Stu

Interview: Ana and Bob

Ana looks much the same now as she has for the last decade. She sits down on her couch wearing her trademark 5-inch stiletto pumps, and snug-fitting brown corduroy pants that prove that her regular workouts have kept her figure intact during this time. Bob, sitting next to her on the sofa, also remains in good physical condition, with the only concession to Father Time being a little gray in his sideburns.

Bear in mind that the events in the just-concluded story took place more than a decade ago, in the autumn of 1994. To help keep all interested readers current, I conducted this interview with them in late summer 2004. Ana brewed a pot of her world-famous Costa Rican coffee, which helped get the conversation off to a positive start.

Steve: Great coffee, Ana. Maybe I can start here by asking if you wear heels a lot today.

Ana: Absolutely, Steve. I wear heels every day, typically in the 4- to 5-inch range. About the only time I leave the house when I’m not in heels is when I go to work out at our fitness club three days a week. About the only other time I may not wear heels is when the weather is bad.

Steve: Any foot or tendon problems after all these years?

Ana: No. In addition to my workouts, I do stretching exercises at home every morning. I also choose my shoes carefully. Just the basic precautions.

Steve: Your motivation for wearing heels comes from your upbringing in Costa Rica. In fact, I’ve often heard you say that you were raised in a “high-heel culture.” Could you explain that?

Ana: If every computer or every car were to suddenly disappear tomorrow in Costa Rica, the country would continue on pretty much the same. But if all the high-heel shoes in Costa Rica were to disappear, the country would come to a crashing halt. You have to understand that Costa Rica is not a big and powerful country like the United States. We can’t pride ourselves on being the biggest and most powerful country in the world. But Costa Ricans believe firmly that they have the world’s most beautiful women. In that country, it is not narcissism for a young woman to look her best, it is virtually a patriotic duty. Consequently, high heels are an obsession with Costa Rican women. Many women literally will refuse to be seen in public unless they are wearing high heels.

Steve: And that was the case with you?

Ana: As your story mentioned, I started practicing in low heels as a teenager and then became a full-time wearer of 4-inch heels at 18. I moved up to 5-inch heels when I was 24.

Steve: And there was a lot involved in that decision, I understand. What motivated you to do it?

Ana: Yes, there was a lot involved. I had a high-school education, and bear in mind that at that time opportunities were very limited for women like me. You either got married and had children, or you had a low-level career as a secretary or, in my case, an office manager. I was not anxious to get married, and so I began closely observing single women who had worked their way up to positions of responsibility by their late 20s. They all had some things in common. For one thing, they all had street smarts – they knew their organizations and they knew how to get the day-to-day work done. They also learned how to deal with all kinds of people. In Costa Rica, this means using one’s feminine charms, but for a constructive purpose. Flirting is much more accepted in work situations there than in the United States, so flirting with male employees is a way to motivate them and reward them for good behavior. It is also a way of rewarding male patrons for their business. At the opposite end, women can be quite bitchy with problem male employees as a way of punishing them. These women learned how to use carrots and sticks.

Steve: So where do the heels come in?

Ana: Well, I noticed that the vast majority of these single career women wore 5-inch heels, which are considered too racy in Costa Rica for married women or younger single women. Five-inch heels give a woman an undeniable physical presence and also considerable power she can use to flirt with or intimidate a man, if need be. I both wanted and needed to wear 5-inch heels in order to achieve my goals. The ability to wear 5-inch heels is an important skill in that part of the world for a career-minded woman with only a high school education.

Steve: And tight clothing plays a part as well?

Ana: Costa Ricans, both men and women, wear tighter clothing than North Americans. That’s just part of our culture – we like to see the shape of people’s bodies. But, to be blunt about it, there is an element of our culture that is obsessed with women’s butts. Looking at women’s asses is the national pastime there. Boys, girls, men, women, even grandmothers and priests look at women’s butts. How can you avoid looking at women’s butts when they’re wearing high heels and tight pants? It is not something that is considered dirty or rude, as long as it is not accompanied by any other rude behavior. Similarly, women learn to communicate with the world with their butts. Young girls flirt with men, and even in the workplace, I learned to do it. It’s part of the flirting at work ritual I described. You put a little extra wiggle in your walk when it is warranted to motivate, compliment or thank a male employee or patron. It is entirely acceptable in Costa Rica.

Steve: And that’s how you hooked Bob?

Ana: (Laughs.) That’s right. Bob was a computer consultant who was going to help our office purchase software. I was the office manager who was showing him our software needs. I had heard he was coming and was really excited about the prospect of working with a North American man. When he first entered the office, he was so cute that he took my breath away. I gave him a Costa Rican welcome: while talking to him, I turned to the side just a little bit so he could get a nice glimpse of my curvy figure. It was politically incorrect by some people’s standards, but it did the trick.

Bob: Did it ever.

Steve: You care to elaborate on that?

Bob: OK, we Americans are used to a certain formality in our business dealings with women. Ana came on with her Costa Rican charm and just blew that all away. I thought Ana was the most wonderful, flirtiest, sexiest woman I had ever met. It was love at first sight. I just knew immediately I wanted her. But I am not alone. A lot of North Americans live and work in Costa Rica, and there is a very high intermarriage rate between North American men and Costa Rican women.

Steve: Since our audience has an interest in heels, I have to ask Bob: Had you been attracted to high-heeled women before you met Ana?

Bob: Well, yeah, pretty much. As a teenager, I always thought heel-wearing women were more attractive than women with big breasts. When I used to read Playboy magazine, the first thing I would look at when I opened the centerfold was whether the woman was wearing heels. But I never really obsessed over it. I dated plenty of women who were not heel wearers. But, yeah, when I met Ana, it was not lost on me that she wore 5-inch heels. I picked up on that real fast.

Steve: I’ll bet you did. Was it hard for you to decide to marry and have Ana move to the United States?

Bob: That was the only realistic choice as far as I was concerned. Ana talked about having me find a job in Costa Rica and settle down with her there, but it could not have worked. If you are in the computer industry, you need to be in the U.S.

Ana: I was afraid of leaving my family and coming to this big, unknown country. But I trusted Bob, and I was also adventurous enough to want to see the world outside of my little native country. I think that is why I rejected a lot of marriage offers from several local men before I met Bob. Instinctively, I knew I wanted to see the world.

Steve: But you had some difficulties when you moved here?

Ana: Yes, and the story goes into that a little bit. I did wear high heels at my first job, and I immediately had a sexual harassment issue with my first boss, although I did not know there was a name for it at that time. I just thought he was a sleazeball and there was nothing I could do about it. It was traumatizing. I felt I had better dress like a North American woman in order to fit in.

Steve: And, of course, that was frustrating.

Ana: When you move to a new country, you make adjustments in order to conform to the culture of your new land, but you do not quit being who you are. High heels had been a part of my identity, my being. Your readers probably understand this better than most. You walk different, you feel different in high heels. It is more than just fashion. Maybe it is a reflection of my native, heel-obsessed culture, but that is who I am. During those three years when I quit wearing heels, I would see other women in heels and I would ask myself, why can’t I do that? It took a long time to get over that traumatizing experience.

Bob: I did not make it any easier on Ana. She wore high heels in the house to please me during that period, but it was strictly a sexual thing for me. I was insensitive, and completely misread her on why heels were so important to her. That only made it worse for her. It took me a long time to understand.

Steve: However, anyone who reads the story about our night of dancing has to come away feeling that there were sexual overtones to it. Can you really completely divorce high heels from sex?

Ana: No, you cannot. Let’s be honest. You can rationalize wearing heels up to about 4 inches as simply an exercise in fashion. But if you go above 4 inches, you are getting into something beyond fashion, and at least part of that is sex. I grew up with that in Costa Rica. The question really is how you deal with the sexual aspect of heels if you wear them every day. In the United States, people tend to put boundaries between the intellectual and the physical, which is why women wear two-inch heels to work and four-inch heels or higher when they go out on dates. North American culture says it is OK to express yourself physically on a date, but not at work. In Costa Rica, there is no distinction. The intellectual and the physical lives of a person are inseparable. That is why it was OK for me to wear 5-inch heels and walk with a wiggle at work. A person’s body and their sex appeal are just as much who they are as their intellectual abilities. So, when I decided to come out and begin wearing heels again in the United States, it was no big deal for me to dance and flirt with you, and do the other things you describe.

