The Low Click of High Heels on Marble Floors

The sound of a woman walking past in a pair of high heels is proof of the existence of God. The scraping of the fabrics covering the inner thighs rivals the very best Motown tunes in driving back beat desire, urgency and familiarity. Scrapes, clicks, and clomps are the head turning hooks for the male of the species.

Gay fashion designers spend a lifetime to help enhance their heterosexual brothers daily grind. A morphine drip for us straight men in the know; we who are tuned into the subtly of the female gait in a pair of 1980’s pumps meant to be worn with Gloria Vanderbilt’s tightest jeans and loose white blouses. And we shouldn’t forget the marketing guru who brought us the resurgence of the mini skirt and thigh high.

So the low clicking sounds of a pair of black fuck me pumps walking on across the marble floor of my bar satisfied me on many levels. I looked up to find these heels attached to a leggy brunette in a black tank top and tight Levi’s; an oddity in the Valley of the Sun where the country’s worship of blondness is taken to new levels or depths, depending on your politics.

I walked over to get her order, watching her stretch her long off to the side. They wouldn’t fit under the table. She looked up from her drink menu, smiled and threw her ponytail over her left shoulder.

“I’d love to do a Sangria,” she said.

So much for the bartender.