s how to do it,” I said. “Do you want me to come back and help you across?” “Thank you, but no,” she said. She hopped across the first two rocks, then the third and the fourth. I was impressed with her balance. In order to prevent herself from falling, she had to remain upright and compensate for the fact that her heels were pushing her center of gravity forward. She jumped to the fifth rock and used the ball of her foot to propel herself forward to the sixth. “You see?” she said, looking up at me. “To me, 3-inch heels basically are flats. Never underestimate what a Salvadoran woman can do in heels.” She jumped to the seventh rock, which was relatively large, then stood with both feet on it and studied the eighth. That last rock was the smallest of all. It was triangular in shape and somewhat pointy on top, with enough space for only the front part of one foot. Maria would have to jump to it, land solidly on the ball of her front foot and then immediately push off and land on the sediment at the edge of the creek with her other foot. It was a little tricky even for someone in hiking boots, but with her smooth-soled heels, there was no margin for error. I was going to offer help, but before I could say anything, Maria leaped toward the rock. She overshot it badly, with her block heel landing on the pointy top. The front of her foot fell forward, and for an instant I feared she was going to fall flat on her face in the creek. Somehow, in the tiny fraction of a second available to a person in such circumstances, she relaxed her foot so that the front of it was against the steeply angled part of the rock, and she pushed against it with all her might. She gasped as she sailed through the air and landed safely on the sand along the creek. Maria’s momentum carried her forward, but I caught her. Without thinking, almost as if I were on autopilot, I pulled her against me, lowered my head and gave her a gentle, loving kiss. Happily, she wrapped her arms around me and kept her lips pressed against mine. I let my arms fall to caress her waist, and then the top of the hips that had so beguiled me the week before. “Hmmmmm,” she said when we finally came up for air. “I’ll bet you’re glad now that I wore heels today.” “I’ve been to the mountains more times than I can count, but I’ve never had a day like today. Never,” I replied. “You are a phenomenal woman.” “It takes a special man to bring out the best in a woman,” she said. We continued our walk and encountered a middle-aged couple walking down the trail toward us. As is customary in the mountains, we said hello to each other as we passed. The man took a close look at Maria and said, “My, my, you’re certainly enjoying the mountains today in style.” He turned to his partner and said jokingly, “Maybe you can dress like that the next time we come up here.” The woman laughed and said, “Take a good long look at the lady, because you’re not going to see anyone looking like her up here for a long, long time.” Maria and I continued on our way, walking arm-in-arm. I asked her, “If you wanted to challenge that woman with your notion of femininity, I’m not sure you succeeded. I don’t think she was impressed with your form of expression. ” “The woman is not going to wear tight black sweatpants and heels the next time she goes hiking, but that’s not the point,” Maria said. “The man was impressed. Perhaps he thinks I’m just a silly, self-absorbed Latina, but I turned his eye. He saw something he never thought he would see, and he liked it. The woman understands that. What they had previously never imagined, they now realize is possible. That is the important thing. Expanding people’s imaginations, showing them new possibilities. One person at a time. Come to think of it, I expanded your imagination, too.” “I can see that dating you is going to be a very interesting experience,” I said. We stopped and kissed again. *** *** *** I quickly made a date with Maria for the following Saturday night. With considerable difficulty, I managed to purchase two tickets to see our local professional basketball team. Maria had never been to a professional basketball game and responded enthusiastically when I suggested that we go. When I picked her up, I saw that Maria had returned to her usual style of dress – a simple yellow blouse, an extremely tight tan skirt that ended about two inches above the knee, and a matching pair of tan, 5-inch stiletto sandals. With winter approaching, she also wore a simple jacket that ended at the waist, so as not to obstruct any person’s view of her delightful skirt. “I feel a duty to warn you,” I said before we left her house. “It’s a long walk from the parking lot into the arena. The only tickets I could get are for seats that are quite high up, so we may have to climb a lot of stairs once we’re inside. I know that some women might hesitate to wear 5-inch heels under those circumstances…” Maria laughed. “You don’t learn, do you?” she said. “Say no more,” I said, laughing along with her. “I said my piece, my conscience is clean. I only said ‘some women’ might have second thoughts about 5-inch heels. As usual, you look fantastic. There will be at least 7,000 women in the arena tonight, and you’ll be the best dressed of all of them.” We grabbed a quick dinner, battled the traffic to the arena, parked the car, and began our long walk through the parking lot. Maria’s heels were clicking loudly on the pavement, and out of the corner of my eye, I could tell her hips were swiveling quite sensuously. Several men fixed their eyes on her as we approached the line to get into the arena. Once inside, we had to walk halfway around the building to get to our section. We walked leisurely through the main corridor, stopping to look at the souvenir and food stands. When we got to our section, I said, “We’re going to be climbing a lot of stairs. One alternative is to take an elevator up, which could be easier.” Maria grabbed my neck and kissed me affectionately on the cheek. “Steve, for the last time, I wear shoes like this all day, nearly every day. It’s OK. I don’t need special treatment.” She then handed me her jacket. “If you want to do me a favor, you can hold this. Thanks.” We then walked out into the arena proper, and began climbing the stairs to our seats. Perhaps she only did it because she was warm, but by handing me her jacket, she was giving several thousand people an unobstructed view of her beautiful hourglass figure. As we climbed the stairs, I easily noticed several dozen people who turned their heads toward her. I was a half-step behind her, and noticed that her hips were rocking back and forth with a music-like rhythm – one-two, one-two, one-two. A vendor selling popcorn was hurriedly walking down the stairs towards us, but when he saw Maria he stopped and stepped aside, and said, “After you, ma’am.” I don’t ever recall a vendor being so polite in the past. We got to our row and, as luck would have it, our seats were in the middle of the section and we needed to struggle past more than dozen seats to get to ours. People were already sitting in most of those seats. I decided to push through first, offering numerous “excuse me’s” as I squeezed past people. Maria started after me, and as I looked back at her I received yet another lesson as to how unusual a woman she was. Like most Americans in similar situations, I was facing forward, with my butt toward the people sitting in the seats. Some people leaned backward in their seats while others stood up in order to let me pass and minimize their contact with me. In contrast, Maria turned the opposite way, so that she was facing the people in the seats as she inched past them. If she had been wearing flat or low-heeled shoes, this would have been entirely routine. However, Maria’s 5-inch heels had the effect of pushing her forward into the laps of the people in the seats, and to compensate Maria had to arch her back and thrust her hips outward in order to remain standing. As if that was not enough of an attention grabber, those exquisitely curved hips of her were passing within inches of the faces of the people in those seats. She was a quite a sight, and I could tell that many people in the rows directly above us were enjoying the spectacle. So were the people in our row – none seemed to be in a rush to have her pass, as one elderly man told her, “Take your time, dear. We wouldn’t want you to fall.” And Maria was not hurrying. At one point, she actually stopped briefly to converse with a woman in one of the seats who had told her, “The heck with the basketball players. You’re the real athlete here tonight, maneuvering through here in those heels.” Like any great performer, Maria really knew how to milk a crowd. And I knew her well enough by that point to realize that was exactly what she was doing. We settled into our seats, and the basketball game started. Maria was like a little sponge, soaking up everything she could about the game and the crowd. She may have lived in the country for 10 years, but middle-class activities – like going to a professional basketball game – had been beyond her reach until now. She had a lot of questions about the game but was following it well. She did not know the players’ names, but by the second half she knew who the main players were, saying things like, “Didn’t he miss that easy shot in the first half? He’ll have to play better than that.” She also studied the many people walking up and down the aisles, and particularly the women. Perhaps she thought that middle-class Americans would dress up to attend a sports event where the price of a ticket was ridiculously high. If so, she was disappointed. There were a small number of other women in heels, but no one in the big arena had put it all together as she had that night. After the game, we made our way back to the car, and went for a post-game snack in a place I knew close to the arena. Before heading back to Maria’s house, we stopped at a 24-hour supermarket so she could purchase a handful of things for things for her family. It was late, and the supermarket was nearly empty as we walked the aisles. Maria’s heels were clicking as loudly as ever in the quiet store, and she again began swiveling her hips in the most hypnotic way. I felt like a 13-year-old with a bad hormone rush, struggling in vain to control my feelings until I simply gave in to my body’s raging chemistry. “Maria,” I said, holding her gently on the shoulders and pulling her towards me. “I’ve got to ask you something, although I’m not sure how.” “It’s OK, just ask. What is it?” “I’ve been watching you walk all night. I also watched you a couple of weeks ago at the dance. You have the most incredible walking motion I’ve ever seen, which you seem to be able to turn on and off at will. How do you move your hips like that?” Maria smiled. “Oh my, I wanted to impress you, but perhaps I overdid it. It’s just some simple movements that I developed and practiced as a teenager. It’s pretty common for Salvadoran women to walk sensuously, but you’re less accustomed to seeing it in the United States.” She took a step back from me and looked down at her right foot, which she twirled a few inches above the floor. “I’m sure you know that high heels, and especially 5-inch heels, already cause a woman to walk with an exaggerated motion. You can build on that, using your heels almost like springboards to exaggerate your motion even further. It just takes practice. Fashion models do it, but their movements are too jerky for my tastes. I prefer a smoother, more flowing movement. Actually, I have several walking styles. Would you like to see them?” I nodded yes. “I’ll start with my basic heel walk. I sometimes do this consciously, but other times I break into this walking style without realizing it, just because it’s nice and sensual, and it makes me feel feminine. Walk down to the other end of the aisle and I’ll show you.” I did as she asked. Maria then walked down the aisle toward me, moving her hips back and forth with a gentle, smooth rocking motion. “That’s how you were walking in the parking lot before the game,” I said. “I noticed it, and to be honest, other people noticed it, too.” “And I hadn’t even realized I was doing it, but that’s fine. I was feeling good about our date and just started walking that way. You should feel flattered.” “I do.” “OK,” she said. “There are times when I want attention. Perhaps I want to flirt with a man, or I just want to make an impression on a group of people. That requires a more forceful rocking of the hips, which in turn demands a deliberate effort on my part. Go back down the aisle and I’ll show you.” I walked down the aisle and she followed me, rocking her hips back and forth with a one-two, one-two, one-two motion. Her heels were clicking so loudly that anyone else in the otherwise-quiet supermarket would have heard them. “I don’t know how you do that,” I said. “But it’s very erotic. It looks similar to how you walked when you climbed the stairs to our seats in the arena.” “Climbing stairs is a little different than walking on a flat surface. Obviously, you move your body more when you climb stairs. The motion climbing stairs probably is similar to my flirty walk.” She hesitated and said, “OK, you got me. I had never been in an arena with so many people, and I was feeling good. I guess I put on a little show, if anyone noticed.” “Oh, a number of them did. I certainly did,” I said. “I have one more walk that I only use on special occasions,” Maria said. “It’s when I really want to impress a man. The only honest name I can give it is my ‘Fuck me walk.’ I don’t know if I can do it properly right now. I really need to be in the mood.” “Try it,” I said. I walked down to the other end of the aisle and waited. Maria steeled herself. She then looked at me with a seductive stare that by itself lived up to the name of her walk. She then started strutting toward me. Words can’t really describe her exact movement, but she rocked her hips slightly forward and then back while simultaneously swiveling them from side to side. In other words, she rocked each of her hips in two different directions with each half-step, following a rhythm of one-two-three-four, one-two-three-four, one-two-three-four. She reached me and put her arms around me for support. “You may find this hard to believe, but there are some things that even I can’t do in public without feeling a little embarrassed,” she said with a giggle. “You are an artist,” I said to her. “An artist of femininity, sensuality and more. Don’t ever change.” Maria then cried, “Oh, no!” and pointed to the wall at the end of the aisle. On the upper part of the wall, just below the ceiling, was one of those damn security video cameras that businesses use to nab shoplifters. “There is no such thing as privacy in the United States any more,” I said. “Looks like you provided at least a few security people with their entertainment for Saturday night.” “I really don’t mind, except for that last walk. That kind of stuff should be private. Oh well, I hope they enjoyed it,” Maria replied. She then smiled mischievously at me and said, “Of course, if they want a show, let’s give them a show. We’ll get the rest of our things.” We walked up and down several aisles to pick up several items, with Maria swiveling along in her best flirty walk. One-two, one-two, one-two…. After picking up everything we needed, we walked over to the lone supermarket checker on duty. Maria continued with her flirty walk while looking at him right in the eye. The checker diverted his eyes to the ground, then looked at Maria and diverted his eyes again. She clearly was unnerving him. “Did you find everything you needed, ma’am?” he asked politely. Maria glanced at me and replied, “As far as I can tell right now, yes.” She then looked seductively at the checker and said, “But if I need anything else, I’ll be right back. OK?” “You are positively evil,” I said when we returned to the car. We drove back to Maria’s neighborhood, and I dropped her off at her house. The Latin custom of having unmarried adult children live with their parents worked against me badly that night, as there were things I wanted to do with Maria that were not permissible in such a setting. Instead, I went home and spent the next week sorting out my feelings about her. Maria’s defiantly uninhibited femininity had raised questions in my mind about my own masculine desires. Was I really falling in love with Maria, or had she simply kicked my hormones into overdrive? Like teenagers, we talked every night on the phone the following week about all kinds of things, and the sound of her voice unaccompanied by the sight of her body convinced me that a true spiritual connection was growing between us. But then I would go to sleep at night and all I could see was Maria in a tight dress and incredibly high heels, swiveling down a supermarket aisle like some mythological love goddess. I hoped that Maria was right when she said that the physical and the spiritual are so interconnected that it is pointless to try to separate the two. If so, I could conclude that I lusted after her because I was falling in love with her. If that was not the case, I was bound to find out soon enough. *** *** During the week, I invited Maria to my company’s annual Christmas party, which was scheduled for the following Saturday night at a big-name hotel. Maria eagerly accepted. This was a great chance for her to meet all kinds of people in the computer industry, the types of successful professionals that she admired but had never had a chance to meet while running her little neighborhood businesses. Also, our relationship was going well after two dates, and this seemed like the logical next step. I found myself vaguely uncomfortable as Saturday approached, and my discomfort grew even more when I picked up Maria. She was wearing a tight green dress, seamed stockings and her 5-1/2 inch black stiletto pumps (the same pair she had worn to her restaurant’s salsa dance several weeks earlier). As always, she looked stunning, but I had to admit to myself that I was uncomfortable at the thought of introducing her to the people I worked with every day. The problem with Maria flaunting her sexuality was that, by doing so, she was also flaunting my sexuality. My co-workers knew me as a stable, level-headed guy, not the kind of person who would start dating a red-hot Latina vamp within a few months of my divorce. Would they think I had reverted back to my adolescence, playing out the high-school fantasy of the computer nerd who asks the homecoming queen to the prom? Or perhaps they would think my divorce had precipitated a premature mid-life crisis? Or maybe they would conclude that I had simply lost my mind? I thought of the old saying, “Be careful about what you wish for, because you might get it.” Well, I got it, but what was I going to do with it? We arrived at the party. I politely introduced Maria to a number of my co-workers, and, as I expected, she raised the eyebrows of many of them. My co-workers were very cerebral people who lived in an abstract world of circuitry and software. The computer industry at this time was pioneering the concept of encouraging highly educated, well-paid professionals to come to work in jeans and tee-shirts. I had worked for several years with most of these people, and this party was the first time I had ever seen a number of my female co-workers in a dress. None of the other women (including the wives and girlfriends of my male colleagues) had on anything higher than two-inch heels. Maria could not have been more out of place with this crowd if she had come to the party in a thong bikini. We sat down to dinner. Even though Maria was sitting next to me, I barely acknowledged her the entire time, preferring instead to talk shop with several of my tablemates. After dinner, the executives of the company gave a few inspirational speeches, and the remainder of the evening was devoted to a reception with drinks, dessert and a small folk band playing background music. I continued to talk with my colleagues during the reception until Maria tugged my elbow. “Steve, I’m sorry, but I’m not feeling well. I think you’d better take me home.” We walked out to my car and I asked her what was wrong. “You know what’s wrong,” she said angrily. “Just take me home, please. You can come back and spend the rest of the evening with your friends after you drop me off.” We got into the car, and I asked, “Maria, why are you upset? Did I do something wrong?” I immediately regretted my feigned innocence, as I knew exactly what I had done. “I thought you were different, Steve. I’ve never dated an Anglo man before, and I really thought you were different. But you’re not. When we’re not with anyone you know, you want your sexy Latin babe. But when we are with your friends, you’re embarrassed to be with me. That’s when you want your innocent little girl next door. I’ve broken up with most of my past boyfriends over the exact same double standard. Just take me home.” “Maria, that’s not fair,” I protested half-heartedly. “I know what you’re saying. Maybe I didn’t behave as well as I should have tonight. It’s just…it’s hard to explain. I work with these people every day. They have different attitudes than you and I. It’s my fault for not talking with you about this earlier, Maria, but I think I would have been more comfortable if you had dressed more modestly tonight. Just tonight. Don’t misunderstand me, I totally respect your feelings and everything you’ve told me about your femininity. But you have to respect my feelings as well.” “Fine, Steve. I respect your feelings. You have ten seconds to start the car, otherwise I’m getting out and taking a cab home.” “Maria….” “Just tonight, Steve? Just dress modestly tonight? What about when you introduce me to your family? What about when I meet other friends of yours? Are you sure you’ll want me to be in tight dresses and stiletto heels then? It will never be just ‘tonight,’ Steve.” “Maria, be reasonable….” “Steve, you would have never followed me from the restaurant to my boutique last month if I had been wearing flat shoes and a loose skirt. You would have never come back to the restaurant the following week. You would not have asked me out on our dates. You like me the way I’ve been, but now you want to domesticate me and have me under your control, even though I warned you I would never allow that. Typical man.” Shit. Maria was absolutely right. The only silver lining in this dark cloud was that she was still sitting in the car and had not followed through on her threat to take a cab. I had to think of something. Total contrition was my only chance to save the relationship. “Maria, you’re kicking my ass, and I deserve it. I’m sorry. I fucked up tonight. I want you the way you are, and the way you’ve been the last few weeks. Please understand, I’ve never dated a Latin woman, and certainly no woman of any background who is remotely like you. I didn’t know how to deal with this tonight, and I just screwed up. I want to make this right.” Maria stared straight ahead. Forgiveness was not in her eyes…at least not yet. “Let me tell you something, Steve,” she said quietly. “My grandmother is no longer alive. But when I was eight years old, I was exploring the closet in her house in El Salvador, and I saw her shoe collection. All kinds of wonderful high-heeled shoes. I took out the highest pair of heels I could find and I stepped into them. I certainly couldn’t walk in them, but I was able to stand on my own in them without falling, and that was something of an accomplishment. My grandmother and mother came into the room and saw me in them. “They both complimented me, and my grandmother said, ‘Maria, I think you have the same gift that your mother and I both have. Many women either can’t wear these shoes, or can wear them for only a few hours at best before their feet begin hurting too much. But women in our family can wear them all day, day after day without any problem. By themselves, the shoes can do nothing. But if you learn to wear them with style and grace, you will become the finest woman you can be. Other people will want to be around you, because your style and grace will bring out the best in them, and make them better people. Our family may not be wealthy, but that is how we get ahead, by using our femininity and style to bring out the best in people.’ “I promised my grandmother and my mother that I would do my best to follow in their tradition. To this very day, I am trying to keep my promise. My mother was an elegant heel wearer for many years, but the years of hardship in El Salvador and then the move to the United States have taken their toll on her. But she has great hopes for me, and I don’t intend to disappoint her, or my grandmother.” A few awkward moments of silence passed before I said, “That’s one hell of a story, Maria.” “I know the effect I have on men,” Maria said. “When you followed me into the boutique, I sensed you were someone important. I thought, ‘This is it, this is what my grandmother was talking about. Perhaps I can do something for this guy, and he can do something for me, and together we can get ahead in the United States. It all went so well, almost like a dream, until tonight.” I touched Maria’s shoulder, gently pulled her towards me and looked right at her. “Maria, I want our relationship to work. More than anything else I’ve ever wanted. I’m not perfect, but I want the best for us. Tell me what I can do to make up for how I screwed up tonight.” Maria thought for a minute, and then said, “Let’s step out of the car.” We got out, and I walked around to the passenger side. “Steve,” she said. “Look at my feet.” I looked down at her stiletto pumps. “As you can see, Steve, my feet are pretty close to vertical in these shoes. Have you ever walked around with your feet in a near-vertical position?” “No.” “I never wear 5-1/2 inch heels when I’m alone. I need to be with somebody, even if it’s only my parents. I wore these shoes tonight to be with you, Steve. You are my man, I am your woman. You want to know what you can do to make things right? Just be a man. Support me. Take pride in me. Be turned on by me. Show me off. But most important of all, just be close to me. It’s really that simple.” “I can do that, Maria.” “If you respect the promise I made to my grandmother, we can have a relationship. If you cannot respect it, we have no relationship. But if you respect my promise to my grandmother, remember that we are in this together. It is no longer my expression, it is our expression. We are a team now. Do you understand?” “Yes. And I respect your promise to your grandmother.” “Good. In that case, can you get my jacket from the car? It’s cold outside. Let’s go back to the party.” We went back to the party walking arm-in-arm. For the rest of the evening, we were never more than inches from each other, and I involved Maria in every conversation I had with my colleagues. I noticed more than one co-worker giving Maria the elevator-eye treatment, and I could imagine that Maria and I would be the subject of much office gossip in the coming weeks. But I felt calm and at peace with it. Maria excused herself at one point to go to the bathroom. When she reentered the room, she stopped in the doorway and looked at me, and I looked at her. I looked down at her near-vertical feet and understood what it was all about, this incredibly powerful communication emanating from her soul through her feet to me. I smiled at her and she smiled back, and she walked across the room to me with her flirty walk, swiveling her hips to her arousing rhythm of one-two, one-two. At least half the people in the room were gawking at her, but that was fine. No office gossip concerning me and my unconventional new girlfriend could possibly cause me to rethink my choice. We left the party after a time and went to my house, where we consummated our relationship. By the time we finished, I was overwhelmed by a feeling of satisfaction that I had never experienced. I loved a person in a way I could not have previously imagined. I had grown to become someone I had never dreamed I could be. Maria felt the same way. It is a feeling that every person should experience at some point in their life, although I am not sure enough people do. In this way, Maria and I began our very interesting life together.

