Stu

My efforts to enter into a long-term relationship proved successful when I got married in 1988 (and we're still married today and doing just fine). In 1989, we moved to the Los Angeles area when I accepted a job offer there. The Los Angeles office was high-heel heaven. There were between 50 and 60 women in the office, and on any given day there were easily 12 to 15 women or more in high heels. The fashion-loving Hollywood culture in L.A. encourages heel wearing to a degree that is largely absent in Northern California, so I was quite happy. Of all the expert heel wearers in this office, Cindy was the undisputed champion. She was a petite, divorced African-American woman in her mid-30s. She was a regular wearer of 5- and 5-1/2-inch stiletto heels, including a number of ultra-thin heels. Because she was fairly short, perhaps 5'3", the effect of 5-1/2 inch heels on her was particularly dramatic. Cindy wore basic dresses and blouse-pants combinations to work, so there was little to compete with her heels in an aesthetic sense. Cindy spoke with her feet -- the smooth, graceful stilettos that reached into the stratosphere, contorting her feet at impossibly high angles -- but it was a language only truly appreciated by high-heel connoisseurs. After she realized I appreciated her expressiveness, she drew me into her inner circle in a most unusual and enjoyable way. Cindy worked several cubicles down from me, but we had very different jobs and generally did not talk to each other. However, I could not resist sneaking discreet glimpses at her exquisite heels whenever I walked past her cubicle, which was several times a day. Cindy followed a regular pattern. She wore 5- to 5-1/2 inch heels on Mondays, Tuesdays and Wednesdays, and typically went down to 4-inch heels on Thursdays, although there were weeks when she stayed at 5 inches for a fourth consecutive day. On Fridays, she almost always wore flats, which intrigued me because she looked so different -- so ordinary! -- in flats. I was just as discreet with Cindy as I had been with other heel-wearing U.S. women who had either never noticed me or never reacted in any significant way. But Cindy was different. In retrospect, I recall that she would occasionally tense up slightly whenever I passed her cubicle or I passed her in the hall. She probably did not care for my attention -- at first. I did not think Cindy had noticed my glances at all, but I was in a state of denial about that. After 18 months or so, Cindy's behavior changed. About twice a week, perhaps, she would walk back and forth in front of my cubicle for several minutes for no apparent reason. She would also stop for a minute or two in front of my cubicle, with her back turned to me, and appear to be talking to someone a distance away. She made sure to stop just where I had a perfect view of her skyscraper heels. Her feet were as near vertical as any I had ever seen. She was truly breathtaking. Cindy also did something very curious during this time. While she and I still talked very little besides exchanging polite "hellos", Cindy made a point of introducing herself to my wife and chatting amiably with her on the several occasions when my wife stopped by my office. This ended my period of denial, as it was obvious to me that Cindy was "checking out" the woman I had married. At about this same time, we actually did start to talk a little bit, mainly friendly office conversations. I remember one particular conversation when she talked at length about the challenges she faced as a divorced mother raising a teenage son. On one occasion, I actually did need Cindy's help in dealing with a computer problem, which was her area of responsibility. A number of people in the office warned me that it would be days before Cindy would get around to me, as she had a reputation for that kind of thing. But she had my computer problem fixed that same day and apologized to me for taking a few hours to get to it. I guess there were advantages to having a wandering eye after all. I can only guess that Cindy must have been going through a rough period at this time. She had shown some obvious interest in a couple of men who worked in the office, but nothing came of it. I suppose my attention must have been flattering and a real ego boost for her at a time when she needed it. I do not know if there was a racial element to it. Perhaps it was a new experience for her to be admired by a white man. Or perhaps that was totally irrelevant. During my third year at this office, Cindy turned the heat up again on our curious relationship. I arrived at work one morning and was walking to my cubicle. Cindy was standing behind a group of women in the corridor and was talking with them. As I approached the women, Cindy shot a penetrating stare right at me. She then took one step out from behind the other women and turned toward me so I could see her in full. She was wearing a brand-new, short black dress and a new pair of black, 5-1/2 inch stilettos. Her hair was done up very nicely and her makeup had been applied with unusual care. Her eyes remained fixed on me in an aggressive way, almost as if she were daring me to do something. I was shocked by her boldness and, not wanting to disappoint her, I gave her a quick "elevator eyes" glance, smiled at her, and said, "Good morning." I hope that was the positive feedback she was seeking from me. This encounter repeated itself in one form or another whenever Cindy wore something new to work, which now was fairly frequent. (Interestingly, a female co-worker told me that Cindy's growing wardrobe collection was becoming a subject of gossip among the women in the office). Cindy and I had pretty much traded places in our non-verbal relationship. I had initiated the glances at her more than two years earlier, but now she was the driver; her piercing stares at me were a sign that she was wearing something new and was demanding my attention, which I was happy to give her. Cindy made one effort to bring the relationship up to yet another level, and I have had mixed feelings ever since about my reaction to her. I stayed late at the office one evening and went over to the copier. Cindy was there, in her stocking feet, making copies. We started an innocuous conversation when Cindy looked at me and, in a flirty way, began talking about the way her feet often hurt after a full day in her high heels. After three years, one of us had actually mentioned "high heels" in the other's presence! I was polite and said something like, "I can see why your feet must hurt," but I made no real effort to engage her in a discussion about her shoes and her feet. The conversation petered out, we made our copies, and went on our separate ways. I had thought about kicking the conversation into high gear by responding, "Well, if your feet hurt so much when you wear heels, why do you wear them?" And when I drove home that night, I felt badly that I had not asked that question. The simple truth was that I was not ready to go where Cindy wanted to take me. My interest in women and heels had always been internalized; I had never discussed the subject with anyone except my wife. For me, the subject of heels was so intimate and sexually charged that even an innocent discussion of them with a co-worker was taboo, especially now that I was married. Perhaps it is a paradox that I could enjoy exchanging glances with Cindy over her heels but be unable to talk to her about them. But glances are intangible and the meanings behind them can be vague and subject to interpretation. Words, on the other hand, can be precise and revealing. Years later, my aborted conversation with Cindy was very much on my mind when I started visiting Jenny's forum and began exchanging thoughts on heels with others. Having discussed the subject quite extensively in cyberspace, I believe I could have that conversation with Cindy today. As it turned out, I transferred to a job in Sacramento for career reasons not long after our encounter at the copier. When I decided to write this story, I did an Internet check and could not find any indication that Cindy still works in that office. I hope she found a heel-loving man and is happy wherever she is. Postscript: Cindy epitomized what I view as the African-American attitude toward heels: "You don't have to wear heels, but if you do, wear them as high as you can." In many years of working in offices with African-Americans, I have noticed that African-American and white women wear heels in roughly equal percentages, but African-American women who do wear heels are much more willing than whites to go up into 4- and 5-inch territory. In my LA-area office, for example, there were two other women besides Cindy who wore 5-inch heels regularly, and they were African-American as well.