Bob: It took me a while to become comfortable with this fusion of a person’s intellectual and physical qualities, as Ana puts it. Reading your story, Steve, I was struck by how hesitant I was to encourage Ana to simply start wearing heels again. The final push came from you, Steve. I was hung up with what I call the “trophy wife” issue. If Ana becomes this sexy high-heel wearer, is she simply becoming my trophy wife and am I comfortable with that? I was struggling with that a bit, even though I was so overwhelmed by her physical attractiveness when we met. Most men struggle with that, I guess. But once she started wearing heels again and was comfortable with who she was, I became comfortable as well. It has never been a problem. It is a pleasure to have a red-hot wife!

Steve: I am sure it is. Lastly, Ana, what kind of job do you have now, and has wearing heels on that job been a problem for you?

Ana: I supervise two dozen bank tellers at a local bank here in town. My days of wearing skintight pants to work are long gone, but I typically wear 5-inch heels about three or four days a week. It is not a problem. I work for a good organization. Sexual harassment is not tolerated there, and everyone accepts people for who they are. I am sort of affectionately known as the “heel girl” of the office. Women, especially new bank tellers, often ask me about my shoes, and over the years I have coached a handful of women into becoming heel wearers, although all at their request. I also enjoy the occasional compliments from men, especially when I wear a new pair of shoes to the office for the first time.

Steve: But you do not wiggle in the bank?

Ana: (Laughs.) Nothing intentional, if that is what you mean! Like I said earlier, you must be willing to make some compromises when you move to a new country. However, it is impossible not to have some noticeable movement in that area when you wear 5-inch heels. If people want to look, I have no problem with that. After all, we are a full-service bank! So I guess there is some of the old Costa Rican girl still in me after all these years.

Steve: Lastly, don’t you feel there is some irony in the fact that, as a married woman, you have had more freedom to wear 5-inch heels here in the United States than you would have if you had married and settled down in Costa Rica?

Ana: Yes, I am very aware of that, and so is Steve. There are indeed freedoms here that we very much appreciate. One of these days, I should paint a pair of my heels red, white and blue to honor my adopted country. God bless America!

(Note: The story will continue under a new thread, "The Second Sister: Maria.")

I arrived home that evening somewhat perplexed, and with my hormones raging as if I were still a teenager. I took a warm shower (it probably should have been cold), and then tried to go to sleep. But my mind was racing. I could not get Ana out of my head. I saw her in great detail: the way she had looked at me with her dark, brown eyes, the seductive smile she flashed after I complimented her, every curve of the lower half of her body enhanced as the result of her 5-inch heels and highlighted without shame under her spandex pants. I cursed out loud when I thought about what I was doing. Ana was married to one of my closest friends in the world. I had no right to think about my close friend’s wife in such a sexual way. I tried to banish her from my head, but she kept coming back, heels and spandex and all. And who could blame me for what I was thinking? Ana wanted me to see her that way. And Bob had sat there approvingly, as Ana shared her highly personal thoughts and feelings with me. So why should I feel guilty about finding her attractive? At the time, I was 31 years old, recently divorced, childless, and a technical writer in the computer field. My ex-wife and others I had dated before her were smart, practical, down-to-earth types; nothing in my background suggested that I was attracted to hot, flirtatious women who bounced around in ultra-high heels. Or was there? I recalled a memory from my earliest childhood that I thought it neat that women liked to walk around in high-heeled shoes. I also recalled having a raging hard-on on several occasions when my eighth-grade English teacher, Mrs. Whitaker, wore her knee-high, high-heeled leather boots. I could also picture a half-dozen women from recent years who stuck in my mind as looking terrific in high heels. So perhaps I did have a high-heel hot button inside me somewhere, but the women I had always associated with were not the kind who could push it down all the way. Perhaps Ana, in trying to resolve her own confusion about who she wanted to be, was stirring up some uncertainties inside me about my own identity. I suspected our night of dancing would provide more revelations…for all of us. Bob and Ana picked me up at my house early that evening. I could hear Ana’s heels clicking on the sidewalk as she walked up to the front door. Opening the door, I found it impossible not to stare at her. She was wearing a light-blue sweater, skintight white jeans, and what she soon confirmed were 5-1/2-inch white stiletto sandals. Her hair and makeup were perfect; she must have spent a lot of time during the day to get ready. “Tell me what you think, honestly,” she said with a flirtatious laugh. “Drop-dead gorgeous,” I deadpanned. “That’s the only term.” “I hope you’re not just saying that,” she said as she wrapped her arm around mine and we walked to the waiting car. The three of us drove for about 30 minutes to the area near the Latin dance hall, and then we stopped at a restaurant for something to eat. It was the first time Ana had been out in public in heels in three years, and she held hands tightly with Bob as we walked into the restaurant. She was a little nervous, but she handled it just fine, as she walked to our table with style and grace, and attracted a couple of looks from other diners in the process. After dinner, we proceeded to the dance hall. It had a nice upscale feel to it, with a big wooden dance floor, and a stage for the band. Most of the other patrons were Latinos, some talking in Spanish and others in English, and everyone was well dressed. The attire among the women ranged from long gowns to miniskirts, with only a few women like Ana in pants. There was a profusion of very high heels, and while no woman clearly outclassed Ana in that area, it was also true that Ana did not completely stand out in this crowd. It was a good choice for this first night’s coming out for her. I felt very liberated realizing that, as a bachelor once again, I could walk up to any of any number of lovely, unaccompanied women and ask them to dance. I resisted the urge to do so because this was Ana’s night, and even though her husband was here with here, it would have spoiled things if I had gone off on my own. My role for the evening was to be Ana’s admirer and supporter, and she made it easy for me to play that role. We ordered some beer, and meanwhile a salsa band took the stage and started to play. Bob and Ana waited a few songs and then took to the dance floor. It seemed to take Ana about three songs to start dancing comfortably, partly because she was no longer accustomed in a physical sense to dancing in such high heels, and also because she needed the time to feel relaxed about herself. By the middle of the third song, I could see that her familiar smile had returned, and she was dancing smoothly and naturally. At the end of the song, Bob returned to our table and Ana called me up to dance with her. “Dancing to salsa is different than dancing to rock ‘n roll,” she shouted to me over the music. “Salsa is more sensual. Once you begin to feel the music, you’ll move differently than you do with rock music. Just let it take over you.” After a couple of songs, I began to understand what Ana was saying. The horn section and the Spanish-language singer gave the tunes a heady international flavor, but it was the percussion that really drove the music. The African-driven beat of the drums, congas and maracas reverberated throughout the building, creating a primal urge to move one’s body that was nearly impossible to resist. I am generally a terrible dancer, but by the second song even I was swinging back and forth without giving matters a second thought. Ana was in a different zone entirely. She had given herself up totally to the music and began gyrating her hips and grinding her butt without any inhibition whatsoever. The earthy Latina-next-door I thought I had known for the last three years had fully emerged from her caccoon and had transformed herself into a sensuous salsa goddess who emitted 50,000 watts of femininity as she twisted back and forth atop her 5-1/2 inch heels. I looked at her with fascination as we continued to dance, and several of the people dancing around us were looking at her as well. Bob came up and joined us, and encouraged me to stay. The three of us danced for a couple of more songs. While staying in rhythm with the music, Ana approached Bob and gave him a kiss on the cheek, and then did the same with me. This was clearly what she wanted, having two men to herself on the dance floor, and I was so happy to be able to give her this moment. We finally went to sit down and drank some more beer. Bob and Ana then got back up and danced some more, and then I danced with Ana while Bob excused himself to go to the restroom. My second go-round with Ana lasted about 30 seconds when the band began a slow, romantic number. Ana put her arms around me and we began dancing slowly. As I had noticed the night before, it was nice that she was almost at eye level with me, due to her high heels. Perhaps the combination of the beer, the music and the moment momentarily overwhelmed me, as I squeezed her firmly around the waist and held her against me. It was only then that I realized, to my horror, that I had a good-sized erection and that I was rubbing myself against her abdomen. I immediately loosened my hold on her and, while continuing to dance, took a partial step back so that I was touching only her arms and shoulders. Ana whispered, “It’s OK,” and she grabbed me around the waist and pushed me back against her. We danced that way for the remainder of the song, which continued for perhaps four minutes although it seemed like an hour. Part of me wanted to remain embraced with Ana like this for eternity, but another part wanted to disengage and sit down at our table before Bob returned. Bob was actually waiting for us at the table when we returned, but he saw nothing. Ana asked for some water, and Bob went off to the bar to get some for all of us. I felt incredibly dirty and embarrassed, as if I had broken the biblical commandment about coveting thy neighbor’s wife. I think I would have felt better if Bob had punched my lights out. Ignoring the fact that Ana had been a willing partner for those minutes on the dance floor, I looked at her and said, “I’m sorry.” “Sorry about what?” she replied, looking a little annoyed. “The way I danced with you. It was wrong.” “Why do you say that?” I struggled to come up with a way to answer her question. “Last night, when the three of us were talking, Bob and you explained that coming out like this, wearing heels and that sort of thing, that it was not about sex. Well, the way we danced just now, in close contact and with me touching you like that, it started to become about sex. It wasn’t right.” “Steve, did we have sex out there on the dance floor?” “Well, if you ask it that way, the answer is no, but…” “Steve, this was not about sex,” Ana said assertively as she began caressing my hand. “You’re right, my decision to come out tonight in these heels and pants was not about sex. But it was about being feminine and sensual. And, you know, it’s perfectly normal for a healthy man like yourself to respond to femininity and sensuality by, well, you know. I felt so special dancing with you just now, as if you validated everything I wanted this night to be. The last thing I want is for you to feel badly about this. Please don’t. Promise?” “OK. I promise.” Bob returned with the water, but our energy level had waned noticeably, and we left a short time later. Bob had consumed more beer than I had and handed me the keys to his car when we walked out to the parking lot. I drove while Bob and Ana sat in the back. They began to embrace like a couple of high school students when I heard Ana whisper, “It’s not fair to Steve,” and they stopped. “Well, I’d say the night was a total success,” Bob said. “Agreed,” I replied. “Ana, you were simply radiant. As much as I loved the old you, I love the new you even better.” Bob said, “I think the next step will be for Ana to wear heels next week at a place closer to home, maybe at one of the restaurants we like near our town center. There would be a better chance we’ll run into someone who knows us.” “That sounds good,” Ana said meekly. “I have two things to say,” I interjected. “Why are you two being so timid about it? If Ana wants to wear heels, then it’s time for her to wear heels, anywhere she wants and as often as she wants. Ana, why don’t you go to the supermarket tomorrow in heels, and do all your errands in heels? For that matter, why don’t you start wearing heels to work? Maybe three inches on Monday, wear those for a month, then go up to 3-1/2 inches, wear those for a month, then move up 4 inches, and so on until you get to 5 inches or whatever height you want. The sky’s the limit. You want to return to being a full-time high heel wearer, right? So do it.” “You’re right, Steve,” Ana said. “Tonight went really well. I’m ready for it. Thank you for the push. I think we both needed it. Now what was the second thing you wanted to say?” “The second thing is that I’m going to have to meet a Latin women who likes wearing heels. That’s what the last two nights have taught me.” “Brilliant, Steve,” Bob said. “Just a word of warning. Once you start dating women like Ana, there’s no going back. You’ll never want to go back to dating plain American women again. Trust me on that one.” “I’ll just have to figure out how to meet a Latina,” I said. “I can go back to this salsa place where we were tonight. But it is quite a drive. There are probably places to meet Mexican or Mexican-American women closer to home.” “I don’t know a lot about Mexican women,” Ana said. “But there is a large Salvadoran population not far from our area. I’ve known a number of women from El Salvador. Many of them are quite beautiful, and they’re great heel wearers.” “OK, Ana. That’s something to think about.” The rest of the drive home passed mostly in silence. I pulled up to my house, and Ana walked me up to my door while Bob got into the driver’s seat. As I unlocked the door, Ana put her hand on my shoulder. “You helped make this night so special for me, Steve. Thanks again. Bob picks very good friends.” She gave me a quick but not very platonic kiss on the lips. “And don’t take too long in finding your Salvadoran girlfriend,” she added. “There’s probably a lot of things the four of us can do.” I said goodnight and entered the house. The inside of my head was a swirling confusion of beer, salsa music, dancing, and Latin women in high heels. I hoped it would all make sense in the morning. (Coming next: An interview with Ana and Bob.)

