Breakfast in Stilettos (20 page)

“Okey-dokey.” He recapped the flask and stuck it back in his pocket. “Feeling any better?”

I shrugged and then nodded. “Yah, I suppose so. It all gets a bit overwhelming.”

“You should try a hardcore bondage and dominance event sometime. That’ll curl your whiskers.” He shuddered, and I wasn’t sure if it was from the cold or some remembered experience.

“I take it that isn’t your thing.”

“Nope. I’m pretty tame.”

He was quiet for a bit and I wondered if he’d volunteer his “thing.” When nothing was said, I took a chance and prodded. “Well? You gonna tell me?” My teeth chattered a little.

He let out a soft chuckle. “Oh, all right. But let’s find someplace warmer.”

He led me to an area of the deck that was better sheltered from the stiff breeze and had a heater next to a couple of white plastic chairs. I took a seat and found that it was passably warm under the orange glow of the deck heater. The distant stars seemed to huddle a little closer, as though they were just curious as I was.

Joe sat down in the other chair with the sober look of one on his way to a funeral—or imagining his own.

“O
K
, you have warmth and
are
an attentive listener.”

“
Fine. But just FYI.
My name
stays off the record, Ms. Reporter.”

I nodded and then sat waiting.

Finally h
e groaned a little
, as if releasing some tension
. “
You know, I’ve always struggled to find just the right time to tell a woman my little secret.” He hugged himself, as if suddenly chilled. “You’d think after fifteen years of this, I’d have figured out the best way. Too soon and she just walks away, saying, ‘Freak!’ Too late and she’s pissed because she didn’t know sooner. Freak or asshole. It’s a fine line.”

He stared down at his hands, nervously twirling the thin gold ring on his right hand.

“Hello.” I tapped him on the head. “We’re at a sex club. No better time than the present.” I gave him my best perky smile.

I felt bad for the guy. But then I remembered my “tie up the dolls” comment to Pixie and realized how hard it must be—hell, how hard it
was
—
to tell people about your sexual predilections. I clearly wasn’t alone.

Remembering my initial assumptions about Sensitive Guy, I figured I should cut him off at the pass. “Before you say anything, how about if I guess.” I told him about my brief stint as an online dominatrix servicing the shoe fetish guy. “Are you
that
Sensitive Guy?”

He looked up, with an almost-smile on his face.
“
Oh, I wish. But no
, that wasn’t me
.
However, well, I
could
be, if you know what I mean.
”

I let his admission hang in the air and pondered how to respond tactfully, but my curiosity got the better of me.
“
So w
hat does that feel like? Are you really turned on by shoes?”

For the first time, he actually laughed. “Actually, yes I am Emily.
Shoes. Boots. Pretty much ever
y
sort of footwear.
In fact, let me show you. Ready?”

I nodded.

He pulled out his phone. “Over the years I’ve created scrapbooks of images from department store catalogs and magazines to fill the gap between my desire and its limited actualization in my dating life. I warn you ahead of time that people invariably look at them and say, “You think this is sexy?”

I took his phone—an iPhone with a mundane standard black case—and flipped it horizontal and vertical to page through his images. Sure enough, they were straight out of Sears.
Sears
, as in seriously boring. I did indeed wonder what was exciting about them, and I wasn’t exactly sure how to ask.

“I was thinking, you know, about this fetish. You said earlier that it keeps you from having relationships. How important is that? A woman wears boots or no relationship?”

I could almost read the expression on his face of “Well, of course.” But he didn’t say it. Instead he went for camouflage. “Oh nothing so cut and dried as that.” He thought for a moment and then shifted in his chair. “Let me put it this way. Say you’re a chocolate lover. What if the doctor told you that you couldn’t have chocolate anymore?”

“Well, I wouldn’t be happy about it. However, if I knew it wasn’t good for me, I guess I’d find a substitute.”

“You’d miss chocolate though, right?”

“Sure. I’d miss it.” How did anyone live without chocolate?

“Same for me and boots. And besides, footwear isn’t bad for my health.” He chuckled.

I wasn’t so sure. “I’d certainly classify lack of satisfying sex as a health hazard.”

Joe pantomimed being kicked in the ribs. “Ow.”

I felt as though I’d sliced a little happiness off the moment. “I’m sorry. That didn’t come out the right way. I guess I don’t really understand. You were married before, right? To Maire.”

He nodded. “Ten years.” He held his ten fingers just over his head. “She’s just a bitty thing with a big controlling attitude. In the beginning, she even enjoyed bossing me around while wearing these thigh-high leather boots I bought her. But they weren’t her thing. After a while, she lost her enthusiasm.” His forced smile was slipping.

“That must have been hard.”

He shook his head slowly. “I could’ve lived with her lack of enthusiasm, because at least that was something.”

“How about after Maire? What did you do then?” I edged closer to the heater, noticing that the Minion had slunk out of the club and was scanning the groups of people outside. His gaze rested on me for a moment and then he found the closest heater to the door and took up his now familiar statuesque position.

Joe was quiet for a moment and then continued, “Well, the Internet was a pretty nice resource for awhile.”

I smiled, mostly for him. “So, the Internet. Sexyboots.com?”

“Actually no. I’ve been there—not sexy, no boots. Weird, eh? But chat rooms and websites abound for every personal whim. It’s amazing how many people are out there.”

“Lots of boot lovers?”

“Well, lots of
guy
boot lovers. Not so many women boot wearers. Most of them have discovered that men will pay to realize a fantasy.”