As a follow-up to my Central America stories, I have a small number of heely stories from home here in California. I have a couple of stories ready to go, and may get around to more as time and inspiration permits: I returned to the United States in 1981 and got a job in the suburbs near San Francisco. I missed my little heely adventures in Central America and wished I could have some more in California. Nothing worthy of mention in this forum happened until I met Shirley in early 1985, when I was 27. I was at a singles party and was one of the youngest people there, as those events tend to attract divorced people in their 30s, 40s, and 50s. It was an outdoors singles group, and so most of the people there were wearing jeans, sneakers, birkenstocks, loafers, and the like. (My life had seriously deteriorated since my travels in Central America!) Shirley and a girlfriend of hers arrived at the party and immediately stood out, as they were wearing dresses and heels. I chatted with both of them, went on to mingle with other people, chatted again with Shirley, mingled again, and circled back to talk to Shirley a third time. By the end of our third conversation, Shirley was staring directly into my eyes with a deep, sultry look. Realizing that this was my first good fortune in some time, I got her phone number and asked her out on a date a few days later. Shirley was 40 years old and divorced, with 19- and 21-year-old sons. She was Caucasian, had long, frizzy brown-red hair, freckles, and the trim figure of a 25-year-old woman. I soon learned to my delight that she was a full-time high-heel wearer, the only such woman I ever dated. Her standard shoe was a 4-inch stiletto, which she wore from the moment she got up in the morning until she went to bed at night. She cooked, cleaned and did all kinds of errands in high heels. About the only times I ever saw her voluntarily in flat shoes were a couple of occasions when we went hiking, but she switched back into heels immediately upon returning home. In 1985, miniskirts made their big comeback, and hemlines seemed to be getting higher by the week. Shirley rode the trend very well, with her wardrobe at that time dominated by all kinds of short skirts. She may not have had a lot of variety, but she had her "look" down so well it hardly mattered. Shirley worked as a nurse, and with her feminine charm she could have easily snared a divorced doctor and lived an affluent lifestyle. But she obviously preferred younger men, having plucked me from a crowd of middle-aged males at the singles party. She had an unmistakable aura of sexuality, and at the same time she was bright and articulate. She had been married at 16, became a mother at 19, and went back to school as an adult to become a nurse. She was active with her church and introduced me to her pastor at one of their functions. It is fair to say she was a woman of substance. Shirley's devotion to heels was remarkable. As a nurse, she had to have worn flat shoes on the job, but I saw her leave for work on several occasions and always in high heels. She must have changed to her work shoes only after arriving at the hospital. At one point, she sprained her ankle and had to limp around in flat shoes for some time. She muttered about how much she hated flat shoes, and said not being able to wear heels bothered her more than the sprained ankle itself. As soon as she possibly could, she returned to wearing heels, even though her ankle was still so tender she had to wear a bandage around it. She told me that, as a nurse, she knew it was wrong, but she was determined to do it anyway. Three memories of Shirley stand out above the others. We returned to her house one afternoon to find that her younger son and his friends had made a mess of the place. Shirley gently lectured the boys about the need to clean up after themselves. It was an ordinary moment, but it was extraordinary at the same time. With five teenage boys sitting on the floor and looking up at her, Shirley had the authoritatively sexy posture of a woman standing fully erect in high heels. Her pleasant figure and shapely legs left mostly uncovered by her short skirt added to the effect. She was not trying to tease the boys or turn them on sexually, but she did have their undivided attention and their respect. That really drove home to me that high heels were a part of who Shirley was and, without them, a vital piece of her essence was missing. My second memory involved an evening when several of her forty-something friends were over at the house. One of her male friends told me, in a loud voice that everyone heard, that he had dated Shirley at one time, how great a woman she was, how lucky I was to be going out with her, and that he would happily start dating her again if he had the chance. A noticeably flattered Shirley walked into the room with a tray of food while this was going on, and all of us, men and women alike, turned to her and admired her as she put the tray on the table and began serving snacks to all of us. Her heels were clicking loudly and proudly on the wooden floor as she moved around the table. The last memory was of a Sunday morning when she took me to a breakfast organized by one of the community groups she was involved with. At 8:30 a.m. on a Sunday, she was dressed in a miniskirt and high heels, and was introducing me, her young boyfriend, to all her plainly dressed, middle-aged acquaintances. Her demeanor -- very polite and low-key, engaging in quiet conversation -- was in complete contrast to her assertively feminine appearance. But that was Shirley: She behaved like the mature, intelligent, civic-minded woman that she was, and let her appearance express the rebellious sexuality that so obviously churned inside her. I love contrasts like that in people. My relationship with Shirley did not last long. I was interested in a long-term relationship that, for me, was not possible with a woman who had already raised two children to young adulthood. Today, as a forty-something myself, I feel some regret that I did not keep the relationship going longer, as there was a lot I did not know about Shirley, and getting to know her even better would have been a good experience. But I value the time I did spend with her, and the resulting memories of her are good ones.

