29
Jan
08

The All Night Thigh-High Offensive

This is a tale of a somewhat misguided, hopefully charming young teenager, my not so former former self – and her discovery of the infamous man-killing thigh high boot!

Ever felt completely naked while fully dressed walking around in public? Slap on a pair of skin tight thigh highs outside of any kind of fashion forward environment and you will! If ever there was a pair of shoes that were the pure embodiment of hot and bothered, can’t control myself, lusty, sweaty, tractor-beam powered sexuality, these are them! But of course, at the age of 19, I didn’t entirely understand the implications of that….

It was sometime in September. I had recently discovered my legs (late bloomer) and suspected that a pair of black zip-up 3 inch heeled thigh highs might look good with my new outfit. I was aiming for chic, classic Italian man-eater (a la La Dolce Vita). And to be fair, I knew somewhere in my head that they might elicit comparisons to Julia Roberts’ brand of hooker heels. But knowing myself to be demure, I felt there was no question that my personality and look alone could tone them down-scale. So I put my hair up and got ready to sashay on downtown to see my buddy’s band play at a local dive.

I get to the club and the first thing that happens is a solicitation (of course). And he’s not looking at my face, but my boots as he says it. It’s not the usual ‘Hey baby, do you believe in love at first sight’ kind of line. It was a full on verbal sexual assault that left me blushing head to toe (I can’t say, don’t ask) and hiding in the bathroom. To make matters worse, I got the date wrong, and none of my friends were there. I resurface 10 min later and this guy is still out there. I keep saying no thanks, but he follows me around for the next 20 minutes, and I’m getting freaked out. Now he won’t leave me alone, saying that if his advances aren’t enough, his absent partner who would be arriving shortly would definitely ‘want in’ too (you don’t want to know). By the end of that line, I’m out the door, running down the street, screaming for a taxi. Panicking, I’m trying desperately to call someone, hoping I’ve lost him. Waiting there by the road, dialling numbers, I get a tap on the shoulder, and it’s him. I jump cuz I’m 2 blocks away and where the hell did he come from? I’m telling him to leave me alone and dialling away, then all of a sudden a drunken teenager appears from around the corner and I’m thinking – oh boy, here we go. He spots my boots, and now he’s staggering on towards us to join in.

The new guy asks me out, I say that he’ll have to get this other guy to leave me alone first and then ‘sure, I’ll consider it’ – and they start to fight, when finally a cab arrives! They’re so busy fighting, that I get in unnoticed. The driver turns around, peeps my boots and is about to make a comment – but just then I slam myself down in the seat, peel those damn boots off, pull the door closed, and tell him to just drive.

So on the way home I think to myself that this was a lesson and I should learn something from it. Something about womanhood and men and clothes and how they all work together… and I did! But a week later, I’m walking those man-killers out the door to double check.

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