Category Archives: Guest Shoes

Everything I Know About Shoes, I Learned From My Father

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Guest Post by Don Macgregor*

Two Sundays ago, on the occasion of Father’s day, I had an opportunity to reflect on my own father and a rather unique subject about which he offered some sage advice (and hence this blog post here): shoes. Not just any shoes, but bike shoes.

As some background, I will offer that I am a competitive cyclist, as was my father before me. My dad provided me with a great breadth of knowledge regarding the sport of cycling, some of the best of which related to shoes.

When I started in the sport, bike shoes were plain, black, and utilitarian. They had simple black uppers, occasionally adorned with a small logo or perforated to allow air flow, and plain leather soles with a small heel. The cleats (small metal mechanical devices designed to keep the shoe on the bicycle pedal) were still, in some instances, actually nailed to the soles using cobbler’s nails and a metal shoe last (sort of like a shoe anvil). While these aren’t my shoes, I had a pair exactly like these.

My dad taught me about how the shoe should fit snugly yet allow for freedom of movement, the importance of sizing to insure pain free riding, and the proper socks to wear while riding. As with other aspects of life, my dad always placed high importance on appearance. Looks always counted and clothing and equipment were no exception. Unfortunately, you can’t do too much with plain black shoes that haven’t changed significantly in design or style in nearly half a century

The man-shoe fetish would remain dormant, at least for his generation.
Now, flash-forward 30 years to the present and you find yourself in today’s high-tech world of carbon fiber, plastics and composites (and infinite color combinations and patterns). The variety and selection is mind-numbing. Unlike my dad’s generation, I have almost limitless choices when it comes to satisfying my inherited need to look good on the bike.
My current shoes are a reflection of this. As with the old shoes they are Italian but with a decidedly 21st century flair. Beyond that, there’s no comparison. I’d tell you they’re sexy, but I already mentioned they’re Italian so that would be redundant. They’re also anything but black and dreary.

They’re also not cheap: at US$500, they’d give a pair of Louboutins a run for their money, except these are destined for a life of sweat, grime, scuffing and grinding (and the soles don’t even come in ANY shade of red). I’ll get maybe two seasons of racing out of them, but I won’t complain because then I get to buy a new pair. They aren’t even real leather anymore: the soles are carbon fiber and the uppers are made of a material called “Vernice” (Italian for “real expensive pleather”).

What they are, though, is the essence of speed: they look fast standing still. They demand a pair of smooth, tanned and oiled legs and an immaculate, snow-white pair of socks. They give the wearer the authority to address any situation with a dismissive yet effortless and authoritative “ciao”. They say “Yes, I could ride cheaper shoes, but how do you place a value on looking good and looking fast?”

From plain black and dreary to high-tech, colorful and incredibly sexy, bike shoes have come a long way. Unlike so many other things in our society, time, technology and progress got this one right.

Dad would be pleased.
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*About Don Macgregor:  Product of Scotland circa 1964 but has lived, worked and cycled mostly in Southern California since not long after. Don can be found occasionally on Twitter when he is not on his bike or elsewhere.

SHOES: A TOTES HEAVY PHILOS

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A guest post by @hazelblackberry

“It used to go like that; now it goes like this.” – Bob Dylan, 1966

The first time I started this post, I started it a completely different way. I changed my mind. It’s a shame because I developed this hilarious motif of me as a blossoming flower which then got linked to a Triffid. Haha! Oh.

Anyway, this is how I’m starting it now:

“…I am not all that fussed about shoes. This is because I cannot walk in high heels and don’t understand how anyone can; thus I don’t understand the fetishisation of them.” – Hadley Freeman, The Guardian, Monday 16 April 2012

First of all, if you don’t know Hadley, go straight to The Guardian’s website and read her entire back catalogue of Ask Hadley because she is like, totally brilliant, and then come back here.

Go on. Off with you.

<waits>

<waits>

<waits>

Well if I’d known you were such slow readers…

While I adore and revere Hadley, and slavishly adopt her every throwaway comment as my mantra, this statement of hers leaves me cold. Like Hadley, I have never learnt to walk in high heels and I marvel at how anyone can. (Though if you want some good advice on getting there, check the guest post by the marvellous @shrydar on this blog for some hot tips.) My highest heels are about a towering two inches and whenever I wear them I feel like a galumphing fool. Still, I wear them because I get so many compliments.

And, really, this is where, unlike Hadley, I am fussed about shoes. People notice them. They’re not an adjunct to an outfit, they’re an integral part of the infrastructure, binding one’s look together into a stable edifice. When someone compliments me on my shoes, it’s as rewarding as being complimented on my jewellery or clothing – I feel that someone else, even for a moment has noticed and appreciated my style, my individuality and my flair. Okay, so they glanced down, said “nice shoes” and walked on – I can infer from that what I damn well like, okay?? And no, you can never – never – conclude that I ran after them, breathless, panting, wondering if they’d like to catch up with stylish, wonderful moi for a discreet cocktail or two at a suitable time and date in the not too distant future oh you’re married, oh, oh my god, haha, I totally mistook you for someone else!