So far, so good, Anita. I can guess where this is going, but I'm hoping you'll surprise me.

I think you're right, Emma. It's probably closer to 60 or 70 people, depending on how you want to calculate such things. Whatever. For a while, I was wondering if the lack of responses from women meant they were put off by the stories, so I'm glad you found them interesting.

Thanks, Cyberdude, Jeff and others who commented on and read my stories. Judging by the number of hits, I guess there were 30 or 40 people who read two or more of them. It was fun writing them, and I'm glad I found an appreciative audience for these stories after so many years. I have two or three stories from experiences in the U.S. that I think are worth telling, so I'll try to post them soon.

Here is the last of my Central America stories. Given the lack of response to my last story, I'm not sure if the posting left people speechless, put them to sleep, or perhaps everyone has been out for the holidays. For better or worse, here it is, and my thanks to those who have made the time to read these postings: I have four last miscellaneous experiences from the year I spent in Costa Rica that shed some further light on that country's intriguing culture of femininity and high heels. To make sense of these stories, it is best to read the sociological postscript in my last posting. Experiences like this are a reason why people travel to foreign countries. 1. All in the Family: I liked to go to a snack bar in my little town that was run by a friendly man. He had two identical-twin teenage daughters who worked in the snack bar as well. I did not notice them much, as they wore aprons, loose jeans, flats, etc. One Saturday night, I entered the snack bar and the man was very excited. He told me it was his daughters' 17th birthday, and that they were now "women". One of the daughters entered the snack bar from a back room. "Look at her, look at her!" the man exclaimed. I was pleasantly surprised. The young girl was indeed attractive, and she was wearing heels in the 3-1/2 to 4-inch range, and the obligatory tight pants. She even turned partly to the side so we could view her profile. As my eyes lingered on her, I remembered that I was inches from her father, who was in easy reach of all kinds of sharp kitchen implements, and that maybe I shouldn't look at her quite so enthusiastically. I turned back to the father, but he did not mind my long stare at all. "Isn't she lovely? Isn't she lovely?" he asked. Indeed, she was. 2. Girls' Night Out: I was in my little town's one retail store early one Saturday night when I saw Isabel and four other woman standing around and talking. All five of them were dressed for Saturday night, in high stiletto heels and tight pants. The women with Isabel all appeared to be in their early 20s. I said hello, Isabel quickly introduced me to her friends, and I then went about my business in the store. However, I did notice that the five women were standing around in a circle. One by one, each woman took turns turning her back to the others, who gave her a visual inspection from her heels to her buttocks and then up to her hair, and then back down again to her heels. Each woman was told by the others that she looked wonderful, and the young women seemed reassured by the compliments. 3. All in the Family II: Late one Saturday afternoon, the director of the cooperative where I worked asked me if I wanted to accompany him that night to a tavern in a nearby town. He said some friends of his had a 24-year-old daughter who they wanted to introduce to me. We drove to the tavern (the director had a car) and had a couple of drinks. The family then arrived: both parents, two younger siblings, and 24-year-old Elizabeth, dressed in brown skintight corduroy pants and 5-inch wooden heels. We all sat around and talked while a salsa band set up its equipment and began to play. Elizabeth and I got up dance to the salsa music, we sat down, and then we got up to dance again. At one point, Elizabeth leaned over to me and whispered, "Watch me." She then began erotically swiveling her hips without any inhibition whatsoever. She kept it up for several minutes, then turned her back to me (and the rest of the tavern) and began rocking her buttocks back and forth in a similar manner. Everyone in the tavern -- the other people dancing, the people sitting at tables, even the salsa band members -- were watching her. I thought for a minute that her parents must be dying of embarrassment, but when I turned to look at them they were beaming with pride. When we finally returned to our table, several people applauded. Later in the evening, we went outside to talk privately. It was all very flirtatious, and when we reentered the tavern Elizabeth excused herself to go to the bathroom and gave me one of those sexy Costa Rican walks that sent my blood racing so effectively. We talked about seeing each other after that, but we had trouble actually arranging something (she lived in a different town), and in any event I returned home to the United States not long afterward. I did learn, however, that a reference in Costa Rica to "a 24-year-old woman" has a special significance. 4. The Teacher: Isabel had an older cousin who worked as a teacher at the elementary school across the street from where we worked. I do not remember the woman's name, so I will just refer to her as The Teacher. She was in her 50s, divorced (which is rare in Costa Rica), and had buck teeth and an extreme pear-shaped figure that could not be considered attractive in any conventional sense. However, she took advantage of her single status and often wore 5-inch heels and skintight jeans. Could you imagine going to school with your teacher dressed like that? The Teacher craved attention so much one morning that she put on a walking exhibition in the school's playground while her students played, and a number of men lined up across the street at the cooperative to watch. Her follow-up act came that afternoon when she entered the cooperative. A number of men were standing in the lobby by the front door, and I happened to be standing about halfway between the lobby and Isabel's office at the back of the building. The Teacher walked in the front door, said hello to the men, turned her back to them and began strutting toward me. Her eyes were blazing at me, she flashed a seductive smile, and she began gyrating her enormous buttocks to a degree that I would have thought impossible. The men in the lobby stopped talking and were focused entirely on her. The Teacher walked up to me and stopped inches from my face; I thought she was going to grab me and start kissing me. Instead, she went through the usual flirtations, asking me how I was, how I liked Costa Rica, etc. I could not see exactly, but I believe she was swiveling on her heels slightly and giving the men in the lobby a show, because they were quietly looking at her the whole time we talked. After a couple of minutes, she said we should get together for lunch sometime and sauntered back into Isabel's office, continuing her walking exhibition. She spent about 10 minutes talking to Isabel, but she remained standing in the doorway, where all us men could see her uniquely curvy profile. With experiences like these, it is little wonder why I returned home from Central America with a fascination with women who wear high heels.