Hi, RPM. Thanks for your encouraging notes. By all means, go to Costa Rica and see the rain forests. The country had done more than most to preserve its natural heritage. Just make sure you leave enough time to spend several days in the capitol, San Jose, so you can enjoy the country's other attractions as well.

Ana’s words jolted me a little bit, and I looked at Bob for reassurance. “It’ll be all right,” he said. “Hear her out.” Ana explained to me that women in high heels and tight clothing were ubiquitous in her native country. When she had been a young girl, she saw her mother, her aunts, and many of the women in her neighborhood wearing high heels on a daily basis. Most women did not even want to be seen in public unless they were in high heels. “Attitudes are different over there,” she said. “Costa Ricans worship beautiful women, and the women take their femininity very seriously. I grew up fully expecting to wear high heels every day of my adult life, and I looked forward to it. “When I was 16 years old, my parents bought me my first modest pair of two-inch heels, which I was allowed to wear to church and for special occasions. I remember how excited I was to walk up and down the aisles in church in my little heels. When I was 17, my parents bought me a pair of three-inch heels, which again were only for church and special occasions. When I turned 18, my family bought me a pair of beautiful 4-inch stiletto heels, and after I graduated from high school a few months after my 18th birthday, I was allowed to wear them anytime I wanted, without restriction. “I became a full-time wearer of 4-inch heels. I went everywhere in them. I loved to walk past groups of people in my heels and see their reactions. In Costa Rica, the national pastime is looking at women. Everyone looks at women – men and women, the young and old, even priests. Attractive young women are the pride of their community, and I was the pride of mine. I received compliments from my parents’ friends, and from people who were as old as my grandparents. Even my priest told me I had become a lovely woman. As I became more confident, I wore tighter clothing and added a sensual wiggle to my walk, and I received even more compliments. It may be hard for you to understand all this, but my culture greatly values femininity and physical expression.” “She’s not kidding. That really is the way things are down there,” Bob said. “It’s pretty clear that wearing high heels was very important for your self-esteem,” I said, feeling the need to participate in the discussion even though I did not know what to say. “Exactly!” Ana said. “In the United States, many women view high heels as a fashion option, as something to wear with a certain dress or during a certain occasion. In Costa Rica, high heels are a way of life, or as you would say, a lifestyle. For us women, they are an important part of our identity. “After graduating from high school, I got a job as a secretary. My parents, who were so proud of the way I dressed, assumed I would marry within a few short years. I did date a lot, but something about marriage did not sit well with me at that point. Many Costa Rican women quit their jobs and dress more conservatively when they get married, and they start having children. I did not want to do that. When I turned 24, I made a conscious decision to concentrate on my career, and to start wearing 5-inch heels.” “Is there something significant about 5-inch heels?” I asked. “Costa Ricans love 4-inch heels, but they also represent something of a barrier that most women never cross. Heels higher than 4 inches are considered too racy for women in their early 20s. They are also considered inappropriate for married women, except perhaps on special occasions. That means the only women who wear 5-inch heels regularly are single women who are at least in their mid-20s. Considering that many Costa Ricans marry in their early 20s, few women there wear 5-inch heels. “Consequently, there is a mystique about women who wear 5-inch heels in Costa Rica. They are supposed to be smart, sophisticated and authoritative, as well as sexy. People look very closely at women in 5-inch heels, and have high expectations of them. These women need to be able to handle themselves with poise in tough situations. At work, they need to be friendly and flirtatious when things are going well. But when difficulties arise, the woman is supposed to be the troubleshooter. If an employee is being rude to co-workers, she needs to be the one to tell the employee to improve his behavior. If employees are having disagreements among themselves, she becomes the mediator. It does not matter if she is actually the boss or not. A woman asserts a certain kind of authority for herself when she steps into a pair of 5-inch heels, and people expect her to use that authority competently. If she can, society awards her with a high social status and good job opportunities. If she cannot, she feels enough embarrassment over her shortcomings that she eventually stops wearing 5-inch heels.” “And you succeeded, I assume,” I said. “I proved myself in 5-inch heels,” Ana said proudly. “About the time I started wearing them, I was promoted to office manager. That was a big opportunity for a 24-year-old woman. I gave daily assignments out to other staff members. I dealt with problem employees. I greeted office visitors and made them feel welcome. I had to think about how to motivate people and solve problems. In addition to those kinds of intellectual skills, I also had to develop physical skills, given the acceptance and even the expectation in Costa Rica for women to use powerful body language. I learned how to use my eyes, my mouth, my heels and even my butt to reach those goals. To reward an employee, I would shoot them a sexy look with my eyes, smile and tell them how well he was doing. To express anger, I would stand as tall as I could in my heels, glare at the offending employee, and tell them why I was angry. People could tell my mood by the way I wiggled, as I developed a happy walk, a sexy walk, and an aggressive walk. And it all worked. My co-workers respected my authority, and management gave me pay raises.” “Some of that would not be considered politically correct here in the United States, especially the walking stuff,” I said. “I made no distinction between the intellectual and the physical. Whether I was putting together a work plan or walking through the office with a happy wiggle in my walk to let people know I was pleased, it was all about getting the job done to the best of my ability. Deciding to walk a certain way or flirt with a customer when the situation warranted was no different than telling an employee how a certain task was to be done. Of course, I was often the center of attention because of my feminine appeal, and I always enjoyed that.” Bob said, “The first time I visited her office, Ana blew me away. Here I was, this foreign visitor, and Ana did the full job on me. She was flirty as all hell, and incredibly sexy the way she dressed and walked. But she was smart, too, and she was able to get a lot of business done with me, in large part because she had my undivided attention. She was so good, I wanted her as more than just a business acquaintance.” Ana said, “I was an office manager in Costa Rica for three years, and then I married Bob and moved to the United States. I was excited about moving to such a big, dynamic country. I knew I would have to make adjustments here, but I always figured I would wear heels here and interact with people much as I had in my own country. But it did not work out that way. I got a job as a secretary, but in the second week of my job, my boss propositioned me and told me he would fire me if I didn’t accommodate him. I left the job, but the whole experience traumatized me. That was three years ago, and since that time, I have worn either flat shoes or very low heels, and loose, conservative clothing. I thought I was fitting in here. The problem is that those kinds of clothes are not me. Until tonight, you never saw the true me.” Ana stood up, stepped away from the table and turned to the side, so I could see her in profile. “Most people would assume that the way I am dressed now is an artificial attempt to be sexy, and is not the real me. But this is the real me. This is how I became a woman. This is how I achieved professional success in my country. This is who I want to be…again.” Bob said, “I encouraged Ana to dress up this way in private. I turned it into a sexual thing, as if she was wearing a negligee. But she wasn’t happy because for her, of course, it is not just about sex, it’s an expression of who she is. She wants to share it with others who are open-minded enough to appreciate her for her true self. We need to start somewhere, Steve, and we thought we would start with you.” “That’s really flattering,” I replied, as Ana sat down. “You need to be yourself, Ana. Let the world see you as you want them to see you. You can’t let one bad experience stop you from doing what you want to do. Perhaps it will be awkward at first, but once people realize that they are seeing the real you, they’ll respect and support you, just like I am now.” “Thanks, Steve,” Ana replied. “Bob told me he was sure you would understand. In Costa Rica, I constantly received compliments about my manner of dress from my family and friends, and later my co-workers. I fed off the energy they gave me. Here, I have almost nothing. I need your admiration, too. It means so much.” “You have it,” I said. Ana got up, walked over to me and she gave me a strong thank-you hug. She picked up our coffee cups and walked them back into the kitchen. After a few seconds of silence, Bob said, “Steve, I don’t know if you have plans for tomorrow night. Ana and I were planning to go to this Latin dance place that we frequent. Would you like to come with us? It would mean a lot if you could join us.” I said yes, of course I would join them. I left for home a few minutes later, wondering exactly what to make of the evening’s conversation and of this couple that, until that evening, I thought I had known pretty well. (To be continued)

