The young woman across from me on the subway (a.k.a.: “public living room”) with long red hair and green, green eyes, takes off her new brown leather ankle boots that have an unwieldy inch of heel, revealing sweet white socks with red, green, purple argyles on them, takes out her flat black, almost balletic pumps, takes off the socks (no smell), and puts on the flats; and it’s the most subtly erotic thing. Before our culture of total revelation came along, the foot was celebrated as erotic.
Whoops! Don’t want to get into the whiffy terrain of Chinese foot-binding, or my latent foot fetish, but, really, as autumn gets slightly chill, women are breaking out the boots; or buying new ones with abandon, strutting out in heeled boots, motorcycle boots with a buckle and a ridged rubber sole, or, my fave, cowboy boots worn with a mini and black leggings, or a dress.
Someone I know wears boots with such confidence and sexiness that, when I see her, my heart is both melted and inflamed with an inner smile that has humour, affection and eros, all at once, mixed in with a little sadness for good measure. I sometimes think of her when I see women in boots, and know she would strut it even more than almost all of them. And, the ones who might gain in the cold techniques of the runway would lose to her when it comes to sheer panache and heart, lose by a double length.