I hope everyone had a nice Christmas. This is the fourth of five stories on Central America: I spent a lot of time with Isabel, but one experience with her stands out. One day, I asked Isabel if she wanted to go out to dinner later in the week in the city near our little mountain town. She said yes, while seeming to show only marginal interest. Everything seemed normal when Isabel and I showed up for work on the morning of our dinner date. By the afternoon, everything had changed. Isabel went home during lunch break and returned to work wearing black, ultra-tight Spandex-like pants and a pair of wooden stiletto heels that I estimate were at least 5-1/2 inches high, easily the highest heels she wore in my presence during my time in Costa Rica. Isabel's attire was extreme even by her standards, and it drew quite a reaction. The other employees oohed and ahhed, and when she told them we were going out to dinner, they oohed again at me. Later in the day, one of the more prominent members of the cooperative's managing board came to the office and, upon seeing Isabel, he asked her if she were dressed for a special occasion. "Stu is taking me out to dinner," she said as she winked at him, and the man turned to me and congratulated me as if I had won the lottery. Later in the day, Isabel and I were talking about something and when we finished, she strutted off with the most uninhibitedly sexy walk I ever saw her make. All of this gave quite a boost to my still-fragile and insecure 23-year-old ego. Not surprisingly, I got very little done that afternoon. When closing time came, Isabel and I hopped on a bus to the city (neither of us had a car). When we arrived, we entered a very nice restaurant. It was still somewhat early, and the only other customers in the restaurant were three men sitting at a table. I'll never forget how their six eyes became glued to Isabel as we walked over to our table and sat down. We had a nice dinner and afterwards I suggested we go dancing, as my thoughts of her as a platonic friend were undergoing some serious revision at that point. Instead, she said she really wanted to introduce me to her aunt, who she said lived in a nearby neighborhood. We walked for almost a mile to her aunt's house. Isabel held up fine; the sound of her heels clicking on the pavement in the dark, quiet neighborhood was intoxicating, and through the corner of my eye I could follow the delightful swaying of her hips as we walked. I wondered if she really wanted her aunt to see her dressed that way, but that only showed that I was still thinking like a North American, rather than a Costa Rican. We arrived at the house, and her aunt and other relatives there all praised her repeatedly on how wonderful she looked. I was hoping we would stay for an hour and then find a dance place, but we ended up staying there the rest of the evening. My hormones gradually subsided, a little disappointment set in, and I came back down to reality after my 10-hour hormonal rush. I later realized that, given the strong family bonds among Latin Americans, it meant more to Isabel for her relatives to see her so well dressed and with her North American friend than it was for her to spend time alone with me. I'll expand on that thought in my next posting. We finally left her aunt's house around midnight, and by that time the buses had stopped running. We began the mile-long walk back toward the center of the city in the hope of catching a taxi that would take us back to our little town. After a few blocks, Isabel said that her feet were hurting; the many hours in such high heels and the long walk earlier in the evening had finally taken their toll. After a few more blocks, she was having difficulty walking. At first she leaned on me, but that did not help much. I ended up wrapping my arm tightly around her waist and hips to take some of her weight off her aching feet. That was not as romantic as it might sound, as Isabel at this point was experiencing some pretty severe discomfort. We had almost returned to the center of the city when we spotted a taxi, which took us back to our town. Isabel's ordeal was over, and I had experienced an afternoon and evening that, while imperfect and a little disappointing, was still unlike any I'd known before or since. Postscript: I knew many North American men who were frustrated and confused after having similar experiences in dating Costa Rican women. How could these women come on so strong and then be such tepid dates? It took me a while to understand this aspect of Costa Rica's culture of femininity and high heels. In Costa Rica, a working-class, single woman's high heels were a sign of her virginity (or, in the case of an older single woman like Isabel, a sign that she was not sexually active). Women who wore heels and tight clothing were seen as virtuous and having high self-esteem and high standards. They were deemed to care enough about themselves to present their best image to the world. They were seen as coming from good families who could afford nice clothing for them. That is why parents eagerly bought their daughters their first pair of heels, and why seemingly everyone in Costa Rica -- men, women and even children -- openly admired women in heels. That is also why Isabel teased me unmercifully leading up to our dinner date and then had us spend the evening at her aunt's house. I believe Costa Rican society encouraged the sexy dress and flirtatious behavior because they were viewed it as a safe alternative to sex itself. In contrast, a Costa Rican parent's worst nightmare was a daughter who spurned heels and tight clothing in favor of baggy jeans and sneakers. They were looked on as slovenly, having low self-esteem and were often suspected of promiscuity. Indeed, the unwed mothers in town tended to be from that category. One of the worst insults that a Costa Rican woman could hurl at another woman was that she dressed "like the gringas (U.S. women)," who were often looked down upon as being slovenly and promiscuous.