So shoes matter. As the eye sweeps over us, we tell a story to the world and a memorable ending is just as important as a captivating or arresting (excuse me, Mr Officer) beginning. In much the same way as some songs peter out as though the band either did not know how to end it, or couldn’t be bothered – I’m particularly looking at you, Custard – so an unsuitable or thoughtlessly applied shoe will cause an otherwise carefully contrived look to…to…not quite happen.

And, yes, I did say “contrived” look. What’s wrong with contrivances? Whether it’s casual off-the-beaten-track traveller girl or sporty chick or dynamo office profesh, every day we’re presenting ourselves in the way we want to be seen. Even the “I don’t care” pair of sloppy tracky daks accessorised with greasy hair plainly says I don’t care, especially if paired with bare feet or old thongs. Sloppy tracky daks, greasy hair and some sparkly high heels, however, screeches “either mentally deficient or deranged and possibly armed”. You see?

The other, implicit part of Hadley’s statement, with which I also do not agree, is the idea that to care about shoes, shoes must be fancy. No, I say, nooo. A thousand times no. I said it a thousand times. I didn’t type it. The plainest shoe can still be stylish or pretty or, quite simply, apt.

Can I just chuck in here –  not acksh a q as I’m going to go ahead and chuck it in – that just as important as the way we want the world to see us, is the way we want to see us. Whenever we’re assembling clothes, shoes and whatever accessories for an external view, we’re also reconfirming to ourselves that yes, this is who I am.

(We’ll avoid the heavy philos of pretending to be something you’re not.)

The thing is this: who I am, who you are, changes according to when it is, where we are, who we’re with, how we feel. It’s not inauthentic or any of that crap; it’s thoughtful and good judgement. It recognises that, like a dazzling stone cut by a master gemcutter, we have many facets. Yes? Yes. So glad you’re with me.

Logical conclusion: many non-Sybil-like personalities require many non-Sybil-like shoes. Unless, of course, Sybil had a fahbulous, darling array of hoofwear, then we might be able to consider a closer alliance. But I’m getting off the point. What I wanted to say was this: many aspects to me, many many many shoes to capture that. And, uh, the odd item of clothing to go with it.

So, what kind of shoes do I have? I’ve got flats in many colours (none made by my mama), I’ve got knee high boots, flat riding boots, strappy sandals, thongs, sneakers, comfy hiking boots, Birkenstocks,  ballet flats, patent leather, orange, teal and red shoes, even the dreaded Mary Jane’s – because I think they’re cute.

And what do my shoes say about me? That I can be sporty, outdoorsy, fun, practical, sensible, a bit elegant, sassy, very confident, naughty and niiiice. (And that I may be trying to hang on to my childhood a little longer than strictly necessary.)

And just who do I think I am? I reckon I’m all of the above, at one time or another. And, what’s more, no matter who I am, I’m pretty bloody terrific.

(Good thing Pete Townshend wrote ‘Who Are You?’ long before this ever saw the light of day. He’d be all, like, “Whoah, total lyrical rethink required here.”)

And on that note: what’s on the floor of your cupboard?

Who the fuck are you?

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About Hazelblackberry

She has even more shoes than me or at least buys as many.

Shoes do not maketh the woman but they sure as hell give her a strut.

Walk on girl and shake that tail bone!

 

How much agapanthus is too much?

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 As part of my recent job search I found myself looking for any job opportunity to make money.

Delivering leaflets to letterboxes? Yep – I applied for that. Twice. No takers.

Answering the telephone in adult establishments? Yep. I saw it as a good background for my #DirtyThursday tweets. The adult establishment liked my telephone manner and my charisma. My law degree  and law  firm experience put them off though.

We never even approached my shoe obsession. I am glad. i would only have felt dirty in the light of rejection.

Shoe Save 90 0f 105 - Black Suede Stiletto Thigh Boots

Posing as a Role Playing Consumer for Mystery shopper Opportunities?  Hell yeah. The only thing more fun that actual bona fide shopping is being paid for shopping.

Since I am easily distracted I love having Mystery Shopper opportunities delivered to me daily. My hope is that someone somewhere would like me to go buy chocolate covered pecans and taste test them in the shop. Or trying on stilettos shoes and blogging about them. That kind of thing.

To date I have been bitterly disappointed. Most of the Mystery Shopper opps have involved phoning up and making a booking to various clubs, pubs and other establishments of the less  florists throughout Sydney this week florists will be inundated with people asking: “My wife really loves agapanthus, when are they available? Oh and could you tell me what colours they come in“.

You cannot let on that you are a mystery shopper and have to act all disingenuous in the off chance that you are rumbled as a potential floral spy.