Gary: People who travel to Costa Rica and go straight to the rain forests are missing half the fun. If they only knew.... I should post the next installment in a couple of days. Thanks for the supportive note.

(Note: An introduction to this series of fictional stories appears under the thread, "New fiction: The Three Sisters." The First Sister: Ana It is funny how so much can change with something as simple as a phone call. Bob, a friend of mine from college, called me in the autumn of 1994 to invite to me to his house for dinner the following evening. His wife, Ana, wanted to prepare a special meal for us. I gladly accepted. During my three-year marriage, Pam and I had gotten together with Bob and Ana a few times. But in the six months since my divorce, Bob called me more frequently and encouraged me to come by a lot. That is what a good friend does. I was still struggling to understand what had gone wrong with Pam. We had met in college, dated for a number of years and gotten married when we were both 27. By the second year, we had begun to drift apart. Pam had been the one to call for the divorce first. In retrospect, it was a mercy killing. We argued about everything – the house, money, having children. I thought she had gotten self-absorbed and too materialistic in the years since we had been students. She thought I lacked ambition. At least we had had no children, and could make a clean break of it. I envied Bob’s luck in finding someone like Ana. He had a job as an international sales representative for a major software company, and he traveled to all kinds of offbeat places, like Central America. He met Ana in Costa Rica, where she worked as an office manager with one of Bob’s client firms. He managed to convince Ana to leave her native country and start a new life with him in the United States. Ana was a very outgoing woman, and attractive in an earthy kind of way. They were two intelligent people who were very committed to each other. After work the following day, I drove over to their house. Bob answered the door, said hello, and let me in. Something seemed a little different with him, as if he was a little tense about something. We walked back into the kitchen, where I said hello to Ana. And then I knew something was very different. “Hello, Steve! How are you doing?” Ana said, as she gave me a friendly hug. From the waist up, Ana was much the same as she always was. She was wearing a simple blue-and-white blouse, and her brownish-reddish hair was grazing the top of her shoulders. But from the waist down, Ana was transformed. She was wearing a pair of black spandex pants that were so tight they wrapped around her as if they were a second skin. She was also wearing a pair of black, 5-inch stiletto sandals that seemed particularly extreme given her 5 foot, 5 inch stature. Until that time, I had only seen Ana in more conventional attire: loose jeans and slacks, flat sandals, and perhaps two- or three-inch block heels if she was coming from work. This side of Ana that had remained hidden from me until now. Because of her high heels, I had barely needed to bend down to hug her, which felt quite odd because I am quite a bit taller than her. “Wow!” I said, uncertain of how I should react. “You look great tonight, Ana. I’ve never seen you like this. Is this a special occasion?” “Well, sort of yes, sort of no,” Ana said coyly. “We’re having a Costa Rican meal tonight, and I felt like dressing like a tica. That is the Spanish term for a Costa Rican woman.” “Ana used to wear tight pants and high heels all the time in Costa Rica,” Bob said. “A lot of the women do. It is pretty common down there. In public, she began to conform herself to U.S. standards of dress when she moved here, but we still like to see the Costa Rican side of her occasionally in the privacy of our own home.” Ana added, “I never felt comfortable with the thought of dressing this way in Pam’s presence. But, as long as you’re a single man again, we thought you might appreciate some exposure to Costa Rican culture.” I laughed. Ana was certainly right about Pam, who would have freaked if she had ever seen Ana like this. Pam was a straight thinking, by-the-rules kind of woman who did not own a pair of heels higher than two inches. She would have written off Ana as a slut if she had ever seen her like this. “I don’t want to put you on the spot right now, Steve,” Ana said. “But before you leave tonight, I will want your honest opinion. For now, just observe.” She turned 90 degrees on her heels, so I could see her profile. Her legs seemed unusually long due to her heels. Her behind protruded outward quite remarkably and was shimmering as a result of the spandex pants. My eyes were fixated on her posterior while she turned again and stood with her back to me without the slightest inhibition or awkwardness. She turned back toward me and told Steve and I to go sit in the living room and make ourselves comfortable. And to think I had always thought of Ana as being earthy! I told her she looked lovely, and I meant it. Ana brought us a couple of beers as we sat in the sofa. Bob opened up a photo book that was sitting on the coffee table next to the sofa, and began showing me photos he had taken of Ana while she still lived in Costa Rica. In each photo, she was wearing sandals, pumps or mules that were at least four inches high, and in many cases higher. She had quite a collection of jeans, corduroys and various kinds of dress pants, all of them quite snug. “Most single women in Costa Rica dress like this, and even some married women as well,” Bob said. “It’s a country that believes in a very potent, extroverted type of femininity. You walk around all day looking at women, and so is everyone else. And the women love the attention. It’s a great way to go through life.” From the sofa, we watched Ana putting plates on the dinner table. She wiggled very sensuously as she walked and then bent down to set everything up on the dinner table. I tried not to look too intently, as I felt embarrassed at the thought of staring at Bob’s wife in his presence. It was fantastic that Ana enjoyed dressing up in this way, but I felt a little uncomfortable that they wanted to include me in this sexy little ritual of theirs. “Dinner is served!” Ana said. We sat down and enjoyed Ana’s arroz con pollo, which is a simple dish of chicken and Spanish-style rice. We spent dinner engaged in small talk about work, people we know, and other ordinary things, and for a while the evening reverted into the kind of non-eventful get-together I had been expecting. Ana then got up and brought in cookies and coffee, and I got to see her wiggle all over again. As we sipped our coffee, Ana asked me again if I liked this previously hidden Costa Rican side of her. “Be very honest with me. I won’t take offense if you tell me you don’t like me like this, or if you feel I make you uncomfortable. I really want to know what you think.” I looked at Bob, as if to seek his approval to say what was on my mind. He nodded at me as if to say it was OK. I said, “Ana, you look great. I’m so impressed, I’m speechless. I wish Pam had dressed up more the way you are. I think you can teach a lot of women how to be sexy and look great. And I’m not just saying it. I mean it.” “I told you that Steve was cool,” Bob said to Ana. “Thank you, Steve.” She got up, kissed me on the cheek, and sat down again. “At this moment, you can’t understand how much this means to me. I have been dressing this way for Bob in the privacy of our home ever since we’ve been married. I want to explain to you why we wanted to share this aspect of our lives with you, and what we have in mind for the future.” (To be continued)