Lovely. Both photos are very nice. The clear platforms captured my interest because you don't see a lot of those, even on Web sites like this. You must have more; please post!

Thanks for the compliment, Jeff. I have a few more stories to offer on this. And, Bubba, if you happen to read this, I appreciate your supportive comment on my encounter with Maria. It can be hard going through life when you have a guilt complex.

Here is the third story in this series: After completing my Spanish training, the political situation in El Salvador had deteriorated to the point where it was no longer safe to remain there. I was able to move to neighboring Costa Rica in early 1980, where I began working at a business cooperative in a small farming town in the highlands. And I befriended a coworker who exposed me to Costa Rica's homegrown variety of the Latin culture of sensuality. Isabel was the office manager of the cooperative where I was employed. She was single, 29 years old and Caucasian, with red-brown hair, freckles and a pleasant figure that was halfway between lean and hourglass. She was far from gorgeous, but she had a pretty, fresh-faced look and could well have epitomized the girl next door if she were dressed like a North American woman. However, she proudly wore the clothing of a "tica" (a Costa Rican woman): stiletto heels and skintight pants. Isabel was a product of her high-heel culture, which I was able to learn a lot about. Many Costa Ricans believe they have the world's most beautiful women and, indeed, flirting and looking at women seemed to be the national pastime. Working- and middle-class parents took great pride in having their daughters dress in ways that would mortify many parents in Anglo countries. A woman's coming of age was at 17 or 18, when many parents would buy their daughters their first pair of high heels. At that point, many girls would exclusively wear 3- to 4-inch heels and tight pants until the time they married, typically in their early- to mid-20s. Once married, most women switched to looser clothing and lower heels. Interestingly, Costa Rican culture seemed to grant a special status to single women over age 25 or so. The society seemed to conclude that these women were not simply waiting to get married and exempted them from unspoken dress codes that applied to other women. Many of these mature single women (including Isabel) moved up to 5-inch heels and wore ever-tighter clothing that was provocative even by Costa Rican standards. I got to know a nice cross-sampling of Costa Rican women at my job. There were several younger single women and married women who wore 3- to 4-inch heels every day to work. Then there was Ruth, a married woman in her mid-20s who wore nice dresses and went right up to the limit by wearing 4-inch stilettos most days. She was unusually flirty for a married woman, and I'm sure she would have worn higher heels if she were not limited by social convention. That left Isabel, who wore the highest heels and the tightest pants of any of the women who worked at the cooperative. She wore stilettos and a variety of other styles, usually 4-1/2 to 5 inches in height. And she did not take kindly to competition. I recall there were several fluke occasions when someone else happened to wear shoes to work that were as high as Isabel's. She left at lunch (or even snuck out at mid-morning break on one occasion) and returned in heels that were higher. This may seem petty or vain, but I came to understand that there was a good reason for it. High heels were an indicator of Isabel's social status. Her shoes said, in a non-verbal language that Costa Ricans understood, that she was not at home having babies, nor was she independently wealthy or attending college, but that she was working and supporting herself. (And, obviously, the heels also said she was attractive, feminine and available.) I visited a lot businesses in Costa Rica, and I found one could immediately identify mature single women like Isabel from the shoes they wore. As a single woman in her late 20s, Isabel had a social license to flirt that was not available to other women. She took full advantage of her naturally outgoing personality by warmly greeting customers and making them feel welcome. She flirted with male customers when the occasion warranted. She also constantly joked with her female and male co-workers, and she especially liked to flirt with me. It seemed like we spent hours every day joking and laughing, and often our little flirtation sessions grew into serious, extended conversations. Even though our friendship remained platonic, half the townspeople thought we were sneaking off to the city to sleep together, a misconception that Isabel tried only halfheartedly to dispel. There was a very physical element to the way Isabel (and other older, single Costa Rican women) flirted. Just as women in El Salvador had ways to communicate with their hips, Costa Rican women like Isabel were masters at communicating with their rear ends. Again, this reflected their culture. High heels and tight pants obviously draw the eye to a woman's buttocks, and everyone in Costa Rica -- men and women alike -- looked at women's butts. People took great pride in the femininity and self-confidence of single women (younger and older) who walked around their town in high heels and tight pants, and this was a source of pride and self-esteem for the women as well. Many Costa Rican women developed several different walking styles that emphasized the movement of their rear ends. Isabel always walked in public with a pleasant, sensual gait that she must have learned as a younger woman. She could also shift at a moment's notice into more erotic walking styles that involved much stronger and deliberate movement of the buttocks. After one of our many conversations, for example, she would frequently return to her desk with a very pronounced wiggle in her walk. At the last possible instant, she would turn suddenly and look back at me, taking note of my eyes. If I was looking at her (which was normally the case), she would shoot me back a quick smile. If I wasn't looking at her, I'm sure she felt disappointed. Even the simple act of standing could be very physical and flirtatious. I noticed that Isabel (and other Costa Rican women) would sometimes stand slightly to the side while talking to me, which allowed me to see them in profile. I found that they considered it a compliment for me to scan down from their face to their butt and feet, and then back up to their face while we were talking. Who am I to not compliment a lady? It is important, however, to step back from all this anatomy-related detail and understand the big picture. Isabel was a visible person in her town, she was considered attractive and feminine, and she had a respectable job in which she was responsible for making her employer's customers feel important and ensuring they received the service they needed. To have all this, she needed to project a certain appearance and image, and high heels were essential for doing that. High heels were a major part of Isabel's identity, as they were for many Costa Rican women like her.