I think that it would be fun to pop and ask agapanthus questions in a improv role play sort of way while trying to keep a straight face.

There is only one down side to this plan.

Any agapanthus in the house is too much agapanthus.

It is too blue.

Amanda Starr Floral Heels with Red Leather Roses - Shoe Save 91 of 105

I much prefer red and pink.

And donated…

Shoe Save 92 of 105 – Sachi pumps via Alicia McCosker

A bit more Info about the Silver and Pink Stiletto Sandals above from the donor – Alicia McCosker:

You always knew she was coming down the hallway by the jingle jangling of her jewellery (she likes a bit of bling).

Now, one of her spare bedrooms is her “dressing room” – a whole bedroom filled with clothes (on racks) and shoes.

“My mum is Hungarian and came to Australia as an 8 year old. Her father, my grandfather was a tailor and worked for Anthony Squires suits when he first came to Australia. She’s an only child. My grandfather and my grandmother made most of her clothes (tailored), my grandfather made the wedding party outfits for my parent’s wedding – bridal gown, bridesmaid dresses, suits for the groom and groomsmen. Unlike most brides at the time, mum wore red nail polish and red lipstick. When she went into labour with me, she was pinning baby clothes for my grandfather to sew (I was a month premature).

She taught me how to wear heels by practising walking up and down the hallway at home heel first head up. My grandmother taught her in the same manner.

Also, she taught me to wear new heels/shoes around the house at night (sometimes with a pair of socks) before you wear them out – oh and if they’re leather rub the inside with a dry cake of soap to “lubricate” and not cause friction and therefore, blisters. Again, a trick handed down from her parents.”

More Boys in boots – Erk’s Adventures in 7 inch Platform Boots (continued)

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You all remember the lovely Erk, don’t you ladies?  For those of you  who have not met Erk,  you can become better acquainted with him and with his boots here. Erk is a big fan of the band Foundry Road and lead singer eXplain’s platform boots which you might get a glimpse of in this video:

He’s been off his form for a while for the reasons explained below but the boots are now back in business

A lot has happened since my initial post about my 7 inch platform boots which has resulted in the boots being grounded for several weeks.

Not long after the original post was published, I wore the boots to see cabaret uprising star Emma Dean in Sydney’s Kings Cross.

The basement venue was a challenge, mainly walking down the stairs.

Walking up the stairs is easier.

Another recent challenge was walking in the Circular Quay area of Sydney. Walking to a gig at The Basement, what would normally be a minor down grade in my regular shoes felt like I was walking down one of San Francisco’s infamous hills in these boots. Mental note to self:

Nob Hill San Francisco. Copyright Dave Glass 2007 http://www.flickr.com/photos/daveglass/

Don’t walk in these boots in San Francisco.

I’ve had a lot of reaction from men and women about the boots. Some people have openly laughed or shook their heads as I go past them.

Some shorter women have asked me not to stand next to them while wearing the boots. On the other hand, a taller woman who is used to being taller than many guys found it a nice change for a guy to be much taller than her. Speaking of taller, a couple of security guards at the boots’ last outing wanted to borrow them for the extra height.

Extra height has been handy for music photography. With eye level now just under 6 foot 5 and camera level closer to 6 foot 8 with an out-stretched arm, I no longer have to worry about tall people being in front of me. Now, I am one of those super tall people that some people complain about being stuck behind.

One woman who I thought would have been anti boots was my physio. A week after wearing the boots at Kings Cross in mid March, I partially tore my calf muscle. Several of my friends thought I was wearing my boots at the time while others blamed my boots for the tear.

I wish I had a really interesting story about how I tore my calf muscle, spending a week on crutches and a total of 4 weeks off work. weeks of physio (three times a week) and rest was a great help. I asked my physio if my boots were a factor and I was told that they were not.

Nor was I banned from wearing them. Common sense, however, told me not to wear them during the recovery phase.

After the injury, I was worried about wearing the boots again. I was going to wear them to a venue where they were popular but I needed to be outside. To the disappointment of one young lady, rain on the day of that gig saw me leave the boots at home.  I have become very conscious about wearing the boots to some venues. Walking long distances in the boots is not good, either.

Stone spiral staircase - Photo by Revolution Cycle - CC-BY via http://quezi.com/2785

A couple of weeks later, the boots appeared again, this time to a venue with a spiralling staircase. (What is it about venues in basements?) Walking on the widest part of the steps, it was strange walking in the boots again but I felt fine and wore them the entire time. The two police officers I passed while wearing the boots must have thought I was mad as they drove past me as I was walking (ok, stomping!) back to my car. As an aside, I never drive in these boots.

Thanks to Facebook, I have even had my workmates asking me to wear the boots to work. Due to safety (I am rightly very safety conscious with these boots), my workplace would frown upon them.