Introduction I have no apologies. A little over a decade ago, I was just another divorced guy trying to figure out why my marriage had failed and how I was going to rebuild my life. Everywhere I looked, I saw boredom: My suburban tract home, my nine-to-five job, the gossipy women I dated, the same old restaurants I frequented, the predictable music I danced to. My travels through the maze of life had reached something of a dead end, and I had to back out and explore new routes, new possibilities, new futures. But, on a conscious level at least, I did not fully understand what I needed to do. I might have eventually found a conventional mate, and idled away the rest of my life in a safe, predictable marriage. Except for a vague and occasional feeling of restlessness, I might have never known anything was wrong. Fortunately, I have Ana and Bob, Sharon and Jack, and above all, my beloved wife Maria, to thank for rescuing me from such a mundane fate. And, of course, they can thank me for helping to bring us all together. Together, the six of us explored a new path through the maze and discovered something wonderful deep within ourselves. This is our story, as least as far as it has progressed to date. There are probably many more chapters yet to be experienced. At least, I hope there are. Some people may find these stories to be disgusting and offensive. A greater number may simply find them silly and unworthy of their time. But I believe there are some who will find them interesting, even stimulating. If you fall into this last category, I hope you will feel inspired to keep reading, and enjoy. Perhaps they may even inspire you to make some midcourse corrections in your own life. (The stories will begin under the thread, "The First Sister: Ana")

Since my attempts to produce serious fiction while holding down a demanding full-time job have not panned out as I had hoped, I decided to take a break and try writing an extended work of fiction on the subject of high heels. This story, “The Three Sisters,” builds on some of the true-life experiences I described in “Heels in Central America” and “Heels in California,” which are still available for reading in the Megaforum. However, “The Three Sisters” is strictly fiction. While the stories all have a strong grounding in heely erotica, I have tried to make them more than just fetish fantasies by adding some character development, philosophy, conflict and an occasional plot. If you choose to read on, I hope these stories hold your attention. By all means, let me know what you think!

Mazun, I am just seeing all your wonderful photos for the first time. Marvelous! Certainly a more welcome view of Russia than tourist photos of Red Square. Now I know I have to visit Russia someday....

As long as you don't draw a saleswoman, your approach should work just fine.

Good luck, Anita. Between your sense of humor and your sex appeal, I could see you being quite successful.

One of the more popular questions on these forums is whether a woman should wear high heels to a job interview when she is the job applicant. An experience I had today makes me wonder if there are reasons why a woman should wear especially high heels when she is the one interviewing job applicants. There is a drop-dead gorgeous woman who works on my floor. She works for a different organization at the other end of the building, so I don't know her very well and only see her on occasion in the hallway or on the elevator. She normally wears two- to three-inch heels. I have often thought to myself she would be absolutely perfect if she occasionally wore something higher. But after 3-1/2 years of working on the same floor, I had never seen her in anything higher than 3 inches. Today, I got my wish. I saw her walking down the hallway in a smart business suit and very thin stiletto heel pumps that had to be at least 4-1/2 inches high, possibly 5 inches. She was absolutely breathtaking. As luck would have it, we happened to ride the elevator together later in the day. It took all the discipline I had to maintain a professional demeanor. I was going to ask her if today was a special occasion, but she saved me the trouble. She mentioned she was interviewing applicants for a secretary job in her unit, and she was pleased that they found a good candidate. I have to assume that she wore her special heels (and her business suit) specifically for the interviews. I would be interested into insights as to why a woman would wear heels 1-1/2 to 2 inches higher than normal when interviewing job applicants. Is it simply to look professional? Or is it to project power to people who may be working for her in the near future? And, not to be sexist, but since she was interviewing prospective secretaries, the odds are the new hire will be a woman. Would that have anything to do with it? Any other thoughts?

Lucy: Welcome back to the board. I hope your mother is doing better now. As for your field test, I'm glad to see you are continuing to have erotic heely adventures here in 2004. Your test report made for fun reading. I would have liked to have witnessed your field test in person, but your description painted a very good picture. I hope you'll do more of these when you have the time.

Hi, Lucy. A belated happy 60th birthday to you. I suspect you can put most women half your age to shame. Please continue with this road test; it's nice to see that you a true high heel wearer of the 21st century, as well as the 1960s!

There was a similar sad incident in Northern California last year in which a cross-dressing teenager was killed by several of his classmates. The victim (apparently a candidate for a future sex change operation) was convinced he should have been born a woman and was dressing that way. Most people who knew him thought he was a girl, but some classmates found out and killed him. I think one of the boys, thinking he was a girl, was attracted to him. In cases like this, who are the real sickies who pose a threat to society? I don't believe the trial has started, but there are a group of teenagers who are looking at the possibility of life imprisonment because they couldn't contain their prejudices. Sad, sad, sad. I'm coming to this story late, but Anita, my compliments to you on your open-mindedness and your willingness to help your nephew.

I'm with everyone else -- the bed shot is the best. Congratulations to both of you on a splendid photograph. Keep posting your work, please!

Very cute. Why can't we have TV ads like that here in the USA?