The Second Sister: Maria

During the week following my odd three-way date with Ana and Bob, I still felt driven to find out more about the world of Latin women and high heels. Following up on Ana’s suggestion, I took out the phone book and looked for Salvadoran restaurants. The nearest one was in a fairly rough part of town about a 20-minute drive from my house. The following Saturday afternoon, I drove over there on the assumption that it would be located in a neighborhood with people from the small nation of El Salvador. I thought of it as strictly an educational trip to observe Salvadorans and see if the people piqued my interest. I did not expect to meet any eligible women.

I parked close to the restaurant and walked inside. It was a small, hole-in-the-wall place typical of family-operated restaurants in low-income, immigrant neighborhoods. The tables and chairs were cheap, the wallpaper looked as if it should have been replaced years ago, and faded posters of El Salvador decorated the walls. A small portable stereo system was playing Latin music. The waitress, a girl who appeared to be about 14 years old, waved at me.

“Hello, mister! Come in. Sit down and make yourself at home,” she said.

I sat down at the table and began looking through the menu, which was mostly in Spanish. I was not sure what any of the dishes were and asked the girl what she thought I should order. At her recommendation, I ordered a plate of pupusas and a Coke.

While I waited for my meal, I looked at the other patrons. A young couple was at one table, three middle-aged women and an elderly woman were at another, and a middle-aged couple and a teenage girl were at a third. I noticed that all the female patrons, even the elderly woman, were wearing heels of some sort. The shoes were nothing adventurous, basically two and three-inch block heels, except for the elderly woman who was wearing perhaps one-inch heels. But the fact that all the women were wearing them – from the teenager right up to the senior citizen – intrigued me. El Salvador did indeed have a high-heel culture of some sort.

A couple of minutes later, a woman of breathtaking beauty entered the restaurant. She appeared to be in her early- to mid-20s, with a dark-brown complexion and long, jet-black hair. She wore a white blouse and a tight black pencil skirt that delightfully highlighted her hourglass figure, and on her feet were a pair of stunning, 5-inch black stiletto pumps. I tried hard not to stare, but this woman was sheer perfection, a brilliant diamond in a rough neighborhood that otherwise had little to offer the outside world. The mere sight of this woman had made my trip worth the effort. She was that hot!

The middle-aged women and the young couple said hello to this newcomer, who sat down at a table by herself. She was carrying a notebook that appeared to be an accounting ledger. She opened up the book and began jotting down numbers. A man entered the restaurant from the kitchen, said hello to the young woman and immediately brought her a plate of food. The woman began eating while she continued to work with her ledger.

My young waitress then emerged from the kitchen and brought me my lunch. “That’s my sister,” the girl said, pointing at the beautiful woman. “She’s very pretty, isn’t she?”

“Now that you mention it, I guess she is,” I said, feigning an air of indifference. Was I so obvious that even a 14-year-old girl walking into a room could see that my eyes were glued to this woman? I had to be more discrete than that.

“Does your sister work here?” I asked.

“She does our bookkeeping,” the little waitress said. “She also manages my family’s clothing store, which is right next door. She is on her lunch break, then she’ll be back in the store. Enjoy your meal.”

I tried the pupusas I had ordered for lunch. They were very tasty. Pupusas are basically thick corn tortillas filled with various combinations of meat, pork, beans and cheese. I had expected them to be similar to Mexican food, but they were quite different. A more basic flavor, and certainly not as spicy as Mexican dishes, but quite good nevertheless.

I ate my pupusas and nursed my Coke while sneaking glances at the beautiful woman, who continued to work on her ledger while she ate her lunch. She crossed her legs and let one of her stilettos dangle tantalizingly as she slowly rocked her ankle back and forth. She may have been doing it subconsciously, but she nevertheless was putting on a wonderful performance. I bit into one of my pupusas and savored the flavor of the rich-tasting meat filling as this woman continued to dazzle the senses with her dangling shoe and her feet. If this was Salvadoran culture, I was ready to immerse myself in it.

After 20 minutes, the woman got up, said goodbye to a number of people in the restaurant, and walked out. I waited another 10 minutes, paid for my meal and left. The clothing store was indeed right next to the restaurant, and it was so small I had not even noticed it when I had arrived earlier. I saw the woman inside. Fabulous women like that always have boyfriends, I told myself, but it would still be worth talking to her to find out more about the people who live in the neighborhood. Maybe she could introduce me to one of her friends. Hell, you never know.

I entered the store. All of the apparel was women’s clothing. The collection of blouses, skirts and dresses appeared to be from Latin America, as they featured color combinations and styles that were unfamiliar to me. There was a small shoe display in the corner with several different kinds of shoes and sandals, all with very high heels.

“Can I help you?” the woman said to me. Her eyes were big, round and white, which contrasted nicely with her bronzed skin. The black eye shadow she had applied was perfect. It was not overdone, as is often the case with Latin women, but was just strong enough to bring out the full allure of her eyes.

“Well, I think you can help me,” I said, struggling to find the right thing to say. “I happened to be passing through the area. I had lunch at the restaurant next door and saw your boutique. I’m always curious about foreign cultures and I thought I would stop in here to learn what I could learn about Latin American fashions. Your clothes here are from Latin America, I assume?”

“All the clothes in this store were made in El Salvador,” she replied.

“Yes, of course. That makes sense,” I said, pretending to examine some of the dresses. “The styles are different than general U.S. styles, aren’t they?”

“Yes, they are.” She took a red dress off the rack and held it up to me. “You don’t generally find v-necks or low-cut tops in Salvadoran clothing. Blouses and dresses above the waist are generally loose, skirts and dresses below the waist tend to be relatively tight. High heels round out the overall look and give it the impact it deserves. Salvadorans like a very feminine appearance.”

“And what you’re wearing now is typical of Salvadoran fashion?”

My question seemed to catch her off guard. “Well, this is something I just kind of threw on this morning. It’s not really the best example of Salvadoran clothing.” She put the red dress back on the rack and turned back toward me. She stood with her feet pointed a little to the side of me but turned her torso so that she looked right at me, causing her pencil skirt to wrap snugly around her hips. She looked at me with her big eyes and broke into a flirtatious smile.

“I guess my outfit does cover the basic points of Salvadoran fashion,” she said. “Do you like it? It’s really nothing special.”

“It’s lovely, especially for a casual Saturday afternoon. However, I wonder how many women could wear heels like yours. Not a lot, I would think.”

“You would be surprised. Salvadoran women take their heels seriously. Plenty of Salvadoran women can wear the highest heels.”

She continued to look at me with those piercing eyes, causing the nerves in the back of my neck to jangle. “Perhaps you could bring the special lady in your life here? Maybe she would like the chance to try out some Salvadoran fashions.”

“Excellent suggestion,” I replied. “Unfortunately, I don’t really have a lady in my life right now. But when I do, I’ll try to bring her here.”

“What did you think of your lunch in my family’s restaurant? I saw you eating pupusas there earlier.”

“They were delicious. I’m so glad I had them.”

“So, you like Salvadoran food and Salvadoran fashions. Do you like salsa music?”

“I was salsa dancing just last week as a matter of fact.”

“Well, then I have a suggestion for you,” she said. “We’re going to have an evening of dancing next Saturday night in our restaurant. There will be a salsa band, lots of good food and plenty of people from the community here. You’re welcome to come, if you’re really interested in learning more about Salvadoran culture.”

“That’s a fabulous idea. I just might do that.”

“It might be a bit of an adventure for you. We don’t get many Anglos at our dances. If you go, you might be the only one. It will be a very Salvadoran crowd.”

“I think I am ready for an adventure.”

She walked over to the cash register and returned with her business card. Her name was Maria Romero. I introduced myself, and we talked for about 15 minutes. She seemed fairly bright, and had an attractive, outgoing personality to match her physical beauty. We might have talked even longer, but another customer entered the store and it seemed best for me to leave. But I left knowing that I was going to see Maria at least one more time.

*** *** ***

It had been many years since I spent an entire week counting down the hours until I attended a dance where I was certain to be an outcast, simply because I might have the opportunity to ask a certain attractive female to dance. Such behavior is acceptable for a 15-year-old boy, but not a 31-year-old man like myself. And yet, I did keep a countdown going the entire week How shameful!

I arrived at the restaurant at about 9 p.m. the following Saturday. The place was about two-thirds full, and filling rapidly. The atmosphere was nothing like the upscale dance club where I had gone two weeks earlier with Bob and Ana. That club catered to middle-class Latinos, most of whom were born in the U.S. and were native English speakers with good jobs and disposable income. This little restaurant, on the other hand, was drawing a rough crowd of Spanish-speaking Salvadoran immigrants who had fled the poverty and hopelessness of their native land but were still struggling to gain a toehold in their adopted country. The men were a little on the surly side, dressed in plain but decent shirts and pants. A few cast a suspicious eye at me that made me feel like the outsider I was. The women were not as threatening and were definitely better dressed. Most of them were wearing nice but simple dresses, some tighter than others, and a number of women wore impressively high heels. Still, less than half of the women had ventured out in something fashionable enough to be sold in Maria’s boutique. All throughout, I heard only the sounds of Spanish, and it occurred to me that I had in many ways left the United States and had now entered a working-class neighborhood in El Salvador. Maria had been right – coming to this place alone was only for the adventurous.

A small salsa band was setting up its instruments in a corner of the restaurant. I looked around in vain for Maria and fought off the panicky feeling that I was abandoned and alone in this foreign place. Finally, Maria emerged from the kitchen in the back of the restaurant. She was wearing a red dress, possibly the same red dress she had shown me the week before. Just as she had explained at that time, the dress was loose and conservative above her waist but turned positively vicious below it, wrapping tightly around her hips and thighs as if it were made of some shrink-wrap material. The dress flared somewhat a few inches above her knees and flapped loosely before ending at her shins. Her shoes were a pair of red, 5-1/2 inch stiletto sandals that complimented her dress perfectly. She was absolutely divine, and suddenly it would not have mattered if I were 10,000 miles from home.

Maria was like a politician, stopping at a group of people to chat and then moving on to another group, and then another. It was a few minutes until she saw me, but when she did, she waved and walked up to me. I could not miss her swiveling hips out of the corner of my eye.

“It’s Steve, right? I’m so impressed that you came here tonight. Welcome.”

“I was ready for an adventure, Maria. It’s great to see you.”

“Let me introduce you to a few people so you won’t feel so alone. Oh, but first…” She adopted the same sexy pose as she had the week before, with her feet and legs pointed a little to the side of me but with her torso twisted toward me and her burning eyes looking right into mine.

“I think this dress is more representative of Salvadoran fashions than what I was wearing last week. What do you think?”

I was tongue-tied. “Gorgeous dress and gorgeous shoes, Maria. Salvadoran fashions are second to none.” At some point soon, I thought to myself, I needed to come up with wittier stuff than that.

Maria introduced me to her parents, who were sitting at a table toward the back of the restaurant. She then took me back into the kitchen and introduced me to several siblings and cousins who were working in the kitchen. I saw Maria’s 14-year-old sister who had been my waitress the week before.

“Hello, mister! Welcome back. I hope you have fun dancing tonight,” she said.

Maria took me back into the main part of the restaurant and sat me down at a table with several Salvadoran men and women who seemed to be in their late 20s. She introduced me to my tablemates and told me she had to help run things, but that she would be back.

This is what I had really come for, I told myself: the chance to meet other Salvadoran women. I expected Maria’s boyfriend to come walking into the restaurant at any minute, and so it behooved me to begin talking to some of the other women. The other people at the table said hello to me politely in English, but then resumed talking among themselves in Spanish. There was no reason for this group to have any interest in me…and they did not.

Having nothing else to do, I watched Maria walking back and forth through the restaurant, talking to people and taking care of little tasks. She was the perfect hostess, as everyone in the place seemed to know her and appreciated the chance to say hello to her and engage in some small talk. Who could blame them? Older people, younger people, men and women all seemed to want their 60 seconds with her. I was certain that every young man who approached her was her boyfriend, and I expected to see them embrace and kiss. She greeted each man with a warm hug and, in some cases, a platonic kiss on the cheek, but nothing that indicated any romantic involvement. Where was her boyfriend? Perhaps he was out of town, or maybe he worked a night shift somewhere.

