Heels in California

[Stu]

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.

[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.

[Stu]

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.

[Stu]

(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.

[Stu]

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.

[genebujold]

Dude! You're there! The only difference between shy people and their more outspoken peers is the outspokenness. There is no difference in intelligence, experience, or ability to get the job done.

[Stu]

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

[Stu]

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.

[Stu]

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.

[JeffM]

Stu said

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.

and I say ditto, ditto and ditto

Jeff