Gina, your English is fine, and your photos are spectacular! You are a true European success story. Please feel free to share more photos at any time. As we say in English, you are "fab".

Gina, those are wonderful photos with shoes that meet Dolly's "very high" standards. Feel free to share more with us, if you like. Danke!

Laurie: Congratulations. I know you had challenged yourself some time ago to move up to six-inch heels, and it looks like you've done it. Well done!

Here is the second of two stories concerning El Salvador: Maria worked at the training center in El Salvador where I studied Spanish in 1979. She worked in the business office as a bookkeeper, and had relatively little contact with the trainees. She was quiet and businesslike. Many of my fellow trainees barely noticed her, which struck me as odd because she was quite beautiful. Maria was in her mid- to late-20s, had a brown Latin complexion and was tall and slender, with gorgeous eyes that managed to seduce me despite her serious demeanor. As was common in El Salvador, she tended to wear loose, conservative blouses with long, tight skirts. On most days, she wore 4-inch heels, alternating between wide business heels and stilettos. During the first few weeks of training, I had little interaction with Maria, but that all changed one day when she gave me her own lesson in El Salvador’s sensual feminine subculture. I was sitting in the courtyard during lunch break, and Maria was standing some yards away talking to a colleague. By that time, I had learned that it was OK in El Salvador to stare at women in a way that would have been considered rude and unacceptable in Anglo countries. I had enthusiastically taken advantage of my new freedom in that area. I was feeling somewhat horny and Maria, as usual, looked quite striking, so I gave into temptation and studied her in detail. She had the figure of a fashion model, and her tight skirt and high heels highlighted her long, shapely legs to perfection. My eyes rested on her hips and thighs, and all was well with the world. Maria turned suddenly in my direction and glared angrily at me. She obviously had noticed the way I was looking at her, and she was not pleased. Oh shit, I thought. There apparently is a line of acceptability in the way men here can look at women, and I have obviously crossed it. To my horror, this quiet, low-key woman began strutting towards me, violently swinging her hips back and forth in a way that was both erotic and terrifying. Her intense eyes pierced through me. She stopped next to my chair, towering over me as I dreaded whatever confrontation was about to take place. She reached into her purse and said sternly, "Would you like a piece of gum?" She took a stick of gum out of her purse, slapped it down on the table next to me, and walked off. I took the gum out of the wrapper, put it in my mouth, and began chewing nervously. I thought for certain that Maria would not want to have anything more to do with me. To my pleasant surprise, she was quite friendly with me after that. During the frequent receptions for trainees, staff and others that were held toward the end of our Spanish training, Maria and I tended to seek each other out, and we had a number of friendly conversations. She was thoughtful, intelligent and articulate, and our conversations ranged from the political troubles in El Salvador to life in the United States. Chatting with this lovely woman was an experience for both the intellect and the senses. I have never really understood the gum incident, although I suspect Maria was both annoyed and flattered by the way I was staring at her. If so, the unspoken language of her hips conveyed the mixed message perfectly, and giving me the gum may simply have been a way for her to make a graceful exit after she had made her point. I did learn a lesson from it: Although I continued to take advantage of the relaxed Latin attitude about looking at women, I policed myself better after that and maintained some level of discretion whenever I was an eyeshot of an attractive senorita. Nothing like the gum incident ever happened again.

OK, those are good suggestions. I use Windows 98, and on MS Word I do use Times New Roman, if that sheds light on the situation. I'll put these suggestions to use when I make my next posting, which should be later this week. Thanks for the tips.