Very soon, I am undertaking an epic three month tour of Asia & Europe. As much as I would like to take them, the boots are too big & heavy to travel with.

So how did I tear my calf muscle?

As it turns out, I was wearing my normal workboots at my place of employment. As I had done hundreds of times before, I was walking to the train to take over driving it to the city. I heard and felt the snap of the muscle as it happened. Despite epic pain, I drove the train (on time!) to the city before seeking medical treatment.

Despite this, I love the boots! It has got me a lot of attention that

I would not normally get. And no, ladies, I am not over compensating.

Erk & Emma Dean

*laughs*

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When Erk isn’t driving trains in Sydney, he tweets (@erkpod) and podcasts at Channel Erk 


					


		
	


				
					


	

		
The Shoes Help Make the Story – Guest Shoe Blog Post by Susan Fujiki aka @kungfupussy


				

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Skechers(R) Sneakers Photocredit Famous Footwear


Most sneakers are worn around the house, for a walk around the block or if they are lucky, a trip to the gym a couple of times a week. Not my sneakers – I made mine work.


I remember exactly where I bought them. I was on my lunch break and I had just joined a gym in Japan and I needed some sneakers to wear. I had a 40 minute break between teaching classes and I headed over to the Kuzuha Mall and debated between these sneakers and another pair of more classic style running shoes.  I liked the silver sparkles so I chose the Skechers.


The sneakers were broken in walking from my apartment in Neyagawa to the gym. They got comfy as I ran with them on the treadmill and walked around the gym avoiding people who wanted free English lessons. I wore them on the weekends as I walked around Osaka: along the Dotonbori river looking up at the Glico running man, around Osaka Castle, and in AmericaMura where I would go to buy CDs from Tower Records.  No matter what the weather was, when I wasn’t working the sneakers were always on my feet and worn with blue jeans and a random Japanese-English t-shirt.


Their first trip overseas was to Thailand where they experienced ancient ruins and sandy beaches. The next trip was to China which was full of concrete and steps. After that I thought, why not try some snow? Together we walked an incredible number of miles through Moscow. They carried me to Lenin’s tomb, to the Kremlin and to the most amazing golden churches. They kept my feet warm as I walked around St Petersburg in a slushy mess. They were with me as I paced from Russia to Mongolia to China on the Trans-Mongolian Express. They were on my feet when I was almost thrown off the train in Siberia.


The sneakers, a little worn in but still comfortable, stayed with me until I left Japan but don’t worry, I didn’t leave them there. They traveled with me on a more important journey: backpacking around the world from my old home to my new home.  Together we saw ancient temples in Cambodia and they helped me hike to see the sun rise over the Himalayas in Nepal. They filled with sand as I saw Egyptian pyramids and with water when it rained in Venice. They were on my feet when I handed over my immigration packet when I entered my new home – the USA.


Once I had settled into my new life I decided to let the worn down, faded and now not so sparkly silver lined black Sketchers have the ultimate rest. I got a little sad when I threw them away as together we had done so much but I reminded myself shoes can’t talk. Shoes help us get to where we need to be to collect our stories. Thank you Skechers. You helped me collect some amazing ones.


Susan Fujiki, sneakers and some famous mythical creature


ABOUT  SUSAN FUJIKI/KUNGFU PUSSY


Things that you should know about Susan:


While at University, she once spent a morning looking for the remains of her 30 something boss after he left a heartbroken suicide note in the video store that she worked in. He turned a few hours later alive, well, oblivious to the distress he’d caused  and stoned with his 16 year old stoned girlfriend who had been the reason for the non-suicide.


She really does know how to do Kung Fu. She has also studied Tai Chi and Yoga but  most people aren’t as impressed by these skills hence why she didn’t call herself Tai Chi Pussy.


For More Kung Fu Pussy


Read her blog The Tatami Mat 4.0 here.


Once you have done so, please the vote for Susan in the Best Australian Blogs 2011 Competition People’s Choice Awards here.


To Follow Susan:  


Facebook and Twitter

					


		
	


				
					


	

		
Why Shoes? – Guest Shoe Blog Post by Kelly Burstow aka @BeaFunMum


				

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Sometimes I get a little zing when I meet people online. 


These people, the zing people, are  the people whom I usually ask to guest blog for me. Some say no, some say maybe and then tease me with softly whispered promises over months of correspondence. Some say yes and then surprise me with beautifully crafted posts delivered up as gifts on the days when I am feeling down and wonder whether I can keep on writing, about shoes or anything else.  This post from Kelly over at Be A Fun Mum is one of those posts – a brightly wrapped breath of frangipani floating by on a waft of warm summer air.  Kelly and I met at the Aussie Bloggers Conference and she promised to blog for me. Her shoes are making me smile today on a crisp cold autumn day and reminding me that there are many more wonderful floral sandals (and guest bloggers as yet unmet) out there.


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My Favourite Pair of Shoes


Why Shoes?


