Breakfast in Stilettos

by Liz Kingswood

  The hostess gestured to the derriere on display. “Shall we have a spanking?”

  The audience responded with hoots and applause. Again, I questioned the literary merit of the event, but not its eroticism. The first smack sent an indecent thrill through me. I’d never been spanked in any serious way. I wasn’t sure that I’d like it—either giving or receiving. The scene was, however, captivating to watch.

  As I made my way across the room, the Hostess gave her volunteer one open-handed whack after another while the crowd chanted out the count. The woman’s backside quickly turned a rosy pink.

  Mom spotted me when we were almost upon them. Kenner was fixated on the spanking scene. I could just imagine the Shakespearean quotations bursting forth like fireworks in his brain.

  Mom waved us over, smiling in that indulgent way she had when she officially disapproved of something but unofficially found it amusing. Kenner finally noticed us, although every few seconds his eyeballs still twitched none-too-discreetly back to the spanking.

  I bypassed the obvious “Why are you here?” question, settling on the more subtle expectant regard.

  She took my cue and launched into an explanation before Kenner, who was obviously composing a response, could speak. She had to yell a bit to be heard. “Sorry to crash your party, Honey, but Lawrence and I thought we’d stop by and see how your story was going. And whether You-Know-Who was with you.” She cast a suspicious look at Joe as if, perhaps, he was Frank in deep disguise.

  “Mom, this is Joe Stratton. He’s been kind enough to help me with my story. Joe, this is my mother, Catherine, and my boss, Lawrence Kenner.”

  “Nice to meet you, Ms. Royce, Mr. Kenner.” Joe shook hands with both of them, smiling pleasantly as though he was meeting them at church instead of at a sex club. He certainly knew how to play up the Mr. Nice Guy role.

  “Oh please, call me Catherine.” Mom looked around at the gathering. “I think I’m underdressed.”

  “The operative word would be ‘overdressed.’ ” Mom had on her extra warm full length green woolen cloak with its big hood. She looked like she had gotten lost on the way to a Celtic fair or a convention for fans of The French Lieutenant’s Woman.

  “How did you two get in?” A quick glance at my watch confirmed that it was well past the gatekeeper’s deadline.

  Kenner responded with his famous “Are you an idiot?” look. “I just showed them my business card, and they let us in for free. Clearly they want some press.”

  He smiled at my mother with a rather goofy look that she returned in kind. I suddenly realized that they were hitting on each other. The world swayed a little.

  Mom tugged on Kenner’s sleeve. “We should go mingle.” She patted me on the shoulder. “Honey, I don’t want to get in the way of your story. Just pretend we’re not here.” She smiled at Joe. “Nice to meet you.”

  Kenner nodded to Joe and gave me a big smile. I knew another quote was coming. “Well, thus we play the fools with the time, and the spirits of the wise sit in the clouds and mock us.”

  My mother laughed and pulled Kenner back into the crowd. The two leaned in close to talk to each other.

  I watched them in stunned silence as they disappeared into a blur of color and movement. “My mother and my boss are together at a sex club. With me.”

  Joe tapped me on the shoulder. “You OK?”

  I shuddered. “I feel like I’ve been emotionally tasered.” I took a couple of deep breaths, trying to grapple with this new reality.

  “Your boss spouts quotations at will?”

  I nodded. “Mostly Shakespeare. I think he’s planning to publish one of those Shakespeare quote-of-the-day calendars. He’s convinced there’s at least one great line for every occasion.

  The spanking session had concluded. The Hostess had her arm around the young woman, who looked flushed and excited. As she left the stage, she proudly held up her skirt to display her well-earned crimson butt cheeks. As a few bystanders attempted to smack the moving target again, she shook her finger at their ill-disciplined behavior. Then she disappeared into the crowd.

  Spanking is an odd phenomenon. In my Web research, I had come across a fellow who had dubbed himself Captain Erotica. He specialized in spanking women. And while this might not seem like a talent that was much in demand, his online profile boasted thousands of female friends who wrote impressive odes to his expertise with a whip and his adoration of women in general. At a yearly alternative culture festival called Burning Man, Captain Erotica manned a booth just for female spanking. Pictures showed long lines of women waiting their turn in the proverbial hot seat. Not only did they endure it, they sought it out and waited in line for it. Perhaps it was something I needed to experience to understand. I looked at Joe. It might be fun. But no. I wasn’t ready to experience my mother appearing mid-whack. No. No. No.

  I noticed we were standing next to Minion Guy, who had resumed his statue-like stance on his plinth. Even though his eyes were covered, I had the sense that he was staring at me. Black Poet guy was still wandering around with his whip, trying to rouse a volunteer. The air seemed a bit too thin. “I need to go outside for a bit. Take a breather.”

  Joe pointed toward the back of the room, opposite the direction that Mom and Kenner had gone. “I understand there is a deck out back. Let’s go check it out.” Joe guided me through the crowd, past rooms mostly devoid of people but lined with an unusual exhibition of paintings. The canvases were large, almost my height, and featured images of naked people in every shape and size in every sort of situation. It was as though the artist had taken shots of normal folks going about their daily routines and then reproduced them sans clothing. There was nothing sexual but something beautiful about these raw depictions of classic run-of-the-mill human beings. I stopped to look at them. These figures, like those in the entryway, were portrayed in rich reds and golds. The oil paint was layered in thick, lazy swirls on the canvas. The artist wasn’t a realist, but there was realism in his work.

  I had read on the website that the owner of the studio was the painter and I had an inkling of what he was trying to achieve with the club.

  Joe was looking at the paintings as well. “Lots of fat people.”

  I laughed. “It is representative. There are lots of fat people. I mean, isn’t one in three Americans overweight?”

  Joe nodded, thoughtful. “I guess I’m just not an artist.” He turned and headed toward the back door.

  I felt a bit disappointed. Frank would have railed on about art and its message.

  Frank and I might have had an argument, but that was better than indifference. Once again I wondered where he had gone. Perhaps he was out on the deck. I followed Joe out the door and into the brisk night air. Any alcohol that might have been in my system evaporated in a gust of cold sobriety. I wanted my leather jacket back. Hugging myself, I found that the deck featured a couple of restaurant heaters. A few brave souls were huddled near them for warmth.

  A quick glance around confirmed that no mother, boss, or Minion Guy was present, and that nobody was being teased, tied up or spanked. I felt relieved. I also felt annoyed that Frank was still making himself scarce.

  Joe brought out his flask. “Want a nip?”

  I took a swig, feeling the heat course down my throat. “We look suspiciously like winos.”

  “Ah yes, but very good-looking winos.” He took another swig and offered it back to me.

  “No thanks.”

  “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.

  Chapter 27: If the Shoe Fits

  “OK, 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 he 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 what 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 every 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.