Not far from where I live in Milan is a shoeshop. Well, that’s hardly unique but what is is the range of the footwear they have. They don't sell fetish footwear, but they do have a windowful of sex objects that you can take out into the light of day. Really, erotica for your feet. For the variety of material, finish, idiosyncrasy, curvature, poise and sheer obssessive delight, there’s nothing like it in the city. Perhaps one might write some stories around what they have in the window?
Tuesday, 3 July 2007
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It has always been my belief that shoes choose the people they desire to feel inside them, the feet they want to caress, the toes they wish to embrace. Is that why the shelves in shoe shops only go up to waist height; so that the delicious confections can watch intently for a fetchingly befooted ankle to enter their domain?
Imagine: casting your eye over a shelf of shoes, you pause, eyes drawn to a particularly patent perfection. Is that shoe shinier than the rest? You reach, you touch, you lift...you salivate. The seductively spiked heel presses against the pulse point of your wrist as you turn the leather toward the light, catching your breath at the merest suggestion of a tongue lying salaciously along the sole of the peep-toe. You distractedly bend to slip the shoe onto your foot, the meeting of flesh and leather almost magnetic in its attraction. Your ears pick up the faint sound of a satisfied sigh. Was that you? Or the shoe?
Felicity, aren’t a good pair of shoes nearly comestible? Don’t you just want to put them in your mouth? Of course you do, it’s the only rational response, isn't it? Seriously, one the recurring delights of my life is the moment when I’m being laced into a pair of shoes for the first time and I feel the new leather slowly drawn down over my foot. Delicious.
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