Fuck me, shoes

"I don't wear high heels, there's no point because I'm tall."

Captain looked at me as if I'd just demanded to spank him. Confused, surprised and amused.

"That's not the point," he said patiently, "the point is that they look hot."

I have training shoes. He got them for me to wear as his dolly. Now I need to practice with them. They are black, shiny and very high. They come with rules, I must wear them for an hour each day until I get better at them. Although never expressly mentioned I am taking for granted that this hour must be spent on my feet rather than, say, sat in a comfy chair reading a nice book. Today was day one. I'll be attempting infrequent updates as to how I'm getting along with them. First of all, I took some photos. One of the shoes, and one of a shoe next to my current tallest pair of heels, just to give an idea of the difference in scale. To give you more of a mental picture, I usually wear doc martens. Or trainers. I maybe wear high heels once a fortnight, for a couple of hours in a club. I sit down a lot. This is going to be difficult.














I put them on. It's the second time I've worn them and I'd forgotten just how tall they are. I stand up, enjoying my status as the tallest land mammal in a very wide radius. I'm probably around six foot three in these things. Maybe a bit more. I wobble. The tops of my feet hurt as they are compressed. My toes have no space. My shins are distinctly unhappy with the entire situation. The balls of my feet don't sit flat in the front, so I'm walking ever so slightly on tip-toe. I bend my knees instinctively to compensate for being thrust forward, then realise that is probably not the ideal look and try to straighten my legs. I wobble again and clutch the door for support.

I try walking. That is a dismal failure. My normal pace is somewhere between a stride and a forced march - I like to get places quickly. This does not work in these shoes, I keep collapsing on my ankles as my joints clench in terror at the impossibility of maintaining balance on needle-point at speed. I try little steps. That works better but is annoyingly slow and feels rather silly, as if I'm shuffling along. I assume that the goal is to glide serenely like a geisha. Currently I look a bit like Bambi on ice only less endearing. I realise this is going to take some time. I manage a few, experimental little totters from one side of the room to the other.

Everything is taking forever and it's very inconvenient. I can't walk in a straight line, for a start, I keep leaning from one side to the other so I'm moving in a haphazard zig-zag like a crazy drunk. How do people do this when they are actually drunk? Each time I move one leg, I am subconsciously trying not to fall over on the one side, so list towards the other. I am vaguely concerned about giving myself motion sickness. I also keep walking in to things, because I'm six inches above where I think I am, and accidentally-on-purpose leaning against tables for support when I'm stood close to them. I'm too tall to do things properly - I need to bend at the waist a little to slice some bread on the kitchen counter. I realise I'm route planning my way around the house. Moving requires serious concentration. I recall that swinging ones hips is a good way of offsetting the imbalance. This sort of works, but I'm not sure I'm doing it right. I decide to go upstairs to find a full length mirror.

Stairs are a challenge. Getting up them is ok, I've got a rail to hold on to and I walk very slowly. I examine myself in the mirror. I'm still bending my knees. I straighten up. My hips thrust out forward as if there's a chain pulling me by the navel. I tuck them in. My bottom sticks out. As does my chest. I look pretty good, balanced on my points. I imagine how they would look in suspension, or the heels tied together. After some adjustment I can at least stand up (sort of) straight. I try walking again, putting one foot almost in front of the other in teeny-tiny dainty steps, like a tightrope walker. That seems to work, but it is very forced and uncomfortable.

Going down the stairs is much hard. I am in fear for my life. Whilst "death by misadventure" is a hoped-for goal of mine I had wanted it to be much later on and not fully clothed. By this point my shins are really rather painful, as if I'm pressing weight against them. I've got ten minutes to go. I spend this staring at the clock. Willing time to pass. I attempted to pace a little, but that was difficult because I can only move in penguin steps, so pacing doesn't really have the same stress-relieving properties when done like that.

Finally, it's time. I take them off and put my feet flat on the floor, wincing. My soles are tingly with pins and needles. One hour down, goodness knows how many to go.