I also found myself captivated by the exquisite movement of Maria’s hips. She rocked sensuously from side to side as she walked, and she was capable of changing the rhythm of her movements at will, like a driver shifting the gears of a car. When she was carrying things back and forth to the kitchen, she walked almost normally (or at least as normally as a woman can in a tight dress and 5-1/2 inch heels). When she went up to talk to someone, she changed her motion considerably, swiveling her hips much more slowly and deliberately, with her dress faithfully highlighting every inch of movement. She expertly used her heels as tools to give herself the precise amount of motion that she desired. She did not employ the extreme pelvic thrusts of a fashion model; instead, she swiveled much more smoothly and softly, at times being so hypnotic that I had to consciously remind myself not to stare. I had never seen anything quite like it in my life. It must have been a skill that she had developed through practice, although it seemed so effortless and natural for her. I told myself I would ask her how she had learned to walk like that…when the time was right.

The salsa band began to play, and by the second song the people at my table were up and dancing. I asked one of the women to dance, and while she did so, she did not look at me the entire time, treating me as if I had come to the dance from Mars. By the next song, I was back at my table. Maria came out from the kitchen, saw me and asked me to dance. We hit the crowded dance floor, and my delight at being able to dance with her was tempered by the glares I received from some of the men dancing around us. They did not appear to take kindly to strangers – and particularly some Anglo – dancing with one of their community’s most prized ladies.

After a couple of songs, Maria brought me back to the table with her parents and one of her three brothers. We all sat and talked over beer and snacks, with Maria occasionally getting up to attend to one duty or another. I learned that the family had come to the United States ten years earlier, and that the family had invested virtually everything they brought from El Salvador into their modest little restaurant. Maria had taken business courses at the local community college before opening her boutique a year earlier with some savings from the restaurant operations. I told them a little about my career as a technical writer in the computer industry, and they seemed impressed by things I had always taken for granted, such as graduating from college and producing pamphlets and manuals for computer companies that are household names around the world.

Later that evening, Maria and I danced again, and when the band changed to a romantic tune, we slow-danced. I held her loosely, dancing in the cautious manner that one might expect with a new acquaintance. I had become so impatient with the question that had been gnawing at me all evening that I succumbed to the temptation to ask it.

“So, Maria, where is your boyfriend tonight?”

She smiled and said, “I don’t have one at the moment. I broke up with my last boyfriend about a month ago.”

My hold on her became just a little bit tighter – the change was so infinitesimal that it was perceptible to no one but me – but tighter, nevertheless.

“An attractive woman like you probably could have your pick of any number of guys at any time, if you wanted.”

“Well, I need a break right now. I’ve dated a number of the men that are here tonight. I need to figure out where I go from here with my life.” She pointed out the boyfriend she just broke up with, who was one of the more intelligent looking men sitting in the far corner of the restaurant. She also pointed to a couple of rougher-looking men, who she had dated at different times in the past. While looking at them, I noticed the unfriendly glares I was continuing to receive from a number of other men. But I had consumed enough beer at that point that it did not bother me as much as it had before.

I said to her, “Fully respecting what you’re saying about needing a break, would you mind if I called you some time?”

“That would be fine. Do you still have the business card I gave you last week?”

When we finished our dance, I gave her the card and she wrote her home phone number on the back. I coolly put the card back in my wallet, acting as if nothing of any great import had happened, while the 15-year-old boy inside of me was jumping up and down as if the school’s homecoming queen had given him his first kiss. Somehow, I had hit a home run in the first inning, scored a touchdown on the opening kickoff, hit a three-point basket in the first seconds of the contest. Things like this simply did not happen to me. But the rest of the game still lay ahead.

I hung around for a while longer, but the evening was essentially completed. I said goodbye to Maria and her family and quickly made my way to my car, looking over my shoulder continuously to make sure none of the unsavory men in the restaurant were following me. I drove out of the neighborhood as fast as I could, realizing I was going to return at the first available opportunity.

*** ***

I called Maria a few days later and set up a date for the following Sunday. I planned to take her for a picnic and a walk around a favorite lake of mine in the mountains. That may seem like an odd choice for a first date with someone like Maria, but there was a method to my madness. I had mentioned my passion for hiking and camping to Maria and her family while we talked during the dance, and Maria said she had hardly ever been to the mountains and would like to go. Also, while there was no question that I was physically attracted to Maria, I wanted to find out right away whether a true relationship with her was possible. I thought it would be good to get away from high heels and tight dresses at this early stage so I could get to know her better without those admittedly pleasant distractions.

I learned very quickly that, with Maria, there was no getting away from high heels. Not ever.

I drove to Maria’s house early Sunday morning. She lived with her family in a small, aging home in the seedy neighborhood that surrounded her family’s restaurant. Her parents greeted me warmly at the door and invited me to sit down and chat for a few minutes. Maria entered the room after a few minutes, and I strained hard to avoid doing a double take. She was wearing a red sweater, clingy black sweat pants, and a pair of black shoes with 3-inch block heels. While this was perhaps not as provocative as what she had worn the previous two weekends, it was pretty darn eye-catching given that this was supposed to be an earthy day in the mountains.

We said goodbye to Maria’s parents and drove off. During the first half of the two-hour drive, we talked about a lot of basic things. I learned more about Maria’s childhood. Her family had run a small business in El Salvador and was on the border between working class and middle class when the country’s civil war started at the end of the 1970s. The hardships finally became too much, and the family moved to the United States in 1984, when Maria was 14. They invested virtually all the money they had brought with them in their little restaurant. I was most impressed by the fact that Maria graduated from the local high school in four years even though she only spoke rudimentary English when she had arrived in the country. She later took business courses at the local community college for two years. While handling the accounting and other business matters for the restaurant, she had convinced her father the previous year to let her open the boutique with some of the family’s modest savings. She felt torn because she wanted to get out on her own and pursue a career in business, but at the same time she felt obligated to work full-time for her family. She was unquestionably a bright and energetic woman of substance who had a good future ahead of her.

For my part, I told her about my suburban upbringing, my college education, and my career as a technical writer in the computer industry. She had a lot of questions about the industry, which made sense given her business orientation. I also told her about my failed marriage with Pam, which I hoped would not cause her to lose interest in me.

By the end of the first hour, we had entered the mountains and stopped at a rest area along the highway to admire the scenic vista. Maria was quite a site walking around the parking lot in her red and black outfit and her three-inch heels, and she caught the attention of a number of the other motorists who were parked there.

When we got back to the car, I said, “You look terrific today, Maria. But I should have advised you before we left your house to bring a pair of sneakers, as it’s very pretty along the lake and we might want to take a walk around it.”

Maria held up the day pack she had brought with her. “I have a pair of sneakers in here, if I need them. But I’ll wear them only as a last resort. I absolutely hate wearing flat shoes.”

I started the car and got back on the highway. “That’s a rather unusual attitude,” I said.

She smiled coyly. “There is something you might as well know about me. I basically live my life in high heels. I wear heels from the time I leave home in the morning until I get home at night. Usually, I wear 5-inch heels, which is what I was wearing when we met in my boutique the other week. I rarely go below 4 inches, so the shoes I’m wearing right now are virtually flat as far as I’m concerned.

“And you want to know why I exclusively wear high heels? For starters, many Salvadoran women worship high heels. In a country as poor as El Salvador, many women wear high heels whenever they leave the house as a sign of social status, to show that they enjoy a reasonable standard of living. Just as important, high heels are sign of femininity. Because poverty and violence is so much a part of everyday life in El Salvador, people appreciate the opportunity to see attractive women walking gracefully in high heels. For that reason, femininity takes on an importance that most people in the United States have trouble imagining.”

I said, “What you’re saying makes sense, although you’re right, I would not have imagined something like that. I assume your family is OK with you wearing high heels?”

“I come from a family of heel wearers. I sometimes think we’ve been specially engineered to wear heels, as we all seem to have nice, flexible arches. My mother was quite a heel wearer in her day. And we have photos of my grandmother wearing very high and elegant stiletto heels back in the 1950s, and my great-grandmother wearing the finest heels available in the 1920s and 30s. It’s sort of a tradition in my family that I’m happy to be part of.”

“Have you found it difficult to carry on your family’s tradition of wearing heels here in the United States?”

“Well, yes and no. I remember just before we left El Salvador, I had this picture in my imagination of North American women with all their wealth wearing fabulous heels. I was disappointed to find out that very few women here are as passionate about heels as Salvadoran women. But it didn’t stop me. I began wearing 2-inch heels to school when I was 15. When I graduated from high school, I was wearing 4-inch heels almost exclusively. When I turned 20, I began experimenting with wearing 5-inch heels to my classes at community college. I’ve been a wearer of 5-inch heels ever since.”

“You must have turned quite a lot of heads on campus,” I said.

“I suppose I did, but one bad experience made me more determined than ever to be a full-time heel wearer. One of my business-class instructors was a Mexican-born woman who I really respected. She was a role model for me, as she was an immigrant and she had started several successful businesses in addition to being a college instructor. I was meeting with her in her office one day, and she said to me, ‘You’re going to need to lose the high heels. They’re unprofessional, and there is no place for them in a business environment. The only thing they’re good for is sleeping your way to the top.’”

“Ouch! I can see why that upset you, but that is a fairly common attitude here.”

“Upset? I was incensed, and I told her how shocked I was by her comment. Mexican women are great heel wearers, too, and I told her how disappointed I was that she had sold out her native culture just to advance herself in the United States. There is no question that Latinos can learn a lot from North Americans, particularly how to thrive in a free-wheeling entrepreneurial culture. But North Americans can learn a few things from Latinos, particularly how to appreciate femininity. I told my instructor that I was not going to compromise my feminine expression in order to get ahead in the United States. Ever since that time, I’ve worn high heels proudly, even defiantly, in order to challenge people’s notions about femininity here in the U.S. I want to prove that a woman can be taken seriously in business and still be admired for her beauty and femininity at the same time. A woman shouldn’t have to choose between one or the other.”

“So that’s why I hate wearing flats,” she continued. “If I wear flats, even for an afternoon in the mountains, I feel like I’ve lost my femininity and my identity as a Salvadoran and a member of my family. I also feel like I am yielding to everyone else’s beliefs about who I should be and what I should wear. I know I’m somewhat extreme, but that is what I believe. I wouldn’t expect you to understand.”

“On the contrary, I do empathize with you. I remember when I was a kid thinking that women in high heels were really pretty. But I didn’t think about it much as I got older. With Pam, I used to occasionally think it would be nice if she wore heels, but the thoughts were so fleeting I never really shared them with her. A very close friend of mine is married to a Costa Rican woman, and she recently resumed wearing very high heels for the first time in several years. Seeing her, I envied my friend a bit and wondered if I would like being in a relationship with a woman who is really into heels. I guess that makes me almost as extreme as you.”

“Steve, I’m impressed! That puts you ahead of at least 98 percent of all North American men. It shows you have good taste and at least some sense of what traditional femininity and grace is all about. You should be proud of yourself.”

“But, if I’m being a modern, enlightened male, shouldn’t I avoid basing a relationship on the kinds of shoes a woman wears?”

“Who is asking you to do that? Women who wear high heels believe in a certain kind of feminine expression that you like. So, for you, high heels are not some superficial part of a woman’s exterior. They are an important indicator of something in a woman’s spirit that you value. So why shouldn’t you try to date women who wear heels?”

“I never thought of it that way.”

“Look, Steve. Physical expression is much stronger in Latin America. Women wear high heels, tight clothes, and they use much stronger and at times provocative body language when they interact with others. North Americans see that and think we’re all hot-blooded sluts without a complex thought in our heads. They don’t understand that it’s all just expression, a window into who we are as individuals. We have both minds and bodies, and we use both to express ourselves. Most North Americans don’t understand that. But I think you’re one of the few who do.”

We made our way higher into the mountains and arrived at the lake, a deep blue body of water with a green pine forest and silvery granite mountains providing a dramatic backdrop. I parked the car and began taking out our picnic lunch while Maria looked around.

“Oh, Steve, it’s beautiful!” she said. “I’ve seen photos of places like this but have never seen it for myself. I’m so glad you took me here!” I thought it interesting that she had lived within a two-hour drive of the mountains for the last decade and yet had never visited them. A poor immigrant girl moves to the United States and lives there for years without ever seeing it. You can score points with her by taking her to the vast number of places she has never seen. Remember that.

We enjoyed some deli sandwiches and a bottle of wine for lunch, and Maria then said she was ready for the two-mile walk around the lake. I asked her if she wanted to change into her sneakers, and she said no, the terrain was flat and she could handle it in her three-inch block heels.

“OK, but we have to walk through some rocky areas and cross a creek. It will be an interesting experience for you,” I said.

For some mysterious reason, the stories I posted in 2005 about my high-heel cyberfantasy girl, Maria, disappeared suddenly a few weeks ago. I am reposting them here. These stories are not new, but they are here for your perusual if you have not previously read them. These stories are part of a series of stories I am posting that began with "The First Sister: Ana," continue here with "The Second Sister: Maria," and then proceed to "The Third Sister: Sharon," and the series of stories I am currently posting, "The Three Sisters Continues."

Ana’s New Boss

Written in the third person by Steve, based on interviews with Ana and George

George always looked forward to the click-click-click sound on the tile in the corridor outside of his office. It meant that Ana was coming to see him.

“A happy Monday morning to you, George,” Ana said as she stood in the doorway to George’s office. “How was your weekend?”

More than one worker at the bank had noticed that Ana and George had become good friends in recent months. They talked a lot and went out to lunch together once or twice a month. It only seemed odd because they had both worked at the bank for several years without showing any interest in each other. Word got around that something must have clicked between them when they both went out at lunch recently to buy a birthday card for a co-worker. It was an unlikely way to start a friendship, some said. Others speculated that maybe something was going on between them outside of work, but it seemed far-fetched that a saucy Latina in her early 30s with a penchant for sexy high heels could seem attracted to a conservative, even acerbic loan officer who was almost twice her age. The truth, of course, was far different than any of their co-workers would have guessed.

“My weekend was uneventful,” George said. He looked at Ana and smiled. “Let’s see. White stiletto pumps, 5 inches I believe, plain white pants and a yellow sweater. Very conservative, at least by your standards. And how was your weekend, Ana?”

“Uneventful,” Ana said. “And there is a good reason why I am dressed conservatively. My new boss starts today, as you probably know. I don’t want to scare her off.”

“That would be an unfortunate thing to do to your boss on her first day,” George said. “I hear through the grapevine that she is no-nonsense, straightforward, by-the-book. You will have to let me know if that is right.”

“I’ll come by at lunch and tell you all about it. Gotta go,” Ana said. George could hear her heels clicking all the way down the hall.

All the bank tellers were scheduled for an early-morning meeting with Margaret, their new supervisor. Margaret had previously worked for a bank in another city, so none of the tellers knew anything about her. She appeared to be in her mid- to late-40s, with black hair and a medium figure. She was dressed in a very professional business suit, with two-inch block heels. Hard to tell anything based on that, Ana thought to herself.

Margaret seemed gracious and professional in the meeting. “I have all heard good things about you, and I certainly know about the good reputation our bank has. Everyone here knows how to do their job, so I don’t anticipate making any major changes. Perhaps a little fine-tuning here and there.” So far, so good, Ana thought. At the end of the short meeting, each of the tellers walked up and introduced themselves to Margaret. When it was Ana’s turn, she introduced herself to Margaret and welcomed her to the bank.

“So you’re Ana. I have heard a little about you. The fashion plate of the bank. I look forward to working with you.” She shook Ana’s hand warmly.

“And I look forward to working with you, too, Margaret,” Ana said. The fashion plate of the bank, Ana thought as she left the meeting. It was probably just an innocuous comment, and it was certainly true, so there was no reason to attach a lot of significance to it. But something bothered Ana about the comment. Perhaps it was the tone of voice, as there was something just a little bit sinister in the way Margaret said it. Or maybe Margaret always talked that way. There was no point in getting overly paranoid about it.

“We’ll just have to see,” Ana told George when she stopped by his office at lunch.

*** *** ***

The first month with Margaret was fairly routine. She made a few minor changes in some policies and procedures, but little else. Then, at one of the weekly staff meetings, she announced that she was implementing a dress code. “I don’t foresee any difficulties with this,” Margaret said, as she handed copies of the dress code to each of the tellers. “You all have good sense and judgment about these things. The dress code is simply just a reminder of things you should be aware of.”

The very mention of the term, “dress code” filled Ana with dread. She picked up the paper that Margaret handed out and read it intently. The paper said:

Dress Code

It is of paramount importance that bank employees maintain a good, professional appearance at all time. Good judgment and common sense are the operative rule. We must be sure that we dress and conduct ourselves as professionals at all times to demonstrate to our customers that we can take care of all of their banking needs. Professional attire is always appreciated. No shorts, tee-shirts, sneakers or sandals, please. In addition, female employees should refrain from wearing any of the following:

Tank tops

Low-cut blouses

Mini-skirts

Excessively tight clothing

Shoes with heels higher than 3-1/2 inches (no exceptions)

Ana was so angry when she read the dress code that she was practically shaking.