Yes, I noticed the annoying codes where quotation marks and apostrophes should be. As you saw, I made the same posting on Jenny's site, and everything turned out fine. For the technically inclined, I actually wrote the posting on MS Word and then cut and pasted it into this forum, so I'm assuming the code for quotation marks did not go through properly. I'll check before doing final postings in the future. As for whether this kind of physical flirtation still takes place, that's the $64,000 question. I have not been back to Central America since that time, but my educated guess is that the basic culture and attitudes about heels and femininity has not changed much. I believe this is the case for several reasons: 1) I spent a week in Mexico about six years ago, and saw similar kinds of feminine fashions. 2) In California, there is a large Latin populaton, and while many have adopted U.S. fashions, you still see a lot of heels and tight clothing, particularly in working class areas where there is a high percentage of foreign born Latinos. 3) The U.S. has a lot of Spanish language TV stations that show Latin American programming. From what I occasionally see, the TV programming hasn't changed that much over the years, and you still see a lot of heels and attention-getting clothing on Latin television.

Candi: Thank you for posting the newest photos; it was like an early Christmas present. I especially appreciate the full-body shots. If you were to tell me that you are a full-time professional model, I would have no problem believing you. As you probably have noticed, we don't see a lot of bondage on this forum. At first I was surprised to see it on other high heel sites, but now that I've seen on several heel sites (including yours), I am increasingly intrigued. Please don't be a stranger!

In 1979, I was 22 years old, newly graduated from college, and totally overcome with wanderlust and a thirst for adventure. Refusing to settle for a conventional job, I decided to do volunteer work in the nation of El Salvador in Central America. I arrived in the country expecting to learn Spanish and experience life in a poor, third-world country, and all that came to pass. I never dreamed that I would also come into contact with a culture of sensuality that would leave me with an everlasting interest in high heels – and the women who wear them. Alicia was an instructor at the training center where I would spend three months learning Spanish. She was paid to teach Spanish, but as a bonus she simultaneously provided lessons in the unspoken language of feminine expression practiced by high-heel wearing women throughout Latin America. Alicia was 20 years old, and she looked like a Latin movie star – shiny black hair, dark brown skin, big, beautiful eyes and a luscious hourglass figure that was impossible to ignore. I met her my first weekend in the country, during a get-together with the North American trainees and the center’s Salvardoran staff. She arrived wearing a long skirt and the highest stiletto heels I had seen in my life – they were at least five, maybe 5-1/2 inches. “Men really like Alicia,” the center’s director said, stating the obvious. I was captivated not only by her beauty, but by the ways she chose to express it. As I soon learned, Alicia’s dress and mannerisms reflected the preferences of Salvadoran society. Heels ranging from three to five inches in height were ubiquitous among urban working- and middle-class women, with the higher heels generally worn by single women. The Salvadoran fashions of the time were somewhat schizophrenic. Above the waist, Salvadoran women wore loose blouses and dresses, and cleavage was taboo. Below the waist, many women were far more daring, with long, tight-fitting skirts and dresses that wrapped lovingly around the hips and thighs, highlighting every curve and leaving very little to the imagination. Skirts and dresses typically went to the knee or below, flaring just slightly above the knee. Stiletto heels put the exclamation point on these lovely wardrobes. Body language in Latin America is generally much stronger than in Anglo countries. Consistent with this, Salvadoran women had an extraordinary way of communicating with their hips. The combination of tight dresses and high heels made the hips a magnet for the eyes and, building on this, women often employed two or more sensual styles of walking, each involving increasingly provocative swinging of the hips. They could change walking styles like a driver shifting the gears of a car, often switching into a sexier walking mode to impress a man or group of men. They usually flashed their eyes and broke into flirty smiles when walking in this manner. Fortunately, it was socially acceptable for men to gaze at attractive women in ways that would be considered rude and unacceptable in many Anglo countries. In fact, Alicia was the first to teach me that staring at a woman’s hips was actually considered a compliment. Alicia gave me a “Salvadoran welcome” during the first week of training. I had arrived early at the center and was standing at the front entryway, looking at the street scenery and still marveling at the fact that I was in El Salvador. I spotted Alicia walking a block away. She was wearing a blue-and-white dress, loose on top and tight around the hips, along with white stiletto heels. When she saw me, her walking pace slowed considerably, and she began swiveling her hips rhythmically from side to side. The back and forth motion was impossible to miss, even from a block away. It was as if she reached out to me across that distance and hypnotized me; time seemed to stop, and I was oblivious to everything in the universe except the rocking of Alicia’s exquisite hips. She had to walk up several stairs from the sidewalk to reach the building entrance where I was standing, and as she climbed each stair, she swung her hips out even farther, back and forth, back and forth. I had never, ever seen a woman walk even remotely like this, and I was completely under her spell. When Alicia reached the top stair and was just a few feet away from me, I snapped out of my trance and, for a brief instant, felt an upwelling of panic. I had been openly staring at this woman’s hips for 30 seconds or more, which would have earned me a woman’s wrath in the United States, and rightfully so. How could I have been so rude, I thought. After all, I was now in a foreign country and had to be on my best behavior. I looked at Alicia’s face as she passed me, expecting her to be totally disgusted by my crude behavior. To the contrary, she was looking straight into my eyes, and she flashed me a smile every bit as seductive as her hip movements while she passed me and entered the building. Alicia had seen the effect her exhibition had had on me, and she was quite pleased. Understandably, I had trouble concentrating on Spanish lessons that morning. I made a lot of eye contact with Alicia, and she made a lot of eye contact with me. I took in every inch of her, from her cover-girl face down past her powerful hips to her stilettos, and took mental photographs of her that remain vivid with me to this day. Alicia was one heck of a goodwill ambassador for the women of El Salvador. For the rest of the training program, I looked forward to seeing Alicia every morning (as did my fellow male trainees). She was always well dressed, and always wore 4- to 5-inch stilettos. It helped to permanently change the way I see women. I came of age in the U.S. at a time when the ultimate in feminine beauty and sexuality was considered to be an unnaturally thin woman in a bikini. Alicia, in her tight dresses and stilettos, presented an alternative Latin vision of femininity that utilized heels, clothes, posture and body language to enhance their natural beauty. Before I left El Salvador, I saw plenty of other beautiful women, including a few who gave me their own “Salvadoran welcome.” But none could carry it off quite like Alicia, who has remained something of a standard bearer for me down to the present day. Postscript: I realize my description of Alicia and Salvadoran women in general runs at odds with the common (and accurate) perception of El Salvador as a poverty-stricken, underdeveloped country. Indeed, most Salvadorans are trapped in the peasant classes, and life is difficult for them. That was especially true in the late 70s and 80s, when the country was caught up in a violent revolution that cost many people their lives. Even in those difficult circumstances – in fact, because of those difficult circumstances – many working- and middle-class women like Alicia tried every day to look their best and share their femininity and sensuality with others. Some North Americans (especially North American women) looked down on Salvadoran women like Alicia as being shallow and slutty, but I drew the exact opposite conclusion. I always felt their uninhibited expression was their way of producing a touch of badly needed warmth and humanity in a place and time when life otherwise was very harsh and dangerous. You could think of it as a cultural survival mechanism. Salvadorans seemed to appreciate it, and so did I.

