The Second Sister: Maria

[Stu]

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

[Stu]

The Second Sister: Maria

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Does your sister work here?” I asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I think I am ready for an adventure.”

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

*** *** ***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*** ***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I never thought of it that way.”

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

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

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

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

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

[Stu]

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

[Stu]

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

[Stu]

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