I had not taken much notice of the woman who worked in my building and who often rode the same bus home from work in the afternoon. She was Asian-American, perhaps in her mid- to late-20s, and average in appearance. She dressed like many of the women who work in the Sacramento area -- jeans or slacks with flat shoes. I do not recall saying hello or much of anything else to her. And then, one day last year, I noticed she was wearing a pair of low-heel shoes, maybe 2 or 2-1/2 inches in height. It was not anything that would normally catch my eye, but in this woman's case, it made a modest impression on me because I had only seen her wear flats previously. Several months went by, and I noticed some 3-inch heels working their way into her shoe rotations. One had to look carefully, because her pants typically covered much of the shoe, but the heels were definitely getting higher, and they were becoming more varied in style -- pumps, ankle boots, wide heels, thin heels, pointed toes. It was hard to tell, but it seemed she was gradually working her way up above 3 inches, perhaps even to 3-1/2 inches. At some point, I began saying hello to her. I appeared to be witnessing the transition of a woman from a wearer of flats into a high-heel wearer. I am sure I will never know what prompted her to do this -- a renewed interest in fashion, a desire to change her image, or perhaps something as simple as having enough money to buy shoes. I read Laurie's diaries about becoming a heel wearer last year, but there is no way for me to know if similar thoughts were in this woman's head. All I know is that she was embracing a form of feminine expression that I have admired for many years, and that it was nice to see. And then, suddenly, she stopped taking the bus. That is not surprising; in California, taking public transit is usually seen as a sign of a psychological disorder in a person. But every once in a while, I see the woman in my office building, and she now greets me with a smile and a big hello. Of course, I smile and say hello back. She does not know my name, and I do not know hers. It could well be that she simply recognizes me from the bus and is being friendly. But could it possibly be that she noticed me discreetly looking at her at the bus stop all those afternoons? Could it be that she correctly interpreted my attention as a sign of her progress in becoming a high-heel wearer? Is it possible that I boosted her self-confidence in some small way and that she continues to appreciate it? I certainly hope so, but I will never know for sure. Still, it is nice to speculate that perhaps I really did have a role, however minor, in helping this woman become a high-heel wearer. And this is a story in progress. Just last week, as I was leaving the office building, I saw this woman in front of me wearing what had to be 4-inch stilettos. Her pants uncharacteristically stopped at the ankle, leaving the shoes in plain view for all the world to see. I thought she was someone else until she glanced to the side and I could see it was her indeed. Her evolution as a high-heel wearer is obviously continuing, and maybe there will be more for me to write about someday. * As I was writing the other stories in my Central America and California series, it bothered me a bit that all of the experiences I was writing about had taken place between 1979 and 1992. I have not really had comparable experiences during the last 12 years that are worth putting down on paper. There are various reasons for that, but probably the biggest is that I am no longer single and under 35 years old. I am not dating and I do not hang out in dance places. Women no longer relate to me as they did when I was younger, and vice versa. Every once in a while, I ask myself why I should care if some woman on the bus is wearing higher heels than in the past. Why are there a number of attractive, heel-wearing women in my office building who will have my automatic attention if they are within eyeshot, regardless of what I am thinking about or doing at that particular time? The answer, of course, is because I am human. I am a 46-year-old successful professional. I work hard and provide for my family. But if a woman, whether she is in her 20s or 50s, makes the effort to dress well and express her femininity, I will allow myself to privately enjoy the pleasure of her presence. That is what life is all about, and I do not need to justify myself to anyone. I occasionally have to remind myself of this, but I assume I am preaching to the choir by writing this on this Web site. So anyway, I have scraped bottom and do not have any major stories left to share. I hope you liked my stories, and I appreciate the fact that there are others in this great big world who share my interests and see things my way. And, ladies, please remember that you do add to the quality of life of men you may not even know when you make the effort to dress well and wear heels, so please take pride in that. I will close with one last mini-story: There is a woman who works on the floor below mine. She is a secretary who, unfortunately, does not work for my organization. She is a petite Caucasian woman, probably in her early- to mid-40s, with well-styled blonde hair and a penchant for wearing short skirts and heels in the 4- to the 4-1/2 inch range. I would consider her a dream secretary, and I hope her boss does, too. I occasionally see her around the building and, on a handful of occasions, the two of us have happened to be alone on the elevator at the same time. I do not usually talk to people I do not know on the elevator, but with her, I felt a strong need to say something, anything, even though it was meaningless small talk. She always seemed polite but not particularly interested in making conversation. I figured I came off as being a typical guy. A few weeks ago, I was on the elevator and was hurrying to a meeting. The elevator door opened, and there she was, waiting to get on. She looked great: she was wearing a tight black top and matching tight black pants. I was in such a hurry exiting the elevator that I did not even notice what shoes she was wearing. But as I passed her, she smiled at me and said hello, and I smiled and said hello back to her as I ran to my meeting. It was a completely innocuous encounter, but the little boy inside me enjoyed it anyway. Such are the small but important pleasures of life. I hope I see her on the elevator soon.

Alana was the first person I met when I reported for my first day of work in the Los Angeles-area office in 1989. She was the office's personnel manager and was processing my paperwork. She scanned my resume while she was filling out the forms, and mentioned she was impressed that I spoke fluent Spanish and had lived in Latin America. That statement explained a lot of the things that began to happen two years later. Alana was about 40 years old and married. I believe she was born in Mexico but had moved to the United States with her family when she was very young. She was very businesslike and professional, but not particularly friendly. She was also quite overweight, and I remember that she wore flat shoes and the kind of dowdy fashions that were marketed to "full-figured" women at the time. I did not have to deal with her much as part of my job, and my memories of her during those first two years are very limited. After I had been at the office for two years, Alana and I passed one day in the corridor and I saw she was wearing a nice blue-white dress and business pumps, perhaps 2-1/2 inches in height. Compared to what many women wore in the office, her attire was very modest, but this was by far and away the flashiest outfit I had ever seen Alana wear. It was obvious that she had lost a substantial amount of weight. Good for her, I thought. I said hello to her and saw that she was looking intently at me. Her eyes were flirtatious and gauging exactly where my eyes had been. I had not received a look like that from a woman since my adventurous days in Central America, more than a decade earlier. It was like an unexpected encounter with an old friend! Mexican-Americans often say they lead double lives. They think and act like Americans at work, but like Mexicans at home. Some even go so far as to say that their American persona is, indeed, an act, and that they can only show their true selves around fellow Mexicans. I never spoke with Alana about this and have no idea whether she felt that way, but it explains a lot about the series of encounters between us that were about to take place. Alana surmised correctly that I understood the intense eye contact, body language and flirtations that abound in Latin culture. She must have been excited that her weight-loss efforts were bearing fruit and wanted to see if others felt the same way. She probably felt comfortable enough with me to reveal her Mexican persona, and she was inviting me to look at her the way a Mexican man looks at a Mexican woman. I had long noticed that Latinos in the U.S. often were friendlier and more open with me after learning that I speak fluent Spanish and had lived in Latin America. Unlike Europeans, most white Americans resist learning foreign languages and are abysmally ignorant of cultures other than their own, so Latinos naturally feel more comfortable around the occasional Anglo who is knowledgeable of Spanish and Latin culture. I had long taken pleasure in seeing Mexican-American women open up to me upon learning my personal background, but no one had done it quite like Alana. As the months went by, Alana continued to lose weight and her transformation -- both physical and emotional -- was exciting to behold. More pounds came off, Alana's feminine figure steadily emerged, her brightly colored dresses became tighter and her heels became higher. The little 2-1/2 inch kitten heels gave way to 3-inch pumps, and then 4-inch pumps. She must have worn heels a lot as a younger woman, as she walked in them without any apparent difficulty. Encountering Alana in the office was a pleasure, as I could openly monitor her progress -- her newest heels, her latest dress and the underlying curves that had not been there several weeks earlier -- and then see the growing confidence in her eyes and her appreciation for the unspoken emotional support I was giving her. I encountered Alana one day when I went to the copier. By this time, she had completed her weight loss -- I estimate she must have dropped at least 50 pounds, and while she was far from thin, she now had an attractive "chunky hourglass" figure. She was hunched over the copier when I spotted her, but when she saw me, her body language changed completely. She turned toward me, and I could see she was wearing a form-fitting red dress and four-inch pumps with a wide business heel. She stood up as erect as she could in her four-inch heels, arched her back slightly to increase the prominence of her very large breasts, and smiled at me slyly. At this moment, she was no longer the personnel manager of a U.S. office, but was instead a 100-percent Mexican woman who was justly proud of her reborn femininity. And she was sharing her triumph with me in a way that few Anglo men could ever understand. Damn, I felt good about that. We talked by the copier for 45 minutes, which was an eternity given that we both had high-pressure jobs and endless deadlines to meet. We talked about our families and our kids, the kind of "married person flirting" that makes it clear to both parties that you value the other person's attention but do not want anything beyond that. The fact that we talked for 45 minutes was more important than anything we actually said. I hope I made her feel special, because she certainly did that for me. There were other women in the office who were more attractive than Alana and more daring in their choice of high heels. But Alana and I connected for a few months in a special way, and my memories of those events have stood the test of time.