During her morning break, she marched into George’s office and closed the door behind her.

“She is out to get me!” Ana said, trying to keep her voice down. “Margaret wants to make an example of me for the others!” She handed George the dress code.

“Stay calm. It can’t be that bad,” George said. He read the dress code and scratched his head. “Well, most of this is common sense, but….”

“This is aimed at me, George. Isn’t it obvious? Does anyone here wear mini-skirts and low-cut tops to work? No. A few of the tellers wear 4-inch heels on occasion, but going down a half-inch for them is no big deal. In my case…Tell me I am not being paranoid.”

“You’re not, Ana. You have a reputation here for pushing the limit when it comes to clothes and shoes. Margaret wants to reign you in.”

“Is it legal for her to do it? Maybe I should contact a lawyer…”

“Of course it is legal. Employers have a right to set dress codes for their employees. No neutral observer could look at this dress code and find anything wrong with it. Don’t waste your time on attorneys.”

“George, you have gotten to know me the last few months. You know what my expression means to me. I am NOT going to limit myself to 3-1/2 inch heels. I have come too far in my life to submit to someone like Margaret. If I have to, I will get a job elsewhere.”

“Ana, don’t overreact. Go home tonight, talk to Bob, calm down, have a glass of wine. Then tomorrow, talk to Margaret about it. You have a reputation for being a great teller and the customers love you. That’s your strongest selling point with Margaret.”

“What good will that do? She wrote ‘no exceptions’ next to the shoes, as if she already knows I am going to come in and ask to be the exception. But I will try.”

To be continued

Good point, Gina, you would not want to post a photo that could be considered offensive to a specific country. But there are lots of potential photos out there that would not make a reference to any country in particular. For example, I can see in my imagination a great photo of you posing with one of your stilleto-clad feet resting on a soccer ball. I don't think anyone would have a problem with that. Just a fun thought.

Mama mia, that is a truly red hot photo. Gina, are you planning any special photos or other activities to celebrate the World Cup coming to your country?

Sharon insisted that Maria and Ana learn how to catch a thrown football. We took turns tossing the ball gently to our two Latin ladies for a few minutes until they became comfortable catching the ball. Sharon then suggested that they practice an official pass play. “We’ll start with the simplest pattern – a square-in,” she said.

After explaining the pattern to Maria and Ana, she had me squat down and snap the ball to her. Ana walked ahead for about 10 feet, and made a 90-degree turn toward the center of the patio. Her profile, so delightfully distorted by those 6-inch heels, was a beautiful sight to behold. She walked a couple of steps until Sharon said, “OK, Ana, here it comes!” She tossed the ball to Ana, who caught it.

Bob walked up to Ana and said, “Jack and I need to start playing defense.” He took Ana by the waist, gently pulled her against him, and kissed her somewhat forcefully on the lips. “That’s the rule,” Bob said. “We’re playing kiss football. The play doesn’t stop until the person with the football is kissed.”

“Brilliant, Bob,” Sharon said. She then motioned to Maria to try the same pattern. I hiked the ball to Sharon, and Maria strutted out, her hips swiveling shamelessly, until she made the 90-degree left turn. I had seen Maria in 6-inch heels on a number of occasions by that time, but there was something particularly alluring about her at that moment. It was probably her unusually assertive walking motions and her tight spandex pants. Maria caught Sharon’s throw, and Jack gently put his arms around her and gave her a respectful peck on the lips. There was something eye-opening about that as well.

We ran the plays a couple of more times, with Ana and Maria taking turns catching the ball and being kissed by Bob and Jack. I finally turned to Sharon, pulled her against me and said, “We’re missing half the fun. I’ll have to give you a congratulatory kiss every time you throw a completed pass.” And I gave her a modest-but-not-entirely-platonic kiss on the lips. Sharon replied warmly, “Thanks, Steve.”

Sharon taught Ana and Maria some other basic pass patterns: square-outs, buttonhooks, and stop-and-goes. Ana and Maria then began going out for passes at the same time, so that Sharon could choose who would receive the pass. Jack had the presence of mind to realize that it would be a shame to let our improvised play session go unrecorded, so he went inside and returned with his camcorder. I took Jack’s place at defense, and Sharon simply started the plays by hiking the ball to herself.

The culmination of the afternoon came when Sharon had Maria and Ana run a cross pattern. Each of the women started the play on opposite sides of Sharon. They then strutted out about 15 feet and turned 90 degrees toward the center of the patio and walked toward each other. They could have practiced for six months and not carried out the play as well as they did on that afternoon though sheer luck and serendipity. Looking at Maria and Ana in profile as they swiveled and wiggled toward each other, we could see that their timing was perfect. Their steps for those few moments were absolutely synchronized, and the clicking of their heels on the concrete patio made a single sound. They passed each other, and were now on the opposite sides of the patio from where they had started. I had been about 20 feet away from Maria when the play started, but now Ana was walking in front of me. Sharon threw the ball to Ana, but her throw was a little high. Ana probably should have let the throw go, but she reached high for the ball and, somehow, was able to catch it. However, she lost her balance while stretching for the ball, and she started to fall backwards. In hindsight, it was a good safety measure for Bob and I to be playing defense, as any of the women could have gotten hurt if they had fallen on the hard concrete. I trotted up to Ana, caught her as she was falling, and pulled her upright against me. We embraced and kissed, as the others applauded and Jack filmed us. This was one hell of a contact sport!

Our little football game that day was the first time that the six of us had engaged in extramarital kissing to any degree. I discussed it with Maria the following day, and neither of us attached a great deal of significance to it. There certainly was an erotic element to it, but we saw it as basically the same thing as married couples trading partners while out on the dance floor. We knew we all had something special in common – a love of high heels and powerful feminine expression – and the events of the afternoon had drawn us closer in a special sort of way. The women were giving it their all, and Bob, Jack and I appreciated it, and we had to make sure the women knew we appreciated it. We were so pleased that somehow, against all odds, each of us had found a mate and four other friends with whom we could explore this unusual interest.

The women were getting tired, and so we called an end to our little game after I caught Ana. It was just as well, because there was only five minutes left in the professional football game that the Bob, Jack and I had supposedly come to watch. As it turned out, we got back to the TV in time to see our local team score the winning touchdown. We watched the post-game show to see the highlights of the contest, and then Jack hooked the camcorder up to the TV so we could see the highlights of our own backyard exhibition.

Jack’s video footage was wonderful. Maria, Ana and Sharon were all there on Jack’s big screen-TV in their skintight spandex and 6-inch heels, their feet in a near-vertical position, their legs longer than ever, and their posteriors and chests protruding at deliciously erotic angles. We all oohed when we saw the video of that one cross pattern; Maria and Ana had no idea until they saw the footage that they had been walking in such a synchronized manner. We giggled like schoolchildren at some of the kissing. But what got our attention the most was the simple footage of the three women walking in their extreme heels.

With a physician’s eye for human anatomy, Jack had captured the essence of how Maria, Ana and Sharon maneuvered and kept their balance in 6-inch stilettos. Watching the video clips in slow motion, Jack explained in some detail how Maria could thrust herself forward by swinging her hips forcefully from side to side. Sharon took a different approach, relying on her unusually well-developed thigh and calf muscles, as well as the muscles in her back, to walk while standing up straight. Ana employed a variation of Maria’s strategy, relying on the exaggerated motion of her buttocks to propel herself forward. Few anatomy lectures have been so enjoyable to watch. Jack later edited the footage into a fascinating highlight video and gave copies to us, as well as to Bob and Ana. We still have the video today.

“Thank God for hormones,” Jack said. “Without them, we would just see this as a dry academic demonstration of how the body’s musculature adjusts to changing circumstances resulting from the use of high heels. With hormones, well, we are all having a good time, aren’t we?”

Indeed, we were. Maria and I had been watching the tape while reclining on the couch, and I instinctively held her tight against me, particularly when we were watching slow-motion video of her magical hips in action. Now that the video was over, she opened her mouth, planted her lips on mine, and we began some real hard-core kissing. Nothing made Maria feel more feminine than walking in high heels and being admired. Nothing made me feel more masculine than being with Maria when she was feeling feminine.

The room got very quiet, and when Maria and I finally looked up, we noticed that Bob and Ana were smooching, and Sharon and Jack were becoming quite romantic as well. “Let’s go,” Maria whispered to me. We got up off the couch, and Maria led me by the hand out of the TV room to one of the guest bedrooms down the hall. In another sign of the increasing closeness between the six of us, Sharon and Jack had recently begun to ensure that their two guest bedrooms were fully prepared for use whenever the six of us were together at their place. It was understood that Maria and I, and Ana and Bob, could use the bedrooms at any time, no permission needed.

Maria and I closed the bedroom door, and began our most intense lovemaking since our Lake Tahoe trip several months earlier. Ana and Bob entered the guest bedroom next to ours a few minutes later, and hearing them only made our experience all the more pleasurable. My mind was filled with images of all three women, but I focused mostly on Maria. Jack’s slow-motion video of Maria’s hip movements had found a permanent place in the recesses of my brain, and I replayed the motion of those hips in my mind’s eye as her real-life hips were moving below me as we made love. Even though there were four other people in the house, Maria did not hold back when the moment of climax came. A minute or two later, we could hear plainly that Ana was not holding back, either.

I rolled over on my back and caught my breath while Maria wiped a bead of sweat off my forehead. “So, Steve,” she asked, “are Jack, Bob and you planning to get together to watch another football game next week?”

Next: Ana’s new boss

A Quiet Sunday Afternoon

Written in the first person by Steve.

Even when you and your buddies are married to the most fabulous women in the world, there are times when you just want to spend an afternoon with the guys.

Bob, Jack and I made plans to gather at Jack’s house on Sunday to watch the big game on TV involving our local professional football team. Our team was doing well and would take hold of first place if they won the game. The three of us had been following the team’s fortunes for the entire season and would not have missed the game for anything. So we planned to spend Sunday afternoon engaging in the great American male ritual of autumn: Watching football on TV while drinking beer and munching on junk food.

I guess it was Sharon who invited Maria and Ana over to join her while we watched the game. Maria was with me in the car as we drove over to Jack’s house. I did not think of asking her what the three of them planned to do; I just assumed they would sit around and gossip, as women tend to do when their husbands are watching football. To underscore that this was not intended to be a day for the six of us, Maria was wearing a plain pair of jeans and 3-inch wedge sandals, which was about as conservative as she ever got. She did have a shopping bag with her, but I never thought of asking her what it contained. I was too busy thinking about the game.

Driving over to Jack’s house always made me feel rich and poor at the same time. I somehow felt privileged to drive up his long driveway, park and enter his virtual mansion. Having such a wealthy friend made me feel as if somehow I was a member of the elite. On the other hand, when I thought about what Jack must be worth, I would feel suddenly poor. Jack greeted us, and while Maria went off to another part of the house to socialize with Sharon and Ana, I joined Jack and Bob in the living room to watch the game on his fancy big-screen TV with stereo sound. The beer was cold, the chips were crispy, and hot dogs were grilling on the barbecue outside. Like I said, a great American afternoon.

The two teams fought hard, and the game was tied late in the first half when our afternoon took an unexpected turn. Sharon, Ana and Maria entered the room wearing tight, black Spandex workout pants, t-shirts with the name and logo of our football team, and the new 6-inch stiletto sandals that they had recently purchased over the Internet. Now I knew what had been in Maria’s shopping bag.

“Hello, gentlemen. How is the game?” Sharon asked.

“To what do we owe the pleasure of your company?” Jack asked, while doing a good job of mostly keeping his eyes on the television.

“The three of us are a little bored. We think 90 minutes of being football widows is enough. We want a little attention,” Sharon replied.

The women sat down with us and watched the last two minutes of the first half. We had to explain each play to Ana, who, like many people born and raised outside the United States, had trouble grasping the idea that there are actually rules, strategies and objectives in football other than knocking the opposing team’s players unconscious.

“A few of the women at the bank are football fans,” Ana said. “But I don’t get it. At least with basketball and soccer, you can see the men, including their faces, and their general builds, and you can decide for yourself which ones are the cutest. But football players are all covered up, so you can’t see them. Why would any women care about this game?”

The first half ended. Jack reached under his chair and pulled out a football that he tended to keep there during the season. “We definitely need to educate you, Ana,” he said. “Here, catch.” And he gently tossed the football underhanded to Ana.

“AGHHH!!” Ana screamed, jumping out of the way of the football. It was impressive that she could move so quickly and stay on her feet, given that she was in 6-inch heels. The ball bounced to the far corner of the room.

“No need to be scared of it,” Bob said.

Sharon picked up the football and threw it pretty hard at Jack, who caught it.

“Wow. Where did you learn to throw like that?” I asked.

“Are you kidding, Steve?” Sharon replied. “Remember, I grew up with two older brothers and a father who believed sports was the salvation for all red-blooded American youth. How could I have not learned how to throw a football?”

“Or catch one?” Jack asked. He threw the ball hard at Sharon, who caught it without the slightest trace of difficulty.

“I think all six of us need to go outside and get our blood circulating,” Sharon said, pointing to the door to their large backyard patio. She stood up as erect as she could, and turned to the side to better highlight her shapely, high heel-enhanced profile. “Are you ready for some football?”

We walked outside into the enormous backyard. There was a swimming pool and a patio about the size of a basketball court, as well as a large lawn. Sharon tossed the football to Jack. “I am going to go out for a pass. Ana and Maria, observe closely,” she said.

Jack walked over and stood about five feet away from her. He leaned forward like a football quarterback, and yelled, “Hike!”

Normally, “going out for a pass” requires a person to run out about 10 or 20 meters, turn around and catch a thrown football. Remember, of course, that Sharon was wearing 6-inch stiletto heels. Instead of running, she strutted out in grand style, wiggling back and forth with an intensity that even Ana and Maria would find hard to duplicate. She walked out about 40 feet, and then turned to the side, displaying her high heel-enhanced profile. “OK, Jack. I am open!” she shouted.

Jack threw the football. Sharon had to reach a little to catch it, and I feared she would lose her balance and fall face first into the concrete. But somehow, Sharon caught the ball and remained upright. She turned her back to us, and strutted out another 25 feet or so, and then turned around and yelled, “Touchdown!”

We all applauded Sharon as she wiggled back to us. “Who goes next?” Sharon asked. “Ana or Maria?”

“I’m not ready to catch the ball,” Maria said. “But I can try a running play.”

“Very good,” Sharon said. “I will be the quarterback. Steve, why don’t you be center?”

Bob ran to the middle of the patio, followed by Jack. “We’ll be defense!” Bob shouted.

Sharon instructed Maria to stand about five feet behind her, and a little off to the right. She then asked me to squat down and hike the ball to her. I grabbed the football and bent down until the football touched the patio. Sharon stood behind me, and put her hands between my legs, as the quarterback is supposed to do. I felt the back of her hands softly rubbing against my crotch.

“That’s not exactly how it’s done,” I said softly to her.

“You got your style, Steve, and I got mine. Hike!”

Still bending over, I passed the ball through my legs to Sharon, just like a real football center. “Run up!” Sharon said to Maria, who walked forward. Sharon gave the ball to Maria as she passed her. Maria then broke out into one of her most powerfully sexy walks, gyrating her hips in a manner I had not seen in a long time. One-two-three-four, one-two-three-four. She walked up to Bob and Jack, suggestively said to them, “I hope this is only touch football,” and moved on past them. When she got to the end of the patio, she turned around and asked, “Is that a touchdown?”

“Eight points! Six points for the touchdown, and we’ll give you the two point conversion automatically!” Jack said.

Ana took her turn. I hiked the ball to Sharon, who handed if off to Ana. She walked straight ahead, demonstrating her raciest wiggle as she blew past Jack and Bob. All of our eyes, including Sharon’s and Maria’s, were focused on Ana’s posterior. “What do you call it? A touchdown?” Ana asked when she got to the end of the patio. “This is fun.”

To be continued.

They began walking through the neighborhood and entered the campus of the local high school. “I usually walk two laps around the running track,” Warren said. Eight other people were jogging around the track as Warren and Sharon walked it. The joggers all turned their heads in Sharon’s direction as they passed her.

“Hey, Sharon, I have a question for you,” Warren said. “Do you like me?”

“Well, um, of course, I like you,” Sharon said. “Why do you ask?”

“Your weekly visits are part of your experiment. You are really helping me, but it is simply part of your experiment. When you suggested your experiment, it was because you felt I would be a suitable candidate for you to test your theories of nursing and sex appeal. It was not because you took a personal liking and wanted to help me personally. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not criticizing you. I appreciate everything you are doing for me. I just want to know the truth.”

“Well,” Sharon said, trying to find the right words. “You are right, to some extent. I did see an opportunity to play with some of my ideas and expand my own experiences. But I have taken a liking to you. You have made the effort to restore your health, and I admire you for that. I am also pleased that, well, you have some of the same offbeat tastes in high heels and short skirts that I do. So how can I not like you?”

“OK, well, thanks, Sharon. I appreciate that,” Warren said, somewhat awkwardly.

