Is Four Inches Enough?

Four inches? Is that really enough to satisfy you? I've heard five is good, but for those a bit more selective, it's possible to get eight inches or even nine, if you're really so inclined...

Oh, wait...I'm talking about high heels. What did you think I was talking about?

But I'm not just talking about high heels. We're also talking about smooth flats in creamy colors. Platforms. Barely-there strappy sandals. Open-toed, no-nonsense pumps. No matter what the sexy shoe, you can bet there is a woman out there who wants it.

Me? Boots, baby. Boots.

My closet revels in boot ecstasy. I’ve got little fur-lined numbers with silver buckles. Flat-soled boots that rise only to the ankle. Regular old cowboy boots (my grandpa used to call those "shit-kickers" – hey, we lived on a farm, it was an apt phrase!). But my absolute favorite of all the favorites I could possibly have: Soft, black, thigh-high leather boots with a four-inch heel.

There’s something about those boots. Maybe it’s that tiny yet decisive click every time I put my heel down on the ground. Maybe it’s the fact that they make me almost five inches taller, which puts me at eye-level with most guys. Maybe it’s the way they cradle my ankles, or the way they make my legs feel strong, or how I have to pay attention to the way my body moves when I’m in them. Four inches of sudden height can throw you off balance, but with a ton of practice, those four inches can make you graceful.

I love leather that slips all the way up my leg, teases around my knee, and stops at an almost indiscrete place, high up on my thigh. I love the way those clicks announce my presence, like a whisper of invitation to any man who might be within earshot. I love wearing them with a longish skirt and watching others wonder – just how far up her leg do those naughty boots go?

I love the way they make my legs look miles long, make me stand up straighter, make my breasts and my ass look like they are so much more than they really are. I love the way they draw knowing glances from other women, and sometimes commiserating smiles. Work it, honey, they seem to say with that friendly wink. Work it hard.

Most of all, I love the way those boots make me feel: Slip them on, and I’m seductive hell on heels.

But that’s just the beginning. There’s so much more in my shoe closet of sinful delight. Those strappy sandals with the little gemstones in the middle...they are the perfect excuse for a good pedicure. That other pair wraps around my ankle, caressing me as I walk. Those white business pumps have a low heel but I can move at a faster pace, feeling sexy and efficient all at once.

A pair of good quality stockings feel sensual when paired with the those red heels. Wear them with a nice set of black stockings and all night long, I’m thinking about the way the fabric slips against the leather, the way it whispers on my skin. Perhaps I slip my foot out of them for a moment when I sit down, just to slip it slowly back in, to feel the curve of the shoe rise up to meet the arch of my foot. Perhaps I play with the strap, curling it around my toe, moving it around, until finally finding the proper fit and sliding it back home again.

It’s like sex with leather.

The moment when I step out of heels is a heady one, too. To free my foot from the confines of that heel, to feel the sudden drop in my height, to rest my toes on a texture so different from the shoe they were just cradled in, it’s all a bevy of sensation. My favorite private pleasure is to venture to the park, slip off my heels, and step onto crisp, green grass. Then I pick them up in my hand and let them dangle by a little strap as I take a walk. Sometimes the idea of putting them back on is as pleasurable as the walk.

Speaking of pleasure – you knew I had to get around to mentioning it, didn’t you? – there is the added bonus of knowing how crazy those heels can make a man. I wear them into the bedroom and watch him get all riled up while I’m still across the room. Want to see the biggest payoff of those stilettos? Slip your legs around him while he’s on top, press those heels ever-so-gently into his thrusting hips, and watch what happens. It’s enough to make me want to buy a dozen pair and then a dozen more.

Which brings me to the best part of all this: One pair is never enough. There are so many shoes out there, so many stores willing to let me try them on, so many I need to bring home! I can have shoes in every color, one pair to match every outfit – okay, maybe two pair per outfit. You never know what kind of mood I might be in that day, so it’s best to have a variety of choices, right?

What do you think? What’s your choice of the day?

You Can Leave Your Hat On

I am rebellious by nature. I learn about an anthology collection, and rather than dive into the stated theme, I try my best only to dip in my pinkie toe. Or to barely brush my lips across it. Sometimes this works. Sometimes I flame out.

But Sex & Fashion, I chose myself. And yet, as soon as I began to consider the topic, my mind strayed from dressing up to stripping down. (This is a theme close to my heart, as well. Check out my collection: Naked Erotica.)