Anita, your stories are much more fun to read (and, I'm certain, much more fun to write) than legal briefs. One thing I have to ask: I have worked around attorneys for years, and I have never, ever seen an attorney wear 5" stilettos. And I don't believe stilettos were particularly in style in 1974. Did you get looks or comments, or did anyone in your law firm discourage you from wearing them (or perhaps encourage you to wear them)? And Jane in her 4.5" shoes was almost as out of the mainstream as you. Just curious.

Nice story, Anita. I always wonder if teachers would be surprised if they knew the lasting impact they really had on at least some of their students. Of course, they were all students once themselves, so maybe not....

Yup. I found that out from experience....although it took me a long time before I really felt that way. Thanks for the comment.

I was quite shy around women well into my adulthood. It was not only hard for me to talk to women about high heels, but I had trouble talking to women about anything else as well. In the mid-1980s, when I was in my late 20s, I asked a knowledgeable acquaintance if there was anything I could do to get over my shyness. She suggested an interesting exercise to build up my self-confidence: Once a week, I should go to a disco or night club by myself, and spend the evening walking up to the most attractive women (those without male escorts) that I could find, and ask them to dance. After dancing, I was supposed to simply thank each woman and move on. The idea at this initial stage was to get to the point where I would feel comfortable simply asking attractive women to dance. Hanging around them afterward to talk and get their phone number would put me under too much pressure and defeat the purpose of the exercise. The idea made sense to me, and I decided to put my own little twist on it by scouting out the women (without male escorts) in the highest, sexiest heels, and asking them to dance. The first time I tried this, it was difficult and awkward. But with each successive week, it became easier and easier. After a couple of months, I relished the fact that I could enter a disco, spot an attractive woman in 5- or 5-1/2 inch stilettos, walk up to her and actually dance with her. A lifetime's worth of inhibitions seemed to be melting away, and the feeling of liberation and empowerment was real and exciting. Many people might find it incredible that a 28-year-old man could be so excited over such a seemingly minor accomplishment. But those who are shy or have known shy people can hopefully relate to this. One night, I went out on the town with my male and female co-workers. We were all writers, single and in our 20s. We ended up at a blues bar in gritty, working-class Oakland. This place was the real deal, a seedy club in a rough neighborhood where white suburbanites like myself mingled somewhat uneasily with hard-edged, inner-city blacks and whites. The music was pure and intended for true devotees of the blues. It seemed a million miles away from the flashy suburban discos I had been frequenting . My co-workers and I ordered drinks and sat down. They all started talking about work and themselves with an inflated sense of self-importance. I looked at my female acquaintances. They were all intelligent, attractive women whom I respected and enjoyed working with, and yet I had never been attracted to them. Female writers tend to be an earthy bunch who wear loose dresses and pants, flat shoes and gravitate toward political correctness. Everything about my own background suggested I should have fit in well with them. But I found them boring. I looked around the club and spotted two people dancing. The woman was white, very slender and had dark blond hair, and she was wearing a skintight black leather skirt and stiletto heels that seemed to reach into the stratosphere. At that moment, I would have much rather been with that woman than with my colleagues. I felt depressed, thinking I must be a messed-up person to be so fascinated with women who wear leather skirts and high heels in seedy blues bars while ignoring much more sophisticated women who share my love of the written word. I tried without success to become interested in my colleagues' conversation. I looked over at the woman in the leather skirt and heels and noticed that she was now sitting by herself, smoking a cigarette and sipping on a beer. The man who had been dancing with her was nowhere in sight. Could this woman really be alone? I looked back every couple of minutes, expecting to see the man sitting at her table, but the woman continued to be alone. Finally, after 10 minutes, I could stand it no longer. I did not have to push myself to walk over to the woman and ask her to dance. Instead, I had to get up and walk over to her table; not doing so would have been the most painful thing imaginable. I muttered to my colleagues that I would be back, and they were so busy talking they did not notice me leaving. I walked up to the woman and asked her if she would like to dance. Without saying a word, she put her cigarette down, took a sip of beer, got up and we walked over to the dance area. The woman's wordless manner and near-vacant expression was very different from that of the bubbly suburban women I had been dancing with in recent weeks. About a minute after we began dancing, she closed her eyes and began gyrating her hips in a hypnotic manner to the slow, steady beat of the blues music. She was not doing this for my benefit; she was in a trance-like state and had receded into her own private universe. The primal music was drawing this raw expression out of her, whatever it was. She had not been dancing like this with the other man. Several minutes went by, and her gyrations continued unabated. There were only a handful of couples dancing, and mostly everyone else in the club was looking at this woman...including my colleagues. We danced for a couple of songs, then she opened her eyes, said "thank you" to me, and we walked back to her table. It was only then that I noticed that a man was sitting at her table with his arms crossed, looking at us. (It was probably the same man she had been dancing with earlier, but I am not sure.) I awkwardly said thank you to the man, and he acknowledged me politely. I turned to walk back to my table, and some drunk who had been watching us said, "Way to go!" and gave me a high-five. I made it back to my table, and my stunned colleagues were all looking at me. "Stu, I never knew you had it in you. Where did you learn to do that?" one of the guys asked. One of the women shook her head and said, "It's always the ones you least expect. The quiet types. Watch out for the quiet types." My little exercise in combating shyness had worked like a charm, and I took special pride in surprising my co-workers. The night was an unqualified success.