“In fact, you know what I really like about you?” Sharon continued. “You were devious enough to suggest I come walking with you, when you knew I would be wearing high heels and a mini-dress, and you knew we would be walking on a track with people running. That’s brilliant, Warren. This really appeals to you, doesn’t it? Walking on a track with me while people run past us and look at us? Well, it appeals to me, too. So we have a few things in common.” She waved to a couple of men who ran past her on the track.

The following week, Warren’s weight dropped below 190 pounds, and to mark the occasion, Sharon wore 4-1/2 inch heels for the first time during her weekly visits. Three weeks after that, Sharon moved up to 5-inch heels and donned a little white mini-skirt when Warren dropped below 185 pounds, which was within 5 pounds of his goal. To Warren’s amazement, Sharon was still willing to go on the one-mile walk, even in such high heels. She was quite a sight now on the running track, and her wiggling was significantly more pronounced than before.

As they walked, Warren asked Sharon if she would consider visiting him on a regular basis even after he attained his goal of 180 pounds, which now seemed more certain than ever. “Everyone says keeping the weight off is harder than losing it. I am going to need the assistance. You won’t have to dress up like you do now, if you don’t want to,” he said.

“The experiment will end when you reach 180 pounds,” Sharon replied. “I will need to move on to other things. You will need to get a girlfriend of your own to help you keep the weight off.”

“I don’t know about that,” Warren said.

“Oh, I do. Just the fact that you asked me to keep seeing you tells me another aspect of my experiment was a success. The part I did not tell you about.”

“And what part was that?”

“At this stage of the experiment, I am dressing more like the girls in those magazines you like to read. But I am not just a page in a magazine. I am a living, breathing woman. The prospect of seeing me in high heels and short skirts got you to agree to my experiment, but you have really grown to value my companionship, and so you want my visits to continue. That is going to give you the desire to go out and find a woman of your own.”

“Maybe, maybe not. Your unusual style and attitudes have made an impression on me. I do not think my feelings about ordinary women have changed.”

“I don’t know what you mean by ‘ordinary women’. But there are plenty of women in this world who wear high heels and value their femininity. If you care about things like that, you can find a woman who likes 3-inch heels. Remember, just like our experiment, there is no instant gratification, and things will take time. But if the woman feels loved and appreciated – in other words, if you are committed to the relationship – she will start wearing higher heels and shorter skirts, if she knows that is what you want. Trust me.”

“It is going to take me a long time to trust anyone. But I’ll think about it,” Warren said. He looked up and saw a man jogging past them who turned to Sharon and said, “Nice workout uniform.” Sharon shouted a quick “thank you” to the jogger.

*** *** ***

The final dinner was six weeks later. Warren was 178 pounds, his blood pressure and cholesterol had dropped to normal levels, and he felt healthier than he had in a long time. He had agreed to meet Sharon for dinner at a restaurant that specialized in chicken, fish and pasta – all good, heart-healthy dishes. Warren waited at the front entrance and swallowed hard when he saw Sharon walking across the parking lot toward him. She was dressed as she had been in the photograph she had showed him – a daringly short yellow minidress, and matching 5-1/2-inch yellow stiletto sandals. He was not the only one looking at Sharon as she approached the restaurant entrance, but he was the only one who would be having dinner with her. His heart started beating faster, which in recent months had tended to make him nervous. For this occasion, he was too busy enjoying himself to worry about it.

“Congratulations,” Sharon said flirtatiously. “You reached all your goals, and you are a healthy man once again. As promised, I am taking you out to dinner. And, personally, I am very proud of you.”

“I can see why you won that contest in that outfit,” Warren said. “You are one unusual lady.”

They both ordered pasta and wine, and enjoyed a leisurely dinner. And Warren had some news for Sharon.

“I actually have a date for tomorrow,” he told her. “A woman who works at my agency, although she is in another division and I don’t know her that well. She was divorced about six months ago, she is friendly, and she has been complimenting me all these months on my weight loss. And, for what it’s worth, she wears conservative, business heels to work.”

“That is wonderful news, Warren! I am so proud of you.”

“I am just taking it one day at a time, Sharon. It is just a date, and I go into this with no preconceived ideas of what may eventually happen.”

“Of course, Warren. Optimistic but realistic is a good approach to take.”

“You know, Sharon, I hope we can still be friends after tonight. I would like to meet your husband. If I do get a steady woman in my life, it might be nice for the four of us to get together.”

“Absolutely. And if there were an appropriate way for me to help or encourage this future lady friend of yours to be more proficient in high heels, I will be glad to help.”

Warren laughed at Sharon’s offer. He then said, “And are you going to write a report on the success of your experiment? Maybe you can get it published in a scientific journal.”

“Yeah, right. I would probably lose my job if the hospital knew what I have been doing. But I feel good about it. I wanted to prove to myself that there was a way I could combine serious nursing with my taste in clothes and shoes, and I did it.”

“There probably is a bigger market for your style of nursing than anyone would think. But, OK, it will be our little secret.”

“Yes, indeed,” Sharon said, as she took a sip of wine.

They finished dinner, and Warren insisted on paying the bill, even though the plan originally had been for Sharon to pick up the tab as a way of congratulating Warren on his accomplishments. They stood awkwardly at the entrance, knowing it was time to say goodbye. But Warren said, “Look, the experiment is now officially ended. So I am going to ask you as a friend…the club next door to here has some live music. Maybe we can go and listen to some music for half an hour? I know you need to get back to your husband, but it would mean so much to me.”

“Of course,” Sharon said.

They walked into the club, ordered some wine, and started dancing to the soft music. Sharon was drawing her usual assortment of looks and gawks from others in the club, but Warren was only thinking about the fact that he was dancing with the woman who had done so much for him.

“I feel a little guilty that I am here with you while your husband is home alone,” Warren said.

“Don’t. This makes up for all the nights I have spent alone while he has been working or traveling.”

“OK,” Warren said. “All I ask is 30 minutes with you.” Sharon agreed. But they stayed at the club for two hours.

Next: The three couples get together for a quiet Sunday afternoon.

Warren was discharged after three more days in the hospital. He left with medications for his blood pressure and high cholesterol, and with doctors’ orders to lose 30 pounds and follow a strict low-fat diet. On the first Saturday morning following his discharge, Sharon drove to Warren’s condominium, following the directions Warren had given her when he left the hospital. The condominium was located in a decent part of town, but it was very small and basic. Warren had not been exaggerating when he said the divorce settlement and child-care payments took much of his paycheck. “Come in,” Warren said after Sharon had knocked on the door. Sharon was wearing a green sweater and an ankle-length black skirt, both of them a little snug but not particularly tight by her standards. She also wore light-brown boots with 3-inch block heel. “You look nice,” Warren said. “Not like in your photograph, but nicer than you looked in the hospital with your uniform.” “Thank you,” Sharon said in a businesslike manner. She had a large bag in which she took out a bathroom scale and a notebook. “First things first, let’s weigh you,” she said. He stepped on the scale, and Sharon jotted down his weight in her notebook. “You are 210 pounds. You need to lose 30 pounds, according to your doctor.” She then took a portable blood-pressure monitor out of the bag and strapped the device around Warren’s arm. She measured Warren’s blood pressure, which was almost normal. “You are taking the blood-pressure medication. That is good.” “And the cholesterol medication, too,” Warren said. “Let’s go into the kitchen,” Sharon said. She opened the refrigerator and some of the cupboards. She winced. “The doughnuts have to go. A lot of empty calories and artery-clogging fat. The cookies, too. I see you have a lot of red meat. You can have some, but not this much. Buy low-fat hamburger. Next week, I want to see more fish in the refrigerator. More fresh fruits and vegetables. And oatmeal. I want you eating oatmeal for breakfast seven days a week. No more whole milk, by the way. Use fat-free skim milk.” “Hold on,” Warren protested. “I know you told me you were going to do this. You want to be my dietitian, that’s fine. But where are the high heels and the fancy clothes that you were supposed to wear? I thought that was how you were going to inspire me.” “I told you how this will work,” Sharon said. “I will visit you every Saturday, and I am starting off by dressing conservatively. As you make progress in losing weight and improving your diet, I’ll start wearing high heels and short skirts. It is really up to you: the lower your weight and blood pressure, the higher my heels and hemlines. If it is clear that you no longer are interested in making progress, I will stop coming entirely. When you reach all your goals, I will take you out to lunch dressed the way I was in the photograph. Any questions? And I am serious about your kitchen. I want to see healthier food here next week.” “Yeah, yeah. It will be better. Sharon, why are you doing this?” Sharon dropped her businesslike demeanor for the first time that morning and instead became somewhat thoughtful. “I have been asking myself the same question,” she said. “Think of it this way. Men often like to fantasize about nurses. For whatever reason, the male psyche tends to have this deep-seated need to link nursing and sex. The idea of linking them in real life is taboo, of course, but that is unfortunate. If we really could find a way to link nursing with sex, or at least with sex appeal, we might come up with a pretty powerful new tool for improving the health of men. So I am willing to experiment. And I have unique qualifications to conduct this experiment, because I am devoted to both nursing and sexy expression.” Warren laughed. “Ooooh, you are so politically incorrect, it’s hard to believe,” he said. “I was politically correct for many years, and it got me very little in terms of personal happiness. My life only started taking off when I became politically incorrect.” Sharon said, as she packed her bags. “I mean it, that kitchen had better be overhauled when I return next week.” It was. When Sharon returned the following week, the junk food was gone. There was a big fruit bowl full of apples and bananas. The vegetable container in the refrigerator was full, and fish and chicken had replaced the red meat. Warren had lost two pounds, and his blood pressure also was down. “I went through all that work, just so I could see your calves,” a disappointed Warren told Sharon, who was attired in a red blouse and a long gray skirt that ended about halfway between her knees and ankles. She was also wearing a pair of black, 3-1/2 inch block heels. “There is no instant gratification when it comes to regaining your health. It is hard work, and the rewards are usually delayed,” Sharon replied. “But think of it this way,” she added, pointing to her shoes, “Most women would consider these to be high heels. I am just starting. As long as you make progress, you ain’t seen nothin’ yet.” Warren continued to make impressive progress, losing about two pounds a week, and keeping his blood pressure down. For her part, Sharon found it harder than she had initially realized to dress appropriately to recognize Warren’s gradual progress. She did not have a big collection of long skirts. And, if she increased her heel height by a half inch each week, she would have gotten to her maximum heel height far too soon. She stayed steady at 4 inches for several weeks, but moved gradually from the thicker heels (most of which she had bought when she was learning to wear heels) to the thinner stilettos. By the eighth week, Warren had progressed to the point where Sharon arrived in a short orange dress that barely reached halfway down to her knees, and 4-inch strappy stiletto sandals. Warren was down to 194 pounds (a total loss of 16 pounds), and had been cleared by his doctor to begin moderate exercise. “I have two requests of you,” he said to Sharon. Last week, he said, he had gotten a horrible case of “the munchees,” and it took all the discipline he could muster not to break his diet. “If I could take a picture of you and put it on the refrigerator, it would be a big help,” he said. Sharon was glad to consent. Warren took out his camera, and Sharon struck a feminine pose as he took her picture. The second request, he said, was for her to join him on his daily one-mile walk that his doctor had recommended. “I’ll understand if you can’t walk a mile in those heels,” he said, but Sharon laughed. “Let’s go,” she said. To be continued.

A nice, mischievous little story, Adeana. Feel free to share more.

Sharon’s Nursing Experiment

Written in the third person by Steve, based on interviews with the principal individuals in the story.

Like most other working people, Sharon had a routine that she followed every morning. She got up, showered, ate breakfast, and put on her nurse’s uniform. For many years, she would put on her flat, rubber-soled nursing shoes along with her uniform. One day, she decided to change things. Instead of the nursing shoes, she put on a pair of white, 5-inch stiletto pumps.

“Very nice,” Jack said as he sat up in bed and took notice of Sharon’s change in footwear. “You’ll be the sensation of the hospital.”

Sharon laughed. Obviously, she would bring her nursing shoes along in the car and change into them once she got to the hospital.

“I am glad you approve,” she told her husband. “Do you think I am crazy?”

“Why do you ask?” Jack said, side-stepping the question.

Sharon walked over to the mirror and took a quick look at herself in her nursing uniform and stilettos before turning back towards Jack. “I can’t stand the thought of leaving home in those flat nursing shoes. It no longer feels right. I want to wear my high heels until the last possible minute, and then change back into them the minute I get off my shift.”

“You value your style. Nothing wrong with that.”

Sharon lay down on the bed next to Jack, while keeping her shoes on. “I feel like Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. I think now there are really two Sharons. There is Old Sharon, the nurse, who is devoted to nurturing the sick back to health. And then there is New Sharon, the sexy high-heel wearer who is constantly turning heads. I always have to choose between one and the other. But I can never be both at the same time. It is so unfair. Ana wears high heels to work, and Maria wears heels to school. They can be one person all the time. But I have to live this double life.”

“Lots of people live double lives, Sharon. They dress and act one way at work, and then are completely different at home.”

“But I do not want that. I would like to find some way to merge my two passions, nursing and provocative femininity, into something entirely new. I don’t see how such a thing can be possible, but I would still like to try.”

“The bottom line is that you can’t wear high heels at the hospital. I don’t know how you get around that,” Jack said.

“I don’t know, either,” Sharon replied. She looked at her watch and said, “I need to go. Bye, love.”

Jack watched her leave the bedroom. In their house, at least, a nursing uniform and 5-inch stilettos were a welcome combination.

*** *** ***

Sharon watched the hospital crew wheel a new patient into one of the hospital rooms. She looked at his chart: Warren, age 48, had spent the last two days in intensive care following a heart attack. He was about 30 pounds overweight, had high blood pressure, high cholesterol, and was a heavy smoker. He had everything he needed to fit the profile of a heart attack victim.

Warren was pretty woozy for a few hours after arriving in the room. After that, he woke up fully and became alert. “Good morning,” Sharon said to him when she entered the room. “We are so glad that you are still with us in the world of the living. You had quite a close call.”

“To be honest, I was a little disappointed to wake up and still find myself here,” Warren said. “I think it would have been better if my heart had remained stopped.”

“Oh, my. You aren’t serious,” Sharon said. But he was. She had not planned to remain in the room long, but she asked some questions to gauge the state of Warren’s depression. Warren was talkative, and by the time he finished, Sharon was a little depressed. Warren was a supervisor in a local county office. He had been married for 12 years, but his wife, who was a legal secretary, left him for an attorney in the law firm where she worked. The divorce had been nasty, with the wife gaining custody of their two children and extracting most of the assets they had built up during their marriage. They had been divorced for two years, and his ex-wife now jetted around the world with the kids and her wealthy attorney-husband.

“What the hell,” he said. “I’m not the world’s smartest or most ambitious guy. But I valued our marriage and I took my responsibilities as a father seriously. And then my wife leaves me for this rich SOB lawyer, and I wind up with nothing. What do I do, start all over again?”

“I am so sorry,” Sharon said. “You have a right to be angry. But you have to get beyond it at some point. You still can have many good years left if you take care of yourself. And there are women out there who would appreciate someone like you.”

“You don’t understand,” Warren said. “My friends have tried to set me up on dates. But I don’t feel anything for women anymore. I am dead emotionally. The only place I want to see women is in men’s magazines. I have nothing left in my heart for a real woman. Even my kids don’t need me, as their rich stepfather can provide them with anything they want. I’ll just work until I die, which hopefully will be sooner rather than later.”

Warren’s words stayed with Sharon as she drove home that night. When she got home, she had a strange idea. She rejected it as being too crazy, and then reconsidered it. It would depend how on she felt the following day.

She arrived at the hospital in the morning, checked on her patients, and took care of her morning tasks. She then checked on Warren.

“And how are we doing this morning?” Sharon asked cheerfully.

“I am still here, which is not necessarily a good thing,” Warren said. They chatted for a few minutes, and it was clear that Warren’s mood was not any better than it had been the day before.

Sharon briefly left Warren’s room to pick up her purse, and then returned and closed the door to Warren’s room behind her. She took out a photo that she had put in her purse the night before. It was a copy of a photograph that a nightclub photographer had taken of her two years earlier when she had won a popularity-beauty contest on the club’s opening night. In the photo, she was wearing an extremely short yellow mini-dress and matching, 5-1/2 inch yellow stiletto sandals. She handed the photo to Warren.

“I want you to look at this photograph and tell me what you think,” Sharon said to Warren.

Warren’s eyes opened wide as he looked at the picture. “Wow,” he said. “Who’s the babe?”

Sharon put her hands on her hips and, somewhat annoyed, asked, “Who do you think?”

Warren looked at Sharon, then at the photo, and then at Sharon again. “Gosh, that’s you,” he said. “You’re pretty hot.”

“Well, thank you!” Sharon said, irritated that it had taken him so long to recognize her in the photo.

“Why are you showing me this?” Warren asked her.

“You’ve had it bad, Warren, but you are not the only one,” Sharon replied. “I went through a lot of different relationships. I was engaged to marry a doctor at one point, and he called it off just days before the wedding. I was so crushed that I quit my job and moved to this city. I lost interest in men. I met up with a couple of women who were into high heels and sexy clothing. I had never worn that kind of stuff, but I thought the change – any change – would be good for me. It didn’t take me very long to get the hang of it, as you can see by the photo. Now I am married to a doctor who works at this hospital. And, outside of work, I wear high heels and short skirts and dresses all the time.”