Here is my dilemma: I love getting dolled up. My closet brims with dresses and blouses and boots and heels. My underwear drawer is an explosion of color, lace, silks, and satin. I remember what I wore on all sorts of important days and dates. Copper-colored panties on a first date with a movie star. Gold mini dress and white fringed go-go boots when I worked in casting. My “magic dress” — tight and black, with sterling buttons down the front, on many, many occasions. (Tacky now. Sexy then.) I contemplate my clothes the way a costume designer would, choosing my outfits with extreme care.

Oh, Cinderella
They aren’t sluts like you
Beautiful garbage beautiful dresses
—Courtney Love

On my very first date, when I was 12, I wore a turquoise t-shirt, pegged jeans, and my father’s forest green flannel overshirt. My eyeliner matched the tee- and I had on candy-colored lipgloss that tasted as good as it looked.

When I met Brock four years later, I was in jeans and an oversized football jacket covered with rhinestone pins. I’d purchased the jacket at a thrift store in the Haight (Aaardvark’s Odd Ark, to be precise) for $7.00. Completing the outfit, I wore a man’s navy ring on a watch-fob chain around my neck, and a thin blue bowling shirt with the name Dominic embroidered over the pocket. I had on three different silver ID bracelets (Tom, Dick, and Harry) and so much purple eye makeup my dad said I looked like a raccoon.

Just like fashion it's a passion for the with it and hip...
—Smash Mouth

But I’m with a man now who can’t wait to get my clothes off me. The fancier my attire, the quicker his libido rises. Am I off to meet an important editor, dressed to the nines in some spiffy suit? Perfect. He’s going to take me down a notch first, make me all rumpled with a quick, pre-meeting fuck, so that my makeup is smeared and my shirt is wrinkled, and I have the taste of cock on my lips.

A night out with the girls? Wearing my favorite shimmery frock and bright blue fishnet stockings? Lovely. Just let him rip a hole down the side of the hose, so that they ladder further and further throughout the evening, creating that trashy slut look he’s after.

Fashion – Turn to the left
Fashion - Turn to the right
—Bowie

So that’s sex and fashion in our twisted world…. I become fashionable. He wants to have sex.

But Sam’s not the first who fully confounded my sense of style. Kelly, he of the midnight shift at the grocery store. He of the barren cave apartment with no books. He...well, he didn’t have use for me in the slightest when I showed up in my best dress-for-success outfits: crisp white blouses, pencil skirts, high stacked heels. Trying to look older than 18 to impress the writers on the newspaper where I worked. It wasn’t until I came in at a quarter to midnight, in cut-offs and a tight t-shirt, fully drenched in sky blue paint that he took notice.

I needed to be demolished, before he could see me. Really see me.

I'm too sexy for my shirt
Too sexy for my shirt
So sexy it hurts
—Right Said Fred

I had to be slightly mussed around the edges before he wanted to fuck me. If I was clean, he made me dirty. If I started out dirty, he made me filthier still.

I wish she'd take off all her clothes
No Doubt

Throughout the years, only one of my men was truly interested in fashion—consumed with putting on my clothes as opposed to taking them off. Hunter was my editor on the newspaper, my Pygmalion. He changed my entire sense of style, turning me from goth girl to girl Friday. He was why I had those pencil skirts and white blouses, why I wore my hair the way I did, wore my make-up in the style of his choosing. He is featured in "Edit Me,” and there are certain items in my wardrobe that I can’t wear without getting wet from memories of him. Of the way he’d tilt his head and take in my whole look, before making some minor persnickety adjustment. It was as important to him what went on my body as what he ultimately took off.

I want a girl with a short skirt,
And a long, long jacket
—Cake

Sex and fashion, is the theme I pitched.
Sex and fashion, is the topic I chose.
When all along, what I really wanted to talk about was undressing and standing naked, once more, before you.

Baby, take off your dress.
Yes, yes, yes.
—Randy Newman

XXX,
Alison

P.S. Now you…your most delicious outfit. Your most decadent example of how you put it on, or how you took it off. We’re giving away a copy of Naked Erotica to one lucky poser… I mean poster.

P.P.S. When I lived in L.A., I had a shirt that said something like: It doesn’t matter who you are, it’s what you wear, because when it all comes down to it, nobody cares who you are…. I wore that shirt until it fucking distinegrated.

Note: The picture above is "Bis" by Pamela Hanson and is available here.