(A brief disclaimer: This story only has a marginal high-heel angle, and for that reason I was not planning on writing it up. However, it is too good to omit from my series, and I have tried to bring out the high-heel angle as much as I can.) In 1981, at age 23, I got my first job as a writer in the San Francisco area. On one of my early assignments, I was asked to write a feature article on Dr. K, a therapist who had successfully treated patients with certain kinds of phobias. I called Dr. K, arranged an interview time in her office, and asked her to bring a photo of herself that we could use with the article. I showed up at Dr. K's office at the agreed-upon time. She was not there, but one of her patients greeted me and told me Dr. K had invited her to the interview. I interviewed the patient for about 45 minutes until Dr. K came. Even then, Dr. K seemed disinterested, and read her mail while she answered my questions. One of the things she told me was that she was primarily a family counselor and sex therapist, and she worked with phobia sufferers as a sideline. Feeling disappointed and ready to leave by the end of the interview, I asked Dr. K if she had brought a photo. She said she had not, and she walked over to her desk to see if she had any. It was only then that I got my first real look at Dr. K. She was Caucasian, with dark blonde hair and in her early 50s. But she had the lean body of a 30-year-old woman, with curves in all the right places. She was a wearing a tight, yellow-wool dress and matching yellow stiletto sandals, probably 4- to 4-1/2 inches high. As a sex therapist, this woman convinced me she knew her field. Dr. K said she had no photos of herself in the office. "If you have the time, we can go to my house," she said. "I have photos there, and it is only five miles away." I said yes, sensing there would be something unusual about the visit. I got into Dr. K's car and she began driving. She turned into an entirely different person. She was very friendly and began asking me all kinds of questions, such as where I grew up, which college I had attended, what I expected to do with writing as a career, etc. I learned that she was married to a psychiatrist. We arrived at her home, located in an affluent neighborhood. We got out of the car and she walked a few steps in front of me as she prepared to open the front door. Her hips and her butt swiveled back and forth very sensuously as she walked. I did not have to be a psychologist to see that it was not a "natural" walking motion, but one that she had deliberately developed to project a feminine aura. And she was good at it! She opened the front door and we went into the kitchen, where she opened up a drawer that was full of photographs. "There has to be something in here," she said. In the many photos, Dr. K was dressed in all kinds of evening gowns, many of them shoulderless and low-cut, and her hair was made up in various fancy styles. The photos that included her feet showed that she was wearing extremely high heels. We agreed that none of these photos would do. Underneath the evening-gown photos were a number of photos of her in a bikini. Many of those photos showed her in suggestive, reclining positions. I felt a little awkward looking at what seemed to me to be very personal photos. I quickly glanced at her, and she did not seem the least bit embarrassed. "Why don'tt you wait here," she said to me. "I have some more photos in the bedroom. I don't think any of them will be usable, but there might be something." And she walked off into the bedroom, her high heels clicking audibly on the wooden floor. If these are the kind of photos she keeps in her kitchen, I can just imagine the photos she has in her bedroom, I thought. Now that I was alone, I took a few deep breaths, as I was quite turned on. I had known this woman for perhaps an hour, and here I was, alone in her house with her, looking at these sexy photographs. The famous seduction scene at the beginning of the movie, "The Graduate," started playing in my head. If Dr. K wanted to seduce me, this is just how she would do it. After all, I told myself, the woman is a professional sex therapist, and she would know exactly what buttons of mine to push. But seductions only happen in the movies, right? And even if they did occasionally happen in real life, it couldn't possibly happen to me, could it? What would I do if Dr. K emerged from the bedroom in a negligee? I told myself I needed to focus on the task at hand and see if I could find a usable photograph. I looked at the bikini photographs again as I put them back in the drawer. Dr. K had one hell of a body. I also noticed that there were people in the background in many of the photographs, indicating that the photographer (her husband?) and she were not alone when these suggestive pictures were taken. I resumed studying the evening gown photographs. I finally settled on a head-and-shoulders shot of Dr. K in a shoulderless evening gown (which was barely visible in the photo). It would be simple enough for my publication to crop the shoulders out of the picture and simply depict her from the neck up. Unfortunately, her hair was done up in a self consciously glamorous style that was overdone for my family publication, but what other option did I have? The bedroom door opened, and I heard Dr. K's heels clicking on the wooden floor again. I turned around and saw she was still wearing her yellow dress and stiletto sandals. Sorry, kid, no seduction today. "I'm very sorry. I simply don't have anything in the bedroom that is usable," she said. Hardly a surprise. I showed Dr. K the photo I had picked out. She objected at first, but I explained how we would crop her shoulders out of the photo. She did not think the hair style was appropriate, and I did not disagree, but I said we would probably run just a small photo of her and that if the photo was cropped properly, the hair style would not be very noticeable. She reluctantly agreed to lend me the photo. We got back in the car and talked more as we drove back to her office. I thanked her when we got back and I went on my way. When my editor saw the photograph, he asked me, "What the heck is this?" I did not feel like telling him the whole story but I finally convinced him this was the best photograph of Dr. K I could get. When my article was published, I sent a copy and the original photograph back to Dr. K, who called me and thanked me. The article and the photo that ran with it should still be in a box somewhere in my garage. But this story is far more interesting, and I am glad I have finally been able to put it in writing after 23 years of keeping it locked up in my head. Nowadays, women who enjoy modeling in sensuous photographs can find an appreciative worldwide audience with a few clicks of a keyboard. The same kinds of women with the same interests were obviously around prior to the Internet. But they had to work a little harder to find their audience...one person at a time.

My apologies for not writing these stories in chronological order. I am putting them together as time and inspiration allow: In 1987, I began dating a Peruvian woman I met while living in the San Francisco area. On one of our first dates, she invited me to dinner in her apartment with her roommate, Leticia, who was also from Peru. Leticia was a real head-turner. She was 33 years old with shoulder-length brown hair and a medium build with enough curves to attract the eye. She was wearing snug jeans and a pair with sandals with a 4-inch wedge heel. After dinner, as my girlfriend and I talked on the couch in the living room, I watched Leticia wiggle around in the kitchen as she cleaned up after the meal. It occurred to me that, if things did not work out with my girlfriend, I should ask Leticia out. As it turned out, my relationship with my girlfriend developed just fine. Moreover, I quickly learned that Leticia and I were very different people, with different interests and values that would have made a serious relationship impossible. I did, however, develop a mutually beneficial relationship with her based on the one thing we had in common: an interest in high heels. Leticia, my girlfriend and I had one conversation about high heels. I had earlier told my girlfriend about my Central American adventures and my attraction to women in heels. The three of us were sitting around talking one day when my girlfriend said to Leticia, "Stu really likes women who wear high heels." Leticia turned to me and said earnestly, "Why, Stu, that puts you ahead of 98 percent of all men." She said that she was disappointed in how few U.S. women wore heels and how few U.S. men seemed to care. She said she felt that Latin women in general were more feminine than U.S. women, and it made her more determined to wear heels as much as she could. Until that conversation, I had seen Leticia in heels on about half the occasions when I was over at their apartment; it was a hit-or-miss thing. After that conversation, Leticia was virtually always in 4- or 4-1/2-inch heels whenever I was over. Her style (like that of most Peruvian women) was very different than the style of the Central American women I have described in earlier stories. Leticia usually wore colorful, stylish dresses that were close to knee length, or carefully coordinated pants suits. Her hair and makeup were expertly styled, and her 4- or 4-1/2 inch pumps and sandals were mostly stilettos. Leticia was an architect, and it seemed to me that she had taken her architect's eye for colors, shapes and projections and applied it to herself. My girlfriend and I would sometimes talk about Leticia's sense of style, and I finally felt comfortable enough to tell my girlfriend that I viewed Leticia as a model for how I wanted her to dress. To my pleasant surprise, my girlfriend agreed, and she said she wanted to try wearing high heels. Sadly, an old foot injury caused her excruciating pain after only several minutes in two-inch heels, so the experiment with high heels ended quickly. Leticia often accompanied us to dinner and to clubs, to the point where I sometimes thought of us as a threesome. I began to feel as if my life had become an absurd French movie: a man attracted to women in heels, his girlfriend who wore only flats, and her vivacious, heel-loving roommate. I took solace in the line from an old Rolling Stones song, "You can't always get what you want, but if you try sometime, you might find you get what you need." I gave myself permission to think of Leticia as the heel-wearing surrogate in my life. When she walked into the room, I would first look at her shoes, and then work my way up her legs and midsection and up to her hair, and then back down to her shoes, taking in every detail. I was not too obvious about it, but I was not as discreet as I normally was. Leticia never seemed to mind, nor was there any reason why she should have. I had taken on a very specific role in her life, as she had in mine. To be blunt, Leticia was a vain woman. She honestly felt she was more feminine and had more class than most other women. At the same time, she was insecure, and so she craved all the attention she could get from men and women alike to reinforce her image of herself. Leticia had no sexual interest in me, but she happily soaked up all the admiration I was willing to give her. She knew she could count me as one of her admirers, and I am also sure she derived some ego satisfaction from knowing that she could impress me in one way that her non-heel wearing roommate could not. And, while any attraction I may have had to Leticia was only skin deep, I was still satisfied to know an attractive woman who willingly wore heels in my presence. My best memory of Leticia is from one night when she was dressing up to go out on a date. She put on a pair of 5-inch stilettos (one of the few times I ever saw her in such shoes), and a tight, red minidress. Her outfit was totally uncharacteristic, but she obviously wanted to impress her date. She kept going into her room to look at herself in the mirror, checking out every detail and making minor adjustments, and then walked back to ask my girlfriend and me what we thought. She was radiant, and was clearly quite capable of exuding sex when she wanted to. I may not have agreed with a lot of Leticia's ideas and attitudes, but I cannot deny that she had a sense of style and expression that was worthy of admiration. When she walked in a pair of heels, she was, figuratively speaking, putting her best foot forward, and I will always respect her for that. The mental photographs I took of her in her many outfits are the best way to think of her. If Leticia were reading this, I am sure she would agree.