“Congratulations,” Warren said. “Should I start wearing short skirts, too?”

“No. But you can rebuild your life. Of course, you have to want to rebuild your life, and the first step is to regain your health. You will have to lose weight, eat right, take medication, and eventually start exercising. And I can help you. You say the only women who mean anything to you are the ones in men’s magazines? Fine. I can be like them. If that is what motivates you, I can give you the motivation you need to regain your health.” She then explained to him what she had in mind.

“Lady, you are absolutely nuts,” Warren said when Sharon finished her explanation.

“Maybe so. If you feel that way, we can forget we ever had this conversation.” She took her photograph from Warren’s hand and put it back in her purse.

“No,” Warren replied. “I am willing to give it a try.”

To be continued.

On one of her days off, Grandmother entered a small market to get something to drink. The teenage boy working in the store started talking to her, and before long, she had accepted a date from him. She thought for certain that the boy would no longer want to see her once he saw the neighborhood where he lived, but the boy remained as interested in her as ever. That boy was my grandfather. By age 19, the two were married, and Grandmother had moved up to the lower middle-class. It was not a comfortable, secure life, but it was a miraculous leap beyond anything she had known up to that point.

“I learned many things during that period, and they are things that you must learn,” Grandmother told me as we caught a bus that took us out of that awful neighborhood. “There is much ugliness in this world. Poverty, violence, the desperate struggles of so many people. In such a world, there is a hunger for beauty. A beautiful woman, well-dressed and graceful, is a ray of warm sunshine in the coldness and darkness of people’s lives. Beautiful women lift the souls of both men and women. They instill hope that there is goodness and decency in the world. There are good reasons why beautiful women have been prized throughout history. But I learned that beauty is more than just a pretty face and a nice figure. A beautiful woman must know how to dress, how to walk, how to look people in the eye and make them feel they are the most important people in the world. A beautiful woman must know how to distinguish between good and bad men. Upon picking a good man, a beautiful woman must know how to love and be faithful to the man, to inspire him and lift him up. She must make him appear to be an accomplished, enviable man in the eyes of others. All these things you must learn.”

We transferred to yet another bus, which took us to an unfamiliar part of the city. We got off the bus and stood on the side of the road, looking down into a large gulch that was full of people. There were small huts, literally made out of mud and sticks, where the people lived. Many of the men and women were barefoot. Naked children played in the dirt. Large hogs (the most important economic asset for many of these people) ambled through the area, eating the garbage strewn through the little community. My parents up to that point had sheltered me from that aspect of El Salvador. But Grandmother wanted me to see it.

“Isn’t there anything anyone can do to help these people?” I asked, with tears welling up in my eyes.

“The poor have lived like this for centuries, and they will undoubtedly live this way for centuries into the future,” Grandmother said. “The rich perhaps could help them, but they do not. We do not have enough to help them. All we can do is help ourselves. Look at them closely. They have the same color skin as us. They have the same color hair. If we were to go down there and change into their clothes, we could be one of them.” She pointed to a teenage girl who was not far from us. “That girl is as attractive as you will be in just a few years. But she will not have the opportunity to become as beautiful as you will be. She will never wear a nice dress. She will never wear high heels. She will only know the cheapest, most basic clothing. She will only know poverty her entire life.”

Grandmother turned me away from the gulch, and said, “Now you understand the reason why I wear nice dresses and high heels every day. They are a sign to everyone that I am not poor. I am not the working class. I can afford to buy nice dresses and high heels, and I know how to wear them. I may have been born in the working class, but I combined my gift of beauty with my knowledge of style, grace, and culture, and I advanced myself. I married your grandfather and made a better life for myself. And for you. If I had not understood how to use my beauty, you would be living today in the neighborhoods I have shown you.”

We caught another bus. The bus began to climb into the higher areas overlooking San Salvador. We got off in one of the nicer areas of the city, next to a modern shopping center. Most of the men were dressed in fancy shirts and pants, and most of the women wore colorful dresses and high heels.

Grandmother said, “This is where the upper middle-class go to shop. These people have more than we do. Our family owns one food store, while they own several businesses. But we are every bit as good as them. When you are older, many boys from this neighborhood will want to date you. If you pick the right one, you can have a good life here. I wanted your mother to marry a boy from this neighborhood, but she ended up staying in the neighborhood where I raised her. You will do better.”

“Why do you think that?”

“I taught your mother and her older sister everything I knew about beauty. They tried, but they did not inherit my gift. I remember when your mother was 20 years old. We would walk down the street together, and boys her age would look at me, not her. It was the same with your aunt. Both women married good men, but they were men of the lower middle-class. I am proud of my daughters. They did well. But you will do better. I can see already, Maria, that you have the gift of beauty. As you grow older, I will teach you what you need to use your gift well. And you will have one advantage I did not have, in that you will, at a minimum, attend high school. A woman becomes even more beautiful when she is educated. ”

Grandmother took me to lunch at a café in this neighborhood. As we ate, I looked at the women walking by. I tried to imagine myself with curves like theirs, and wearing nice dresses and high heels. I saw one particularly beautiful woman wearing a tight dress and what I realize, in retrospect, must have been 5-inch stiletto heels. “I want to be like her!” I told Grandmother.

“No doubt you will, Maria. No doubt you will.” For the first time that day, Grandmother smiled.

*** *** ***

Over the next three years, Grandmother spent a lot of time with me. She taught me about different styles of dresses and high-heel shoes. She taught me how to apply cosmetics, how to style my hair, and how to choose the best color combinations. She demonstrated how to walk in the highest heels, and she promised she would teach me personally when the time came. But that never happened. When I was 13, Grandmother died after a short illness. I was devastated, but I promised myself I would follow her example and make her proud as she looked down on me from Heaven. The following year, a second major upheaval tore at our family. The Salvadoran civil war of the early 1980s had gotten so bad that our family could no longer make a living operating our modest grocery store, and we moved to the United States. We planned to open a grocery store there, but because one already existed in the neighborhood where we moved, my family opened up a Salvadoran restaurant instead.

I started wearing high heels when I was 15, and as Grandmother predicted, I became popular with boys. I first dated the Salvadoran boys in my neighborhood, and then moved on to the Mexican boys in my high school. I came very close to being date-raped when I was 16. Afterwards, I remembered what Grandmother told me about the importance of differentiating between good and bad men. I became far more discriminating as to who I dated, and as my standards for men rose, so did the height of my heels. By the time I was 20, I was a regular 5-inch heel wearer.

I still think about Grandmother often. I have already achieved the two major goals she had for me. By marrying Steve, I moved “up” into the U.S. middle class, and I am also the first member of my family to graduate from a university. Wherever she is, Grandmother must be very proud of me for those two things. At the same time, Grandmother must have mixed feelings about other aspects of my life. As Steve has documented in his earlier stories, I was initially reluctant to experiment with 6-inch heels, as I knew Grandmother viewed them as extreme and improper for a truly beautiful woman. If she is indeed looking down on me, she may be disappointed by some of the choices I have made in that regard. However, I would impress upon her that the United States of the 1990s and early-21st century is a very different place than El Salvador of the mid-20th century. Perhaps more importantly, I am continuing to use my feminine gifts and skills to bring pleasure to myself, my husband and my close friends, just as Grandmother taught me. If I could explain it to her in that way, I am confident she would understand.

Next: Sharon tries a new nursing technique.

Prequel: Maria and Her Grandmother

Written in the first person by Maria, with assistance from Steve

The closet. One of the fondest memories of my childhood was my grandmother’s closet. Grandmother, who was a widow, lived with my aunt and uncle in a house about a 20-minute walk from our home in San Salvador, the capital of tiny El Salvador in Central America. Whenever we would visit, I loved to sneak away from everyone else, go into Grandmother’s bedroom, and look inside her closet. There were dozens of pairs of high-heeled shoes, in every color and style imaginable, and with heels of varying heights and thicknesses. To this day, I am not sure why children are fascinated with high-heel shoes, but leave a young child alone in a room with various kinds of shoes, and he or she (yes, even boys) will go right for the high heels. I used to take out the different shoes, run my fingers along the heels and soles, and of course I would try them on. Almost any child would do that. And, like any parent or grandparent, Grandmother would hear the noise and would come in and smile at the sight of a young girl clacking around the room in a pair of shoes made exclusively for full-grown women.

My clearest memory, however, was the time that Grandmother saw me walking in her high heels, and did not smile.

It was 1979, and I was an innocent 10-year-old girl. My uncle, aunt and cousins had taken a trip to visit cousins in another city, and my parents thought it would be good for me to spend the day with Grandmother. On most days, Grandmother was constantly dividing her attention between her children and grandchildren, but on that day I had Grandmother all to myself. My parents left me with Grandmother early in the morning. After making me breakfast, Grandmother went to put the food away and was the dishes, and I snuck away to play with her high heels. She entered the room and saw me, and I waited for her smile. But this time, it did not come.

“Maria, you are 10 years old, correct?” she asked me. Yes, I replied. She then said, “It is time you learn what high heels are really about.”

Grandmother was a tough, serious woman, mainly because she lived a tough, serious life. One does not live to be a grandparent in El Salvador without learning to be tough. El Salvador is the epitome of the small, struggling third world country: poor, overcrowded, underdeveloped and violent. As in many such countries, there is a small class of wealthy people that dominates the country’s economy and society. At the other extreme, there are the poor, who comprise most of the country’ population but own virtually nothing. The poor resent the rich, and the rich hold the poor in contempt. The poor periodically form revolutionary groups to take back by force what they believe the rich have stolen from them. The rich do whatever it takes to hold onto what they have, and that usually means paying for armies to put down the periodic rebellions with bloody force. In between the rich and the poor is the working class and a small middle class, of which my family was a part. The working class often allies itself with the poor, while the middle class sees things both ways: They resent the greediness of the rich, but they also fear the wrath of the poor. Unable to defend itself from either, the middle class leads a nervous, tenuous existence, treading on tiptoes to avoid offending anyone.

The harshness of life in El Salvador scarred Grandmother at an early age. Her father (my great-grandfather), a trade unionist, was killed during the repression that ended the violent uprisings of 1932, when Grandmother was only 11 years old. My great-grandmother somehow managed to keep the family intact, but they slid further and further into poverty. It was at the end of her teenage years that Grandmother discovered she had a gift that may well have saved her and her descendants from lives of poverty and misery.

“Watch carefully,” Grandmother told me. She took off the bathrobe she had been wearing during breakfast, and hung it in the closet. She put on a short-sleeve green dress that flattered her in all the right places. She looked through her collection of heels and settled on a pair of 4-inch black pumps, with a heel that was a little wider and sturdier than a stiletto, but still fashionably narrow. “Observe closely,” she said to me.

Grandmother stepped into the shoes one foot at a time, and I witnessed the most wonderful transformation. Standing barefoot, she looked like a woman whose best years were well behind her. But once she stepped into the heels, everything changed – she stood up tall and straight, her figure became curvier and more sensuous, and she began to exude the femininity that everyone around her knew so well. Grandmother at that time was 58 years old, but she had the figure of a woman half her age, and she could turn the heads of men young enough to be her son. She went into the bathroom to brush her thick black hair (modest use of hair coloring to cover up a sprinkling of gray was the only artificial aid she ever used), and to apply her makeup. She studied herself carefully in the mirror, making sure everything was just the way she wanted it.

“Grandmother, you are so pretty,” I said. “When I grow up, I hope I am as pretty as you.”

“I believe you will grow up to be a beautiful woman,” Grandmother said with a serious tone in her voice. “But there is much that you must learn about beauty. Come. Today will be your first lesson.”

We left the house, which was very small and modest by North American standards. We walked several blocks, boarded a bus, and then transferred to another bus. We ended up 45 minutes later in one of the many shantytowns that are scattered around San Salvador. It was hard to believe that entire families were living in the cheap, claptrap houses. The people in the neighborhoods were rough and scruffy looking, even by Salvadoran standards. Stray dogs were running in the street. Grandmother looked so out of place in her green dress and high heels, but she was totally at ease. I, on the other hand, was starting to feel scared.

“Grandmother, why have you taken me to this place?” I asked.

“This is the neighborhood where I grew up,” she said. “The houses were perhaps a little nicer 50 years ago, but not much different than they are now.” She explained to me that she was born into the working class, and her father barely made enough money to keep the family fed by working in a small textile factory. He joined the trade union movement and was killed in the 1932 uprisings, after which her mother provided for Grandmother and her three siblings by doing all kinds of odd jobs. There was a grimness to the neighborhood. Alcoholism was rampant and gun violence was common, but there were also good people who looked out for each other’s families.

By the time Grandmother was 16 years old, she knew she had the gift of beauty, as the young men of the neighborhood were constantly ogling her and asking her out on dates. But she did not know exactly what to do with it. She explained to me that she took a job as a domestic servant in a middle-class neighborhood of San Salvador, working 60-hour weeks during which she cleaned the house, cooked meals and helped supervise the young children of her employers. Because of the long hours, she often spent the night at the house. One evening, as she was finishing up her final chores for the evening, the woman of the house and her 15-year-old daughter told Grandmother how attractive she was.

“I wonder how you would look in nice clothes. Come here,” the woman told Grandmother. They went into the woman’s room. By happy coincidence, the two women were roughly the same size. The woman of the house took out one of her black dresses and asked Grandmother to try it on. She then took out a pair of her high heels, and asked her to try them on.

Grandmother told me she was a little scared. She had never worn high heels. “I don’t think I can. They are your shoes. I cannot wear them,” Grandmother said. But the woman insisted, and Grandmother finally tried them on. They were a modest pair of 3-inch block heels, but Grandmother nevertheless had to steady herself in them. They then applied some lipstick and eye shadow to Grandmother.

“How beautiful, no?” the woman of the house said to Grandmother. Her daughter added, “I could have spent a full day trying on dresses and shoes, and I could not look as good as you. I am happy for you, but I am also very jealous!”

The woman called her husband and her sons, and asked them to look at Grandmother. They agreed she was lovely. The attention scared Grandmother, as it was unusual for a working-class woman to draw so much attention from a middle-class family. Later on, the woman told Grandmother to keep the dress and the shoes as her gift. “If you use your beauty wisely, you can find a good man who will give you a much more comfortable life than you have known so far,” the woman said.

Grandmother took the woman’s statement very seriously. Over the next several months, she practiced walking in high heels, and made the effort to learn the fine points of hair styling and make-up. She set aside a portion of her meager income for fashion magazines. Poring through the magazines as if they were textbooks, she learned much about style and taste, and how she wanted to present herself. She finally bought herself a nicer pair of shoes and a dress that fit her as if it was made for her. By this time, she was fully aware of her gift, but she did not waste it on the ill-mannered boys of her own neighborhood. On her days off, she would put on her one nice dress and pair of heels, and spend the day in some of the nicer shopping districts in the city. She discovered that, if she dressed nicely, she could pass as a member of the middle class. She would draw the eye of boys who were students, rather than factory workers, and she welcomed the attention.

To be continued.

Almost two weeks went by. Maria saw Dan in class during that time, but professors tended to go easy on assignments for a while following midterms, so there was no reason for Maria, Dan and Laurie to get together to study. One day, following her last class in the afternoon, Maria decided to stop at a café and get some coffee to drink during her drive home. While waiting in line to order, she noticed Dan and Laurie were sitting in a booth at the back of the café. She bought her coffee and walked toward their table to say hello to them.

She was approaching the table when Dan and Laurie leaned toward each other and began kissing. “Oh!” Maria said in a total surprise. Dan and Laurie looked up.

“Maria! Come join us,” Dan said.

Now Maria was the one who appeared nervous and awkward. “I’m sorry. I see I am interrupting something. We’ll see each other in class tomorrow. Why don’t we talk then?”

Laurie got up from the table and said, “Maria. Look.” She was wearing a pair of wide, 3-inch block heels. They were not in any way fashionable, but it was the first time that Maria had seen Laurie in anything other than flat shoes.

“Laurie, that’s wonderful!” Maria said. “A lot has happened with you two!”

“And we want to tell you about it. Please sit,” Dan said. When Maria sat down with them, he said, “The week after we went dancing, I got together with Laurie after class and told her about our outing to the Latin club, and our late-night conversation a few days prior.”

Laurie said, “That got me thinking. I went through a brief period in high school when I wanted to wear high heels. My parents bought me these shoes, but I quit wearing them after a short time because none of my friends were interested in heels. I pretty much forgot about them. But when Dan was telling me what happened, I asked him if I should go to my parents’ house that weekend and bring back my heels. He said yes.”

Dan said, “We got together again the weekend after Laurie picked up her heels. We talked some more, one thing led to another and, well, here we are.” He kissed Laurie on the cheek. “We have you to thank, Maria. You brought us together.”

“I hardly think I did that,” Maria protested.

Laurie said, “When Dan and I were talking, we realized it was not an accident that the two of us started studying with you. We were both attracted to you. It is obvious why Dan would find you attractive. In my case, I now realize I saw you as the kind of woman I wanted to be. I didn’t realize it, though, because I had never thought of myself as attractive. It took my conversations with Dan to bring all that to the surface.”

Laurie continued, “Beauty is a value. Beauty is an attitude. Great lines, Maria. You should teach a class in that.”