I did something today I’ve never done before: I counted my shoes.  I have…23 pairs of shoes…24 if you count my slippers. Perhaps a little bit of an excess — yes? But I truly wear them all! Shoes just get me. Right here (hand over heart). They are they first thing I put on and the last thing to come off. This may be pathetic, but I even have a shoe book on my bedside table. I’m serious. So what is it about shoes that get me?


Maybe it’s the undefinable pleasure I feel at hearing the click, click of heels on tiles.


Maybe it’s because they make me feel pretty and feminine.


Maybe it’s because they come in every colour under the sun.


Maybe it’s because every shoe has a story.


The thing is: I just can’t tell you exactly why I love shoes so much. There’s just something magical about them. Very much like Cinderella’s glass slippers (they were the only magic that survived the 12 o’clock curfew, you know). So if I had to sum up my love for shoes in one sentence it would be this: When I put on my favourite pair of shoes I feel like a princess. Overlook the cliché, would you, and just {sigh} with me.


I really need to get myself some glass slippers I think…


Cinderalla Shoes - Glass Slippers - Real Glass Slippers 


    

  1. Cinderella Glass Slippers: Yes, these are wearable glass (plastic) slippers by Touch Ups. And only just over $50.
    2. 

  2. Real Glass Slippers: You can buy a pair of real Maison Martin Margiela Glass Slippers for $2,500 a pair. Ouch.
    3. 



My shoes


Here are some of my shoes, and I want to tell you a little bit about them.




    

  1. There are 6 people living at our place so it’s rather crazy how many shoes there are. I decided to keep everyday shoes outside on shoe racks (pictured below).  This way, shoes don’t get lost underneath someone’s bed and they are easy to grab as we run out the door. I keep most of my shoes (pictured 1) inside my cupboard on a shoe rack.
    2. 



Shoe Rack


2. I saw these red boots when I was holidaying at Caloundra Beach, Queensland…and they were half price. I almost fell over myself to buy them.  When I wear them, people often stop        me to ask me where I got my “gorgeous red boots”.


3.   I can’t even believe this myself. I kept these shoes; I would say my favourite pair of shoes, in the cupboard for 10 months before I wore them! I was determined to save them for             my  Masked 30th Birthday Party.  After drooling over the shoes for months and months, you can image my pleasure at wearing them for my birthday party. I purchased them from a little shop on Mt Tamborine, Queensland. They are made from hand painted leather and just scream “ME” all over.


4.  Believe it or not, my husband wanted me to buy these shoes. Usually I hear “not another pair of shoes”, but not this time.   My husband and I went away for a weekend. Just us; no kids. While we were strolling in a shopping centre, take-away coffee in hand, my husband spotted these sassy and smart shoes in the window and loved them…so he made me buy them.  ;) 


5. It’s true: I keep a shoe book on my bedside table.  Shoes: the ultimate accessory by Tessa Paul.


6. I wore these shoes to my Dad’s wedding. How adorable are the bows at the back!?


Shoes. Shoes, shoes, shoes. They truly are the ultimate accessory.  They can be anything from practical friends to glamorous confidence boosters.


What do shoes mean to you?


Who am I? I’m Kelly.


When I’m not running around after my four kids, you’ll find me drinking tea from a pretty cup.  I love lying on the grass and the view mountains afford.  You can visit me over at my blog Be A Fun Mum.  I really have the coolest shoe blog roll you’ll ever see. Want to be on it?


Follow me:  Facebook and Twitter

					


		
	


				
					


	

		
Guest Shoe Blog Post by Linda Collard @lgcollard


				

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Photo Credit: Nicky Luescher. Copyright. All Rights Reserved.




Flip flopping language


 Or how your shoes can make you memorable


Two of my favourite things in the world include the nuance of language and shoes. One stimulates my intellect, the other my aesthetic. This is a story about how these two loves once collided.


Back in ‘nam (just because I like to use that phrase) in 2003, my husband John and I had arrived into Ho Chi Minh City (HCMC) mid-morning to stay with friends, Anna and Joe, who had just moved there.  Anna’s father and stepmother were staying too. They were leaving that afternoon, so we had a crossover of a few hours.


Arriving at Anna and Joe’s house, we introduced ourselves to her family members and headed out to explore the city. They are English. I haven’t mentioned that, but it’s an important detail. I am Australian. Also an important detail.


Just a short while into our wander around the city, my thong broke. (You may be able to see where this is going already.)


Unwilling to hop – and equally unwilling to have a bare foot on the dusty and somewhat dubious streets of HCMC – I walked into the closest souvenir shop and bought a new pair of locally-made silk thongs.  (The ones that broke were also Vietnamese from a 2002 trip.)


Sadly, this second pair of thongs lacked the comfort level of the others and I soon developed a painful blister between my toes. The skin was really quite red and angry.