“A shoe professional? Hmmm. Does it pay well?” I thought of the scarlet stilettos lounging in the back of the Jeep.

His smile faded. “Really well.” The words came out hard and blunt, like a boot toe to the shins.

“That sounded ominous. I don’t think I want to know the details.”

“Yeah. Probably not.” He looked relieved to be spared. I suspected that the details were ugly and humiliating. “Frankly, some guys don’t mind paying, but I found no thrill in it. It isn’t the money. There’s just something inherently missing in the transaction, like a pay-per-view sacrament.”

I shook my head. “And me, well, I go to Baskin-Robbins and order vanilla. They always had that. Well, not anymore. They retired vanilla. What’s that about? Maybe the world
is
changing.” Vanilla was no longer good enough for Frank either, whatever his fetish was. Suddenly I wanted some fetish answers. “
OK
. So how did you acquire your fetish? Or when did you learn you had one? I’m not sure what the right question is here.”

“Some men stare at breasts, or eyes, or butts. I stare at shoes. Tonight I’ve seen a kaleidoscope of fantasy images—wedges, mules, mary janes, loafers, slings, pumps and even a pair of flamingo pink thongs. I know them all. Maire once blurted out that I should have been a shoe salesman. ‘Just think,’ she sneered, ‘all that knowledge would have been useful for once.’ ”

“Two points, Maire.” I made the universal symbol for a basketball shot.

His gaze followed a woman wearing ankle boots. The top of her boots winked periodically from under her pants leg. Did the sight turn him on?

Then a tall pair of go-go boots walked by. Retro fashion.

“Click. Click. Click.” He made the sound while staring at the go-go boots.

His gaze seemed to turn inward. “Can I tell you a story?”

I nodded, but he didn’t even look at me. He just started talking.

“It was eighth grade and a Doors song scratched loudly on my little forty-five record player. Mom had walked in on my friends and me to tell us something—I don’t remember what—but she had on a miniskirt and go-go boots. Like those.” He pointed after the woman.
“
My friends’ eyes had almost bugged out of their heads.
”

“ ‘Wow, that’s your mom?’ The group of them had all added some version of those words as soon as she’d left the room. And she was.
Hot
, I mean. Nobody had a mom as hot as mine.

“ ‘Just the two of us against the world,’ she would say. ‘The Lone Ranger and Tonto.’ And it was true. Dad had died when I was really young, and I can’t really remember him. She was all I had. All I needed. Then, when I was fourteen, she died in a car crash. She went to work one day; I never saw her again.”

He was quiet for a bit. His lips twisted and I wondered if he would stop. But then he sucked in a short breath and continued.

“After the funeral I stayed home. Everyone else went to Grandma’s house to help her pack, since she was going to move in to take care of me. And sure, Grandma was nice, but she wouldn’t sing crazy songs with me like mom. Or help me with trig. Or whip my butt in a late-night round of billiards.

“I remember just sitting there on Mom’s bed, with that hard-packed pit in my stomach. I tried to cry, but nothing would come. Then I saw Mom’s boots lying there in the corner. I picked them up, hugged them to my chest, clinging to a part of her. I desperately wanted some connection to make me feel
OK
.

“Truth is, those boots burned a mark on my heart that day. And every woman since has had to contend with that scar.”

Joe twisted around to watch the receding back of the woman wearing his mother’s iconic boots. He had finished his story and there was no doubt of the effect those boots had on him.

“Joe?” I waited for a response, but his attention was riveted on the woman as she disappeared back into
the Salon
.

Just when I thought he was irretrievable, he came back to full consciousness.

I scooted toward him, putting a hand on his knee. “Are you all right? You look sort of ... sad.”

“Oh, I was wallowing. This conversation has tapped into things that I haven’t thought about for a long time.” He tugged at his collar and gave me his best Rodney Dangerfield face. He was too handsome to really carry it off.

“You really loved your mother, didn’t you?” I didn’t wait for his response. “You know, I think you’d have better luck if you didn’t start the conversation with the word ‘fetish.’ I think most women would understand. Besides, a lot of them are into shoes.”

“You are probably right. However, most women’s version of loving shoes isn’t quite the same thing. And that difference does matter. Like you for instance. What’s your take on sexy shoes?”

I thought about the box in the car. I had such an issue with sexy shoes that I couldn’t even wear them in public. I took a deep breath. “Well, I bought a pair of scarlet stilettos to wear tonight and they are still boxed, quite safely, in the back of my Jeep.”

His eyes got bigger. “Really?” He drew out the word. “You have something like
that
and you wore
those
?” He pointed to my pedestrian heels. “Emily, I’m ashamed of you.”

I was about to argue, but he silenced me with a gesture. “We
have
to go get them. And then you
have
to wear them.” He offered his hand and I reluctantly let him pull me up. I was stuck now. It was as if I had just told a hungry child that I had an ice cream truck parked out back. “Come on, lead the way.”

I had a fleeting doubt about the wisdom of walking with a stranger in the dark to my car, but that passed quickly enough. Sensitive Guy seemed harmless and at the same time capable of at least moral support if we did get mugged.

Since we were already outside, we just crossed the patio, passing a few couples and threesomes who had braved the chill to either smoke or just talk without interrupting the inside activities. I noticed that the Minion was still standing by one of the heaters, a statue covered in poinsettias, not far from where we had been sitting. He had to be freezing. I had a strange sensation that he was looking at me intently. What made him stand there for so long and at odd places? Was he living out some punishment from his Dominatrix?