“Well, it’s clear that not only were you attracted to me, but I was attracted to both of you,” Maria said. “All these intellectuals on campus, and none of them understand what I am about. But the two of you did. Even if you could not verbalize it, you understood.”

Maria turned to Dan and said, “Looks like you achieved your goal after all, didn’t you?”

“Yes,” Dan replied, while starting to blush. “I did.”

*** *** ***

Cost accounting was a royal pain, Maria thought. Problem Number 6 in her latest assignment was giving her a bad case of heartburn. “I give up,” she finally said. “Dan, did you get Number 6?”

Laurie quickly added, “That one is giving me nightmares, too.”

Dan looked at both of them. “Don’t feel bad. It’s tricky. It took me a couple of go-arounds before I finally got it. Here is what you do.” He methodically stepped them through the problem.

“Maria,” Laurie asked. “Do you mind if I get a glass of water?”

“Of course, you can. The glasses are in the cupboard next to the refrigerator,” Maria said.

The three of them were sitting at Maria’s kitchen table, which was covered with papers, textbooks, pens, pencils, erasers and calculators. Laurie got up and carefully made her away across the kitchen. She walked very tentatively, and at one point almost fell as she struggled to maintain her balance while wearing her new 4-inch stiletto heels.

Maria kept a watchful eye on her, and said, “You are leaning a little too much from side to side, and it is throwing off your balance. Posture is not that important when you are barefoot or wearing flats, but it is crucial when you are wearing heels, especially stilettos. Be sure to stand up straight.”

“I don’t see how women like you can walk so elegantly in heels,” Laurie replied. “It’s like they limit your movements, rather than enhance them.”

Maria got up walked over to Laurie, swinging her hips from side to side in an exaggerated manner to make a point while strutting in her 5-inch stilettos. “It is like learning to ride a bicycle. At first, it seems impossible, almost as if you are violating the laws of nature. But once you learn, it becomes the most natural thing in the world. And so much fun, you don’t want to stop.” She took a packet of popcorn from the cupboard, and put it in the microwave. When it was cooked, she brought it back to the table, and the three of them munched on popcorn while sipping on soda.

They studied for almost another hour, until Maria looked at her watch. “It’s almost 11 p.m., and I think I am reaching my limit. I’ll be back in a few minutes.” She left the room. When she returned, she was no longer wearing a pair of jeans and 5-inch heels. She had changed into a black leather skirt that wrapped tightly around her hips and thighs, before ending just above her knees. And on her feet were the precious 6-inch stiletto pumps that she saved for special occasions.

“OK, you two,” she said. “Study time is over. Now we’re going to party.” She turned to look down the hallway and asked Steve to come join them.

“Oh, Maria, what incredible shoes!” Laurie said.

“Don’t try this at home, kids. This is for experienced professionals only,” Maria said. She stepped from the kitchen into the living room, demonstrating her best one-two-one-two flirtatious walk, which, following hours of practice, she could now ably carry out in 6-inch heels. She went to the stereo and popped a CD of old Rolling Stones hits into the CD player. She walked back up to Dan, and said, “You’re being quiet, aren’t you?”

“I, I’m sorry.” Dan stammered. “It’s j-just that I never knew shoes like that even existed.”

“You need to spend more time on the Internet,” Maria replied. “Remind me to get you a list of Web sites that you should visit.”

Steve walked into the room. Maria said to Dan, “Steve saw me putting on my 6-inch heels earlier, and he just lay there in bed, watching TV. But now he hears the Rolling Stones on the stereo, and he comes out here like Pavlov’s Dog. Don’t ever let yourself wind up like him.”

“Character assassination will get you nowhere,” Steve said. “Let’s dance!”

They turned up the volume to play “Brown Sugar”. Laurie barely made it through the song trying to dance in her 4-inch heels, and she was relieved when Maria suggested that she change back into the 3-inch heels she had worn on the way over. It was important to practice, but it was also important to have fun, too.

The rock tunes continued one after the other: “Start Me Up,” “Satisfaction,” “Jumping Jack Flash,” “19th Nervous Breakdown” and “Under My Thumb.” While she took pains to explain that she was not a good dancer, Maria nevertheless gave an exhibition of dance moves that were possible in 6-inch heels, to the delight of the others. The next song, the slow-moving “Wild Horses,” provided a needed change of pace. Dan and Laurie slow-danced tightly, kissing each other with all the passion of first-time lovers. Maria and Steve watched the other two and did their fair share of kissing themselves.

Before the song ended, Steve turned away from Dan and Laurie and said softly to Maria, “Looks like we may have a fourth couple some day to add to our little social network. When do you think we should introduce them to Ana, Bob, Sharon and Jack?”

Maria giggled and replied, “Everything in its own time, Steve. We still have a lot left to teach them.”

Next: Another prequel: Young Maria’s outing with her grandmother

Dan showed up at Maria’s and Steve’s house at exactly 8:30 p.m. on Saturday. Steve answered the door, introduced himself, and they sat down to talk. Steve talked about his career in the computer industry, while Dan talked about his plans for a business career. Dan seemed like a thoughtful, decent young man, although Steve felt Dan could use a haircut and a wardrobe makeover. If he is looking to impress beautiful women, Steve thought, the faded brown shirt and cheap blue slacks he is wearing tonight won’t quite get the job done. To Dan, Steve seemed very much as Maria had described him: a nice, smart guy who was reasonably attractive but not exceptionally handsome. Looking at Steve, Dan felt that perhaps there was indeed some hope for himself. He was dying to know how Steve and Maria had met and fallen in love, but he felt it would be premature to ask. The two men had been talking for several minutes when Maria entered the room. She was wearing a body-hugging, bright red dress, that was especially tight around her hips and thighs, and which ended just above her knees. Black seamed stockings and a pair of 5-1/2-inch blood-red stiletto sandals completed her attire. “Hello, Dan,” she said in a sultry voice. She vamped over to him, her hips rocking back and forth shamelessly, until she stood over her younger friend, who sat nervously in the couch. “Stand up, please,” she said in a soft monotone. Dan stood up. Maria moved over until her lips were only inches from Dan’s. She began caressing the back of his neck suggestively with her long, red fingernails, while looking deep into his eyes. “Are you ready for a night of hot, Latin dancing?” she cooed. She finished the sentence and promptly broke out into a big smile and began laughing. “Oh, forgive me, Dan. I am such a bad actress. But I just couldn’t resist.” “You had me going,” a relieved Dan replied. Steve looked at Dan and said jokingly, “You see what I have to go through? Life with this woman is just pure torture.” “The sultry stuff is not me. You know that,” Maria said to Dan. She took a couple of steps back from him and assumed a very feminine pose. “But this dress and these heels are me. Remember what I said the other night: Beauty is an attitude.” They got into Steve’s car and headed toward the Latin dance club, the same club where Ana and Bob had taken Steve several years earlier, before he had met Maria. It was the ideal place to take Dan, as it catered to a mostly English-speaking, middle-class Latino clientele, including plenty of women who shared Maria’s philosophy concerning beauty and femininity. The club also attracted a small but growing number of Anglo women who dressed like Latinas. During the drive over, Steve and Maria told Dan how they had met and about their early dates, which enabled Dan to satisfy his curiosity about how these two people from completely different cultural backgrounds had established a successful relationship. They arrived at the club in time to hear the salsa band begin its repertoire for the evening. As always, there were an abundant number of attractive women decked out in all kinds of colorful dresses and high heels. While Maria still drew her fair share of approving looks from the male patrons, the club nevertheless was one of the few places where she did not stand out from everyone else. There were a lot of well-dressed women to admire. Steve bought beers for the three of them, while Maria led Dan out to the dance floor. “It is easy to fall in love with salsa music,” Maria told him. “Just move naturally with the music.” Despite her advice, Dan started dancing slowly with a jerky motion that looked anything but natural. He looked nervous and self-conscious. “Just relax, Dan. You’re trying too hard,” Maria said. She took him by the hand, and wiggled her hips sensuously to the beat of the music. This seemed to have a soothing effect on Dan, who began moving a little more fluidly, although it was still a far cry from what most people would call dancing. They both got into a groove as the song continued. Dan became lost in his thoughts as he looked at Maria rock back and forth in her tight red dress and ultra-high stiletto heels. Having spent hours in classrooms and libraries with Maria over the previous year, it had not occurred to him that she could be any sexier than she appeared on campus, but tonight she was a quantum level beyond anything he had previously imagined. He felt good that Maria was willingly spending time with him. It was better for her to be a platonic friend than not a friend at all. The song ended, and they returned to their table to sip beer with Steve. They relaxed for a few minutes until Maria said to Dan, “I want you to look around the room here. Look at the women. In a few minutes, I want you to walk up to the most attractive unaccompanied woman here, the one who in your eyes is the biggest knockout, and ask her to dance.” “Oh, Maria, I can’t do that…” “No excuses, Dan. You danced with me, you can dance with them. You don’t have to talk with them, you don’t have to sit down with them after the song and try to get their phone number. Just dance one song with a lady, thank her, and come back here.” “It’s not going to work…” Steve broke in. “Dan, I hate to tell you, but Maria is right. No guts, no glory. You’re not trying to find a wife right now. It is just an exercise to build up your self-confidence. And it will. The first time is the hardest, and then it will get easier. Trust me. I didn’t get to meet Maria by being gun shy.” Dan looked around the room. Two tables away, there were four women sitting around talking. “What about the one at that table, the one at the left?” he asked. The woman was a slim, dark-haired Latina, wearing a short white mini-skirt and white stiletto pumps. “Yeah, good choice. She is hot,” Steve said. “If you don’t ask her to dance, I will.” “You’re not going anywhere, Steve,” Maria said. “She looks fine to me. Go for it, Dan.” Dan took two big gulps of beer, got up and walked over to the table with the four women. “Ex- excuse me, would you like to d-dance?” he said nervously to the girl. She looked at her friends and said, “Why not?” Dan and the girl went out to the dance floor. Dan was obviously nervous, and reverted to his jerky dance style. It might have been OK at a rock club, but salsa dancing required a little more refinement. Maria sipped at her beer while she watched Dan dance. She said to Steve, “You have to believe me, when Dan is on campus, he is such a nice guy. Funny, witty, very pleasant, and he is bright when it comes to academics. He is a different person right now.” “It happens,” Steve said. “It starts in high school, maybe even middle school. Other students develop a little faster than you do, maybe by only a few months. But the other boys put you down, girls ignore you, and your self-confidence can dry up quickly. And it takes years to get it back.” The song finished, Dan walked the girl back to her table, thanked her, and then returned to Maria and Steve with a big smile on his face. “That wasn’t so bad. A baby step is a baby step.” Dan went out to ask another girl to dance, and then another and another, each one looking as if she had been personally instructed by Maria in the art of feminine appearance. He told Steve and Maria he wanted to ask one last girl to dance, and walked up to a thin blonde Anglo woman sitting alone at a table. She got up to dance, looking very striking in a tight black skirt and pumps with heels that were as high as Maria’s. They danced one song, and then another. The band then began playing a romantic ballad. Dan turned to accompany her back to her table, and he was caught totally off-guard when she walked up to him, put her left hand in his, put her right arm around his shoulder, and began slow-dancing with him. He felt awkward for the first minute, but kept his composure and relaxed. They slow-danced for one song, and then a second. The woman then thanked him and Dan accompanied her back to her table. A surly man was sitting at the table and glared at Dan. “Thank you for dancing with my woman,” he said. “Oh, what do you care?” the blonde woman snapped back at him. “He asked me to dance, I was alone, and I said yes. Where the fuck were you, anyway?” “Don’t use that kind of fucking language with me!” the man shouted. Dan scurried back to Steve and Maria, while the blonde woman and her male companion became increasingly louder and profane. A couple of bouncers walked quickly up to their table, talked to them for a minute and then accompanied them out of the building, as most of the other patrons looked on. “That’s the story of my life,” Dan said dejectedly. “Even when I do the right thing, I still mess things up.” “You did nothing wrong,” Maria said. “It’s not your fault those two started to fight with each other and use foul language.” “Maybe not,” Dan said. “But they would not have started fighting if I had not asked the woman to dance. Every thing I try to do with women just turns to shit. It happens over and over and over.” “Don’t be so hard on yourself,” Steve said. “You had a good night tonight. You handled yourself well with all those women.” “Yes, you did,” Maria said. The band was still playing slow tunes. She took Dan by the hand and said, “Come on. This was a good night, and it is going to end on a positive note for you.” They started to slow dance, but Dan held Maria at some distance, dancing the way a young boy would dance with his aunt at a wedding. Maria could tell he was nervous and shaking a little. She pulled him close to her, pressing her chest against his, and taking his left hand and guiding it down to her hip. She wanted Dan to experience the feel of her shapely body, to know the thrill of intimate contact with a beautiful woman so that he would be determined to go back out in the world and not give up until he found one of his own. She felt him tense up, then she stood on her tiptoes and whispered in his ear, “Relax, just relax. Enjoy this.” She felt the tenseness leaving his body, and she noticed that he was now the one holding her tightly. As the song continued, Dan started running his nose along the side of Maria’s neck, experiencing the wonderful scent of her perfume. The music ended, and Maria gave him an affectionate kiss on the cheek. “You know, I think that’s the nicest thing anyone has ever done for me in my entire life. Honest,” Dan said. “It makes up for all those times you helped me with homework,” she replied. “I’m glad I could help you with something.” To be continued.

Maria’s Admirer

This story was written in the third person by Steve, based on interviews with the principal participants and his own observations.

Cost accounting. Marketing. Business law. It could be overwhelming at any time, but especially at midnight. Maria looked at her watch, and saw it was 11:50 p.m.

“I don’t know about you guys, but I am ready to call it a night,” she whispered to her two study companions.

Laurie and Dan both nodded in agreement. The three business students were in the same classes, and liked to study together so they could help each other with their assignments.

The university library was full, even at midnight, because it was the week for midterm exams. The library stayed open during exam periods until 2 a.m., and for many students, it was the preferred alternative to noisy apartments or frat houses, or even homes with parents, siblings or spouses. Maria and her two companions gathered their books and made their way down the corridors of the library. Maria’s 5-inch stiletto heels clicked loudly on the hard-tile floor. In the quietness of the library, each click-click-click sounded as loud as a firecracker. Students pulled themselves out of their books and looked to see the source of the noise; some seemed surprised at the source, but nobody seemed particularly annoyed. More than a few looked at each other and smiled as Maria and her two friends walked by.

“I will say this, Maria. You are the most subversive person in this university,” Laurie said when they exited the library and entered the cool night air. Laurie, like Maria, was a senior; she was 21 years old and had an earthy look defined by her brown, moderately curly hair, and her taste for old jeans and birkenstock sandals.

“Now what makes me subversive?” Maria asked. At 28, Maria was older and more experienced in life than most of the students at the university. But she enjoyed the chance to spend time with Laurie and Dan, who was also 21. She felt like she was experiencing a part of life that she had missed by not attending a university when she was younger.

“Half of the business department has theories about why you wear super-high heels every day,” Laurie said. “I know you’ve heard them: You are trying to curry favor with the male professors, or you plan to open a modeling agency after you graduate. But I have figured you out. You love to wear heels on campus because you pull people out of their own private little universes. They hear the heels clicking, they see you walking, and they have to look up and acknowledge you. You throw everyone off track. They forget whatever problem they were trying to solve, or whatever concept they were trying to understand. For a few seconds, you take over their universe. You are in complete control, and they cannot go back to what they are doing until you leave the area.”

“I never thought of it that way before,” Maria replied with a laugh.

“Sure,” Laurie continued. “Just look at all the things people do to get attention. They dye their hair purple, they wear tongue rings, they play boom boxes with the volume turned up. The problem for them is that no one is really impressed with that stuff. You trump them all. You walk into a library, or into a classroom after the lecture has started, and you take over. But what is creepy is that most people just think they are looking at this woman in high heels. They don’t even know that you have taken control of their minds. That is what is subversive!”

“Brilliant analysis, Laurie. I’ll be sure to tell my husband that you have figured me out!” Maria said, giving Laurie a high-five.

They walked into a parking lot and approached Laurie’s car. This was their late-night security routine: Because Laurie typically parked closest to the library, they would all walk to her car first. Dan would then accompany Maria to her car.

As Laurie drove away, Maria turned to Dan and said, “You are awfully quiet tonight. Is everything OK?”

Dan may have been 21, but his baby face made him look more like he was 18 or 19. His brown, curly hair, glasses, and wire-like frame did not help him look older, either.

“Yeah, I am fine. I am just thinking about schoolwork,” Dan said. They walked over to the next lot, where Maria’s car was parked. As they approached it, Dan said nervously, “Well, actually, something is bothering me, Maria. Not bothering me, really. But I…I…”

“Dan, it’s OK. Whatever it is, you can tell me.”

“Actually, I do want to talk to you, but not here. If you don’t need to go home right away, maybe we can go grab coffee somewhere?”

“Sure, Dan.” They arrived at Maria’s car. “Hop on in and we’ll drive over to one of the late-night coffee places. Then we can talk.”

They drove over to a popular coffee house, ordered some decaffeinated coffee, and found a table. Dan became visibly nervous when they sat down.