So we headed back to our friends’ house, earlier than anticipated and met up with her father and stepmother again. The conversation went something like this:


Them:  Oh, you’re back early.


Me:       Yes, my thong snapped.


John:    She replaced it but the new one rubbed her raw.


Me:        I couldn’t walk any more.


[DAWNING SENSE OF SOMETHING WRONG AS WE SAW THE LOOKS OF HORROR ON THEIR FACES]


Me: (Blushes)    Oh my God! Flip flops. I mean flip flops… not thongs as you know them. 


 [Editor's Note: A ‘thong’ to the English is a ‘g-string’ to an Australian]


The sense of relief in the room was palpable.  And to this day, every time Anna mentions my name to her family they say:


Oh yes, the thong girl.


About Linda Collard:


She managed to elude me for some time, so she did. There were Twitter reports of Linda being in Sydney last year, then reports her being in Hong Kong. Finally, I tracked her down via Twitter to two tables to my right at the Aussie Bloggers Conference. It turned out that she was wearing a truly fabulous pair of knee length leather riding style boots. The kind of boots that work any where and with anything. I wasn’t surprised.  Have a look at Linda’s blog Kid in Lolly Shop and you will realise why http://kidinalollyshop.wordpress.com/. You can follow her on Twitter at @lgcollard. 











					


		
	


				
					


	

		
The Year of the Stripper Stilettos Part 3 – Tell me when the spaceship lands


				

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For Part 2 click here 




the best things in the world are sex, drugs and alcohol






 




 The next time I wore my stripper stillettos was in Melbourne. I flew there for a weekend with two friends. We booked a gorgeous room at the Park Hyatt, with an amazing shower I’d call sexy and  leave up to your own imagination. The work colleague who gave me the ecstasy the month before was in Melbourne for work that week and he happened to have brought his two best mates with him. One of them was yellow Ducati guy. On the Friday night it all started off very civilized – probably because I wasn’t wearing my stripper heels that evening.




 These men were in their early 30s and took us girls (in our early 20s) out for an expensive dinner. We felt like sophisticates. The champagne went straight to one girlfriend’s head so she went back to our hotel to sleep it off. My other girlfriend went to a club with one of the guys – a charismatic South American train guard who was widely known as a Lothario. Meanwhile I went for a drive in a hired car with my workmate and Ducati guy. It turned out that we were on an errand to pick up coke from the suburbs. After purchase they quickly finished off a gram and generously allowed me to lick the bag saying that was sufficient enough for a first taste. Turns out they were right.


Within half an hour I had babbled my whole life story, told them I had an eating disorder and thought I was obese, told them that I loved two men but couldn’t be with either of them, that I’d only ever had “relationship sex” and hadn’t had any sex at all for months because I was clearly hideous and unlovable. Then I took all of my clothes off and sat in the car crying and begging them to have sex with me. At one stage I asked if they had any condoms. They both stared at each other for an extended moment before saying “no” and taking me back safely to my hotel, like the gentlemen they were.


The next night we went out together again. My girlfriends and I got embarrassingly drunk and asked everyone in Melbourne for pills since I was suddenly *such* an expert in illicit substances. It’s lucky we didn’t find any that night. We were so drunk we probably would have died if we’d taken anything.


As it was, we imbibed alcohol until we passed out, somehow making it back to the hotel. At 2am I woke up still extremely drunk and made my way to the South American guy’s hotel room. He and Ducati guy were sharing the room and I somehow ended up having my first ever “overnight meaningful relationship“.  I don’t remember much beyond them both having vibrating condoms. Who even knew such things existed?


The next time I wore my stripper stilettos was to networking drinks after an all day work seminar. My colleagues were letting their hair down and had invited their better halves to the afterparty. Feeling self destructive (fully experiencing the great heartbreaking debilitating sorrow of watching the guy I had been in love with for years having a grand old time with his girlfriend) I went entirely AWOL that night.


I smoked my first cigarettes (in plain view of everyone who knew I’d been vehemently anti-smoking for decades) and I literally flirted my pants off with the most well known and charismatic man in our industry. At some stage of the evening he went to find a hotel room for us and the only one he could find cost $2,700 a night (only the penthouse suite was available). Together we drank about 4 bottles of Moet & Chandon and he poured champagne over me and penetrated me with the bottle instead of having sex with me himself. Note to all = always completely remove the foil from the neck of the bottle first. At about 3am his wife called and he got up and left. I felt so sick and alone and dirty in that gigantic penthouse suite.


 


 


 


 






 


The next time I wore my stripper stilettos things turned out even worse. My best friend and I attended a thirtieth birthday party in Cronulla and polished off four bottles of wine between us. Then we hitched a ride to the city with some random people in a red Mustang convertible. They offered us pills and I took one. The next thing I remember was waking up to freezing cold cement grazing my back, lying in a fire escape, in a drenched and filthy city alleyway with a guy on top of me – having sex with me. I had no bag, no jacket, no money, no phone, no idea where I was or who he was or how I got there or where my friend had gone. The only phone number I could remember in the world was my (soon to be ex) husband’s. I asked the guy who had just been having sex with me if I could borrow his phone. Then I called my husband to ask for my girlfriend’s phone number.


