Friday, September 4, 2009

Theirs was a passion that would not be denied...

I’ve decided I’m going to start a new career as a romance novelist. I’ve been trying to find my angle and I figured this whole man-woman lust thing has been done to death. So I’m going to take it a new direction: woman-shoe-lust. It’s fresh, every bit as powerful, and I understand it better. So here’s an excerpt from my manuscript in progress. It’s inspired by a personal experience that I had at Marshall’s last Thursday. No names have been changed because no one is innocent.

Before I ever saw them, I sensed them. Their presence. On an instinctual level, I felt them calling to my very soul. I turned cautiously, slowly, pulling a protective blanket around my psyche before allowing my eyes to settle on this, their unholy beauty.

I stared, ashamed, but unable to tear my gaze away. “Closer” the shoes said. I stood frozen, unusually aware of my breathing. In. And out. “Closer” they whispered again. Softly, but with a steely undertone that was impossible to deny.

“Get your head together, Cynthia”, I thought. It’s just a pair of shoes. I put on an air of casual indifference. Any passing shoppers might assume I had just stopped to browse. But the shoes were not fooled by this thin veneer. They saw the pink flush of my cheeks far too well. I almost believed they would hear the unsteady stutter of my heartbeat as I grazed my fingertips, ever so lightly, along one heel. I released my breath. I hadn’t even been aware I was holding it. The shoes reveled in my trepidation, enjoying their easy power over me.

I have no memory of how we found ourselves suddenly pressed together. One moment we were apart and the next moment I felt the cool, assured caress of my instep. The leather. So smooth. We fit together like we had been made for one another. The moment seemed to stretch endlessly. No movement, no sound. Just the feeling. I gathered my resolve. With more effort than it should possibly require, I made a small movement to pull myself away.

I couldn’t do it. It felt too good. I was weak. And angry at the shoes for making me this way.

“Don’t touch me like that” I told the shoes in a voice that didn’t sound quite like my own.
“Why not?” the shoes chuckled softly, as if my words amused them.
“Because I don’t want you to” I replied angrily.
“Liar” the shoes breathed. And we both knew it was true.

That’s all I have so far.

So the next time you see a woman fondling some shoes in a slightly indecent way with a far-away look in her eyes, you will know what is going on inside her head. ‘Cause this is pretty much it. Now, can someone fill me in on the internal dialogue of men watching golf on TV? Because THAT I totally do not get. It can’t be “Wow, this is so exciting. I’m having such a great time watching this golf game on TV.” No way. It just can’t.