“Well, um, here’s the thing,” he said. “We are going to be graduating in a few months. I am almost 22 years old. And I have never had a girlfriend. Two years ago, when I was a sophomore, I set a goal for myself to have had at least one girlfriend by the time I graduate. And I don’t think that is going to happen.”

“And why do you think that is, Dan?”

Dan took a sip of coffee and looked down at the table. “I am not real sociable or outgoing. You might say I am shy. I can’t talk to women.”

“You are not shy with me, Dan. We talk all the time.”

“That’s because you’re married, Maria. I can talk to married women just fine. But I can’t talk to single women. If you were single, we would never have studied together, because I don’t think I could have ever said anything to you.”

“But you talk to Laurie. She’s single.”

“That’s true, I guess. I like Laurie as a friend. But she is not really my type. I guess I can talk a little to single women if I don’t feel attracted to them. If I feel attracted to a single woman, I can’t think of anything to say to her. My mind goes completely blank.”

“Shyness is very common, Dan. I’m no expert, but there are all kinds of things people can do to overcome shyness.”

“Well, there’s more.” Dan’s hand was shaking slightly as he took another sip of coffee. He stared straight down into his coffee cup as he continued. “This is so hard to talk about. Maria, we’ve known each other for about a year and a half now. I think you have had an effect on me during that time. I no longer have any interest in plain-looking women. I only feel attracted to really, really good-looking women. I think about the kind of woman I would like to date, and I picture a hot, beautiful lady, really well dressed, with high heels and everything.”

“Dan, take your eyes out of your coffee cup and look up at me. Come on. Look at me,” Maria said. Dan did as he was asked. When their eyes met, Maria leaned forward toward him and said in a soft voice, “Good for you. You have every right to feel that way.”

“Good for me? Maybe. But I am being hypocritical, aren’t I? Self-delusional, too. How could a beautiful woman be interested in me? I am not good looking, I dress poorly, I act all awkward in social situations, and I can’t talk to women. And besides, why should I be interested in a woman just because of the shoes she wears….”

“Hold on,” Maria said. “I can only deal with one thing at a time. First things first.” She straightened her left leg so that it stuck out from underneath the table, and she let her 5-inch stiletto pump dangle tantalizingly in the air. “Now, what attracts you more: the shoe, or the woman wearing it?” she asked.

“The woman wearing it, of course.”

“I would hope so. Look, it takes a commitment to wear high heels every day. It takes a commitment to learn the physical skills needed to wear heels properly. It takes planning to be able to match the shoe with the amount and type of walking you plan to do that day. And it takes a financial commitment, because high heels aren’t cheap. Most high-high wearers make those commitments because they believe in the feminine expression that high heels make possible. To your credit, you are attracted to that kind of feminine expression yourself. You have something very important in common with high-heel wearers, so of course you want to date one.”

“Wow. That’s good,” Dan said, sounding just a little upbeat for the first time that evening. “You do know your stuff, Maria.”

Maria moved her leg back under the table. “As for the other things you said about being shy and lacking in self-confidence. Those things can be remedied. And, of course, if you want to dress better, you can.”

“I would like to think you are right. Maybe I can improve myself. But I can’t believe a beautiful woman would ever want to go out with me, no matter what I might do.”

“You are too hard on yourself, Dan. I am not married to some Latin hunk. My husband, Steve, is a nice, smart guy. I find him attractive, but you won’t see him on a magazine cover any time soon. One of the things I love about him is that he values not just my beauty, but my expression and all the feelings that underlie it. He understands that beauty is much more than just skin deep.”

“What do you mean?”

“Beauty is a value, an attitude, a passion. It is also hard work. I could dress in sweatpants and tennis shoes, and only wash my hair once a week like many of the women on this campus. If I did, nobody would think of me as an attractive woman. I make the effort to stay fit, dress well and wear heels because that is how I express myself. I value beauty. Men talk about beauty a lot, but very few truly understand it. Steve does. He shares my passion for it, and that is an important part of our marriage.”

Dan asked, “I am not sure I understand beauty, but even if I did, how could I convince a woman of that? Beautiful women are always surrounded by men. How can I get them to notice me when there are so many other men who are better looking and more outgoing than me? Don’t beautiful women value beautiful men?”

“Some do, but it is not as simple or hopeless as you make it sound. When I was 21, I was constantly attracting macho guys who were full of self-importance. They wanted me as a trophy for their own male egos. They valued my beauty because of what it meant to them, not to me. I always noticed a lot of timid guys looking at me, and I would have liked to have known a lot of them better. Most of the time, they never built up the nerve to talk to me, but I wish they had. There are women who value beauty for its own sake, not simply as a way to attract men. Those are the kind of women you should get to know.”

“How do I get to know them?”

“There is a Latin club where Steve and I like to go dancing that draws a lot of classy, well-dressed women. We’ll take you there on Saturday. It will be a good confidence builder for you. It will also be a good way to celebrate the end of midterms.”

“I don’t know, Maria. I’m a lousy dancer, and…

“Dan, that’s an order. You are coming with us on Saturday.” She wrote her home address on a piece of paper and gave it to Dan. “Meet us at our house at 8:30 p.m. and we will drive you there. OK?”

To be continued

Word about my breakup with Carlos spread through town like wildfire, and my debut in my 5-inch sandals at the store seemed to be the exclamation point to it. I wondered how Victoria would deal with me in 5-inch heels, but it was all academic. A week later, the Bank of Cartago called me in for an interview (I wore 4-inch heels), and a week after that, I was hired as a bank teller. I continued to live at home with my parents, as single Costa Ricans are expected to do, but now I was commuting by bus to work in the big city!

I wore 4-inch heels to my new job for the first couple of weeks, and then slowly worked my new 5-inch heels into my repertoire. I bought two more pairs of 5-inch heels from Gloria, and I soon became a full-time wearer of 5-inch heels. Nobody at the bank seemed to have a problem with it. In fact, I was promoted after six months and was put in charge of arrangements for the bank’s visitors. It was the perfect job for me. I got to show off my organizational skills by setting up meetings between the bank’s managers and its major customers, who were primarily big-time businesspeople. I set up the meeting rooms, arranged for coffee, and made sure the correct bank managers attended. I also got to show off my feminine skills by greeting visitors when they arrived at the bank and making sure they got everything they needed. My ease with men and my ability to walk elegantly in 5-inch heels worked very well in my favor.

I started dating again, and this time most of my dates were business types who were wealthy by Costa Rican standards. Instead of bouncing around in Carlos’ father’s pick-up truck, I was riding in comfortable passenger cars, which are considered something of a luxury in Costa Rica. I loved to see the reaction of people in my little town when these nice cars would pull up in front of my house to pick me up. Yes, I wanted to shout to my neighbors, I am now 25 years old, but I can still attract men!

For a short time, I dated one of my bank’s directors, a man in his early 40s whose wife had died tragically some years before. He took me to the finest restaurants and nightclubs in Costa Rica’s capital, San Jose, exposing me to a lifestyle I had only seen in movies and on TV. On the way home from one such date, we parked on a dark stretch of road with a nice view of Cartago, not too far from my little mountain town. We became quite passionate, and he took my hand and helped me unzip his pants and pull out his erect penis. It was hardly the first time I had seen a man’s erection, but I was nevertheless impressed with how rock hard he was.

“Look at what you do to me, Ana,” he said, as he pointed to his penis. “You stand out, even among Costa Rican women. You have powers and abilities that few other women have. All you have to do is walk into the room, and this is what happens to many of the men who are in the room with you. You don’t even know the things you are capable of doing.”

On one level, I was disgusted by his crude, vulgar remark. But on another level, I was fascinated by it, too. Even with my experiences with dating Carlos and others, I had not realized that a man could have an erection simply by looking at a woman. I had thought that some physical contact with a woman was necessary, even if it was only kissing. It was illuminating to think that I could simply walk into a room and cause men to have erections. I presumed (and continue to presume to this day) that I only have that effect on a small percentage of men, but the thought nevertheless has stayed with me over the years.

The next milestone in my life came a few months later, when I was told that a computer consultant from the United States would be visiting us to help us set up a computer system for the bank. I always liked meeting people from foreign countries and was looking forward to it. Still, I was unprepared for the moment when Bob walked into the bank and introduced himself to me. He was attractive, self-confident, but still humble, and he was so cute as he struggled to speak in his heavily accented Spanish. If it was not love at first sight, then it was something awfully close. He could barely keep his eyes off me. All of my years of flirting experience in my little town paid off over the next week. I soon learned that North American men are not used to such behavior and absolutely love it when Costa Rican women give them the full treatment, which I did. Bob and I had dinner before he returned home, but he was back a month later for follow-up consultation, and we officially consummated our relationship. I wanted us to get married and settle down in Costa Rica, but he said he had to stay in the United States if he wanted to keep his career. So I agreed to move with him to the United States. And, of course, my life would never, ever be the same.

I hope that this account of my years in Costa Rica helps answer the question I am continually asked, which is why I am so passionate about high heels and feminine expression in general. As mentioned in the previous story, I continue to take Costa Rican-style femininity and apply the North American penchant for experimentation and risk-taking to develop daring styles and expressions that are all my own. I am happy with the results, and so is Bob. I may not be able to paint, sing, play a musical instrument, or write prose or poetry, but I know how to dress to impress. That is my art. My body is my canvas, and my clothes and shoes are my paints. And while I dress to please myself, I am aware, like any aspiring artist, of my audience. The looks I constantly get from men tell me that they appreciate my expression. And for every woman who is put off by my style, there is another who looks on approvingly. You would be surprised by how many women tell me how they envy my ability to wear heels. Call me extreme or out of the mainstream if you want. But people have an instinctive need for sensuality and warmth, and I think they would rather get that from a friend, neighbor or co-worker like me than from some actress on TV or in the movies. I am only one woman, but I am doing what I can.

Next: Maria’s admirer

My little run-in with Victoria was soon forgotten. In fact, Victoria championed my promotion the following year to work as a teller in the savings and loan department. At age 20, I became the third highest-ranking woman in the store, behind only Victoria and Rita. This increased my visibility and status in the community. Also, instead of working primarily with female customers in the clothing department, I was now attending to a mixed clientele of men and women, including many of the prominent male farmers in town who trusted me with sizable transactions of money. I took this very seriously, and soon earned a reputation as an efficient worker who never lost track of a centavo of money. But I also pushed my flirting skills to new heights. I could give many of my male customers a look that made them feel like they were the most important and attractive man in the world. And I learned a lot about them by talking with them. Not coincidentally, I began dating a lot at about this point. Men now considered me one of the most desirable dates in town, and it was fun to have different men compete for my affections. My parents were ecstatic over my promotion and my popularity. The following year, when I turned 21, I began going steady with Carlos, a son of one of the more successful farmers in our community. He was handsome, well-mannered, hard working and reasonably intelligent, and was expected eventually to take over his family’s farming operation. My parents seemed to welcome him as their future son-in-law, almost from the start. I was not thinking so far ahead, but I did enjoy our time together. We went dancing practically every weekend in one of the small dance places in our town. Afterward, we would walk out of the dance hall in the night air, find some dark spot between two buildings, and spend what seemed like hours kissing while he massaged my cola with his strong, field-toughened hands. Those were good times, indeed. Carlos first proposed to me a year later, when I was 22 and he was 24. Many women in my town would have jumped at the chance to marry Carlos, but I told him I was not ready. I enjoyed my status and visibility in the town, and the last thing I wanted was to get married, become pregnant, quit my job and spend the next two decades in flat shoes raising children. Alternatively, I did now want to end up like Rita, trying to hold onto a job while raising children, and not being particularly happy at either. My parents were a little disappointed with my decision, but they accepted it. They still believed a marriage announcement was only a matter of time, and they were willing to give me that extra time to get the single life out of my system. When I turned down Carlos for the second time a year later, my parents were not so forgiving. What was I thinking, they asked me. I was so fortunate to have someone like Carlos, so how could I turn him down twice? His patience will not last forever, and if I lose him, I will regret it for the rest of my life, they warned me. I could end up like Victoria, they said, hoping to shock me. The problem was that, deep down, I wanted to be more like Victoria. The idea of a life without limits – wearing incredibly high-heeled shoes and clothes that were considered too hot for other women, and being the star attraction in the daily afternoon flirting at the store – appealed to me more and more. I still did not dare sharing such subversive thoughts with my parents. Carlos nobly stuck with me. He convinced his father to let him use his family’s pick-up truck to take me on dates to Cartago and San Jose, in the hope it would satisfy my desire for a more worldly existence and make the idea of getting married more appealing. The strategy largely backfired, as it made me even more dubious of marriage. I would look at the people in these cities, who were somewhat more sophisticated than the farmers in my little town, and I would question even more how I could be happy raising children within the four walls of some house in my little town. When I turned 24, Carlos proposed to me for the third and last time. The romance and anticipation that had been in his voice the first time around had pretty much vanished. Instead, he almost sounded impatient and weary. He made it clear that if I turned him down again, we would have to break up, which was fair. I told him I could not decide right away and I would let him know, which irritated him even more. The following morning, I did something I had never done before: I took a sick day from my job when I was not really sick. I had to get away for the day, and I took the bus to Cartago. I was beginning to doubt myself. At one level, it was pretty dumb to be turning down Carlos, as he was one of the better marriage prospects in town. Why was I so scared of ending up like Rita, and why was I so enamored of Victoria’s lifestyle? I had been part of the Costa Rican 24-7 beauty pageant now for six years, and my society was telling me it was time to give it up and move on. But I did not want the beauty pageant to end! It seemed so cruel. Why did my parents and my culture teach me to love the attention I got from wearing high heels and nice clothes, only to expect me to give it all up when my feminine appeal was at its peak? But other women did just that. I thought of all the girls I had grown up with, and how we were all excited to start wearing high heels when we were 18. Most of them were now married, rarely venturing out in public in anything higher than 2-inch heels, and they seemed happy. What was wrong with me that I did not want to follow in their footsteps? The bus arrived in Cartago. I got off and wandered aimlessly in the city, lost in my own thoughts. I stopped at a street corner and noticed a pretty clothing boutique shop. I went inside. The woman working inside was quite beautiful, with flowing brown hair and a slim figure, and she was wearing tight denim pants and a pair of 5-inch stiletto sandals. I judged her to be about 30 years of age. And she was definitely single. She asked me if I needed any help. I said yes, and she showed me her various clothing lines. Her name was Gloria, and we talked for quite a while about clothes. She finally said, “If you have any other questions, please do not hesitate to ask.” I shocked even myself when I replied, “I actually do have a question, although I will certainly understand if you do not want to answer it. Do you like being single?” Gloria was surprised by the boldness of the question, but she recovered quickly. She looked at me, studied what I was wearing, and seemed to note my 4-inch stiletto pumps. “Let me guess,” she said. “You are about 24 or so, your boyfriend and your parents are pressuring you to get married, and you do not want to.” When I said yes, she responded, “Something very similar happened to me.” We talked for a little longer – fortunately, it was a slow day and there were no other customers in the store to divert Gloria’s attention. She finally said, “If you have doubts, you should not get married. If you stay single, do the things that you enjoy. I do not regret not having married because I am doing what I want to do. If I meet the right man, I will know it.” She added, “I think you are a high-heel lover, aren’t you? Come over here.” She walked me over to a corner of her store where a number of pairs of 5-inch heels were on display. “Try some on and see if you like them.” I had never even tried on a pair of 5-inch heels in my life. But Gloria brought me a pair of sandals in my size. I took off my 4-inch stilettos and eased my feet into the 5-inchers. It reminded me of my 18th birthday party. How could one little inch make such a big difference? I was not used to the way my feet were stretched vertically, and how I had to thrust my hips and my back to stand up straight. When I felt all balanced, I took a few cautious steps and stopped in front of a full-length mirror. As much as I had liked my appearance in 4-inch heels, I was staggered by the way I looked in 5-inch heels. The difference was stunning. “Ooh, Ana,” Gloria said. “If you are going to give up shoes like that for a man, he had better be good!” It was at that moment that I made my peace with not marrying Carlos. In four years, I had gone from being one of the most promising young women in my community to something of a disappointment. I had been someone with excellent marriage prospects, but now people had their doubts about me. I either had to marry Carlos, or become the next Victoria. I chose Victoria. “I love these shoes. I’ll buy them,” I told Gloria. While paying for the shoes, I told Gloria about my job at the store in my little town. She suggested I walk over to the Bank of Cartago a few blocks away and apply for a job there. If I was not going to get married, I needed to get out of my town, meet new people and expand my horizons, she said. And she was right. She gave me her business card and told me to use her as a reference. The bank had given her the loan to start up her clothing store, and she was on good terms with everyone there. I walked over to the bank (in my 4-inch stilettos), and filled out an application. I took the bus home, told Carlos I was not going to marry him, and then went home. My parents were waiting for me, and I told them my decision. As I had expected, they were crestfallen. As far as they were concerned, their hopes and dreams for me were crushed. I did not make things any easier for them when I took my new shoes out of the shopping bag. “By the way,” I said, “I will be wearing these from now on.” I slowly put the 5-inch sandals on my feet. My mother began to cry, and my father walked out of the room grumbling. As I said before, what a big difference a simple little inch can make! To be continued