She was absolutely frantic over my disappearance as she knew it was uncharacteristic of me to do anything remotely irresponsible. Apparently we were dancing at Q Bar & she jokingly said to me “I should write my phone number on your arm just in case” then she turned around to put her bag down and I was gone.




Security said I had been led out the door, holding the hand of a young, well dressed, good looking guy and since I looked so “out of it” they helpfully assumed he was my boyfriend and he was taking me home.


After learning all this, I asked the guy to take me to my friend’s house. I had a shower, climbed into her bed and slept for hours.


When I woke up, he was still sitting in the loungeroom waiting for me. He asked for my phone number. I said no. He reminded me that my husband’s phone number was in his phone, so he could always call and ask him for my number instead?


He rang me every Friday and  Saturday for months but I never saw him again for obvious reasons.






 


 


 


 






 


The next time I wore my stripper stilettos ended up being the best night of my life – and taught me two important things.


The CEO of the company my best friend worked for invited us for a cruise on his boat. He arranged to pick us up at Darling Harbour. When the boat pulled in, it looked magical. There was a band playing on the roof, sparkling hanging deck lights… gorgeous women were walking around with plates of seafood and we drank expensive champagne. We felt like royalty. I really had no idea Sydney Harbour (and life itself) could be so beautiful.


Or so expensive – when we stopped for petrol the bill was $4,000 and it was paid without a blink. Throughout the night people (including the band & wait staff) disembarked at various jetties until there were only four men and us two girls left. We were really tired and decided to have a sleep in the boat’s master bedroom. I took my stilettos off.


At some wee hour of the morning the CEO came in and woke us up – and procured a glass pipe. Looking to my girlfriend for guidance she said “It’s ice” and held a lighter under the rounded end and smoked it. Of course I did too.


In the months since my first girl-kiss with the police officer, Id kissed a couple of girls (including this friend) as it seemed to bring less threatening consequences then kissing men. But previously I’d only done it to “show off” whereas this time there was no audience. Somehow, this, my girlfriend and I found ourselves having quite aggressive sex with each other.


After that ice-induced session we went back on to the deck where the remaining men teased us for being lesbians. Then they brought out guitars and I sang at the top of my lungs for the first time in my entire life. They all said I had an amazing voice. But I’ve never really sung again since then.


In the pre-dawn light my girlfriend and I then stripped off all of our clothes with no shame whatsoever and dived naked off the boat into Sydney Harbour. It was an amazing part of the harbour with stone steps carved into a rock face that hung over the water. We swam to the rocks and climbed up to the top of a huge cliff. It felt like at least two storeys high. And then we jumped in to the water just as the sun’s rays shot over the horizon. It was an awe inspiring life moment.


Around 8am we pulled into Darling Harbour and all went for breakfast at BlackBird Cafe. I was on top of the world. My girlfriend and I mutually decided that we didn’t like vaginas that much and that lesbianism wasn’t for either of us. But we agreed that at least we’d tried it with each other and  we’d be able to laugh about it for years to come.


That day, I  called everyone and told them that it had been the best night of my life.


But the ice come-down was the most terrible thing I have ever experienced. I was still immensely depressed a month later. Never, ever, touch methamphetamine as it is the most disgusting revolting drug ever invented.


The next time I wore my stripper stilettos was mostly uneventful… except for the part where I accidentally scraped the mirror surface off a few “squares” and entirely ruined the heels.


A week later, I met my new husband and that marked the end of my illicit adventures. In less than a year I had tried “everything” and knew it wasn’t for me.


That night I was wearing black leather pirate style knee high boots.


 


 


 


 






Click here for Part 1 The Year of the Stripper Stilettos 


Click here for Part 2 of the Year of the Stripper Stilettos – The Dragonfly



					


		
	


				
					


	

		
The Year of the Stripper Stilettos – The Dragonfly – Guest Shoe Post Part 2


				

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Can shoes lead you down the wrong path? If so can they lead you back up it again? My guest blogger’s story continues… see here for Part 1



The next time I wore my stripper stilettos was a full mooned Saturday night. My husband was busy at work and my ex was busy breaking my heart.


So I sent an SMS to all and sundry to say that I was catching a train to Kings Cross by myself.










Photo Credit: The Illawarra Mercury 








I was wearing fitted white pants and a white halter and  my stripper heels – the brazennest outfit I’d ever ventured out in. A guy I knew from work replied that he was at Dragonfly on a boys night out, but that he was sure his mates wouldn’t mind if I tagged along.