Lucy and Laurie have inspired me with their stories and diaries to try some extended writing of my own. I have put together some stories about my own experiences with women who were experts in the art of wearing heels. As a mere admirer of women in heels, I don’t have that many stories to tell, so Lucy will still be posting her wonderful stories long after I have exhausted mine. Obviously, I am writing my stories from a male perspective, but I think I have a pretty good sense of these forums, and I’ve tried to make these stories appealing to female as well as male readers. My first postings describe my experiences living and working in Central America some years ago. I made a number of postings on this subject when I first began visiting Jenny’s forum several years ago, and they seemed to go over pretty well. However, most people now visiting the forums came along later and never saw them. I have also added details and stories that were not in my earlier postings. I describe all the events in these stories as I remember them. I’ve also added some sociological commentary and explanations; these are my own opinions and are always open to challenge. Without them, many of these stories are simply fetish postings, and I think the women I’m profiling deserve better than that. I also have a few interesting experiences in the United States that I can share at a later time if there is interest. I hope you enjoy them.

Please, Candi, don't go yet! You've been very generous with your photos, but now we're all hooked, so I'm really hoping you'll find some more somewhere. Speaking personally, I'm not much into toe cleavage and dangling is OK. My favorite shots of you are the full-body photos, as you have a pleasing figure and lovely hair to go with the great fashions and heels. If you have any more of those, I'd be ever so grateful....

I disagree that the writing field is dominated by men. Look in any library, book store, or listing of best sellers, and you'll find plenty of women authors. It may well be that a large number write from a feminist bent, but that's because the field has a tendency to draw people with a liberal orientation, not because women writers are expected to be feminists. Look at all the female authors who write romances. For that matter, look in any science fiction magazine, and you'll see far more female writers than I ever saw when I was growing up. The most important thing is to practice the kind of writing you want, and if you don't want to write best sellers, that's fine. Just be sure you won't wake up when you're 45, 50 or 60, and lament that you really wanted to write the Great (North) American Novel after all, and you've lost a lot of good productive years that you could have used to produce it. I'm experiencing a little of that now, although I can feel good that at least I've done well in my mainstream, quasi-PR career.

Candi: Thank you for responding to my earlier questions. Seems like you have the concept of "Dress for Success" down pat.

Thanks, PJ. All aspiring writers need to read anecdotes like that every once in a while.

Anna, these are lovely shoes. It makes we wonder if the woman wearing them is as attractive as the shoes and the boots in your other posts. I suspect you are. Could you post some head-to-toe photos of you modeling these shoes? I understand if you don't want to show your face. You can always look away from the camera. Thanks!

And a happy Thanksgiving to you, too, Candi. Wow! We can all give thanks to your husband for taking these wonderful photos and starting a Web site (and to you for posting them here). I've come to the conclusion after seeing enough Web sites that husbands take the best photos. Their "Pride and Joy" really comes through. Regarding the photos of your "other" (4" to 5.5") heels, do you wear any of those to work? I'm sure you take your work seriously and maintain a professional image and good reputation. If you do wear heels like that to work, it's easy to imagine you turning a few heads, and there's nothing wrong with that.