At Dragonfly I had my first experience of the VIP life, being greeted by the security guard, whisked straight to the front of the queue & into a roped off VIP section. It was a night of multiple firsts. I found a gorgeous young curly haired blonde girl crying in the bathroom because her boyfriend had been mean to her. When she pointed out her boyfriend all I could see was a 60 year old fat sweaty balding red faced man. But she said he always gave her really high quality cocaine.


I was in a little shock after this revelation and went back to my workmate to grill him about the world of drugs. Eventually around 2.00 am it was decided that under their protection I could try one quarter of an ecstasy tablet. To allay my fears about the particular pill being a “good” one of the guys had consumed the other three quarters an hour before I bravely consumed my tiny piece. The operation was very sombre and symbolic to me. Thinking about it now they must have been thoroughly amused by my innocence and the theatrical production I had created out of one little eccy. I later saw them consume up to seven pills each in a night.


That night the music felt better than it ever had before, reverberating in my soul. I danced with a Lebanese builder, the second most attractive man I’ve ever seen. And later that night (morning?) I looked in a nightclub mirror and saw a gorgeous blue eyed girl (me). She looked at least four times skinnier than any girl I’d ever seen in the mirror previously in my life. Early Sunday one of the guys drove me home on his yellow Ducati stopping at Bondi beach just as the sun rose (it was the looong way home!)










Bondi Beach at Sunrise Photo Credit: Acquabumps 








A week later I went on a date with the Lebanese builder but I didn’t wear the stripper stilettos. It was my first grown up date.



We went to a Greek restaurant in Balmain and talked about the bad reputation Lebanese men have in Australia. Then we walked to a bar and had some shots and I asked him to take me home because it was a school night. As we walked to the car he forced me up against the wall & kissed me terribly badly. I pushed him away and said “just take me home now please“.



As we drove across the Anzac Bridge his brand new midnight blue Monaro he pulled out the tiniest floppiest penis I’ve ever seen and instructed me to “suck it“. I just put my head in my hands and tried not to think about how drunk he was and tried not to wonder if he was on drugs and hoped that I’d make it home in one piece, which thankfully I did.


To be continued

					


		
	


				
					


	

		
The Year of the Stripper Stilettos – Guest Shoe Post Part 1


				

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When I was 24 I had my first birthday party. Up until then I’d never dressed in a womanly fashion. I wore shoes for comfort and therefore owned no stilettos.


The guy I’d been in love with for the previous two years bought me a $400.00 red silk dress to wear on the big day.


My husband, who I had lost my virginity to seven years earlier, bought me a hair and makeup “makeover” and arranged my childhood bestie to fly in & surprise me on the eve of the party.


As a birthday present to myself I bought this magical pair of perspex heeled, mirror glassed, sparkly stripper stilettos.




It was an absolutely awesome night. The friends who had become my true family (since I was ex-communicated from my church and  my birth family disowned me) – every single one of them came. I was sure to have my photo taken with each and every one.


My two favourite photos were the ones with the men I loved so dearly but was no longer “in” love with. Or having sex with.


The boy I had fallen for (and ultimately lost my marriage for) brought his new girlfriend. She played nice. My husband brought his best mate, who had flown in from interstate (and who happened to have been the best man at our wedding). He met “the other guy” that night. Considering the circumstances, he was also very civil.


I stayed up all night, watched the Argentina vs Mexico world cup soccer game while playing pool with scary people on Oxford Street. I invited everyone back to my place for pizza when the sun came up. I didn’t even have a hangover the next day. Best birthday “ever“.


The next time I wore my stripper stilettos was a girls night out. We got drunk and talked our way into Kings Cross strip clubs for free.










Photo Credit Trip Advisor || 








At BadaBing a gorgeous brunette wearing a leather jacket and drinking a beer sat down next to me and asked if she could buy me a drink. I asked for vodka and eventually we agreed to meet in the bathroom and made out for ages. It was my first girl-kiss. It turned out that she was an off duty female police officer. We’re still Facebook friends.


A few weeks later I went away for my first ever girly weekend, up in Surfers Paradise. I doused myself in copious amounts of fake tan and those stripper stilettos walked myself and my friends right to the front of every single nightclub queue and helped us avoid every door charge. I had my first non-relationship dance with a Kiwi backpacker called Luke & took his phone number. It felt like the most bad ass thing I’d ever done.



On the next stripper heeled outing my girlfriends and I giggled in sex shops and then ended up at Showgirls (using loyalty cards we’d scored on the previous occasion). The waitresses plied us with vodka and after skolling a medicinal water I threw up on a stripper. I apologised profusely and ran to the toilets with her to help her wash off. Her name was Phoenix and we rode around together all night in the “stripper limo“ which transports dancers and their watchers to their next venue booking. It was very educational.


For Part 2 of the Year of the Stripper Stilettos – The Dragonfly click here


For Part 3 of the Year of the Stripper Stilettos – Tell me when the spaceship lands click here