You would see shelves from floor to ceiling, and display stands in the centre, all crammed with shoes; an Aladdin’s cave, a treasure house, but maybe also a reliquary, and maybe partly a prison cell. The sense of mad accumulation would be glorious and yet there might be something sinister about it. By then you would know my tastes and preferences, so none of it would really surprise you. You would have known what to expect and yet you would still be overwhelmed and impressed by the concentration, the intensity of the collection.
Some of the shoes would be opulent and ornate, others simple and classically elegant, some wholly and only fetishistic. And although each shoe would tend to be sleek and discrete, when put together they would create a diffuse, ragged design; black leather nestling next to cerise satin, blue silk next to black lace. The ankle straps from one pair of sandals would spill over into the mouth of a pair of red silk court shoes. Different kinds of leather pierced or inlaid, or concocted into marquetry. You would see bevelled heels and wedges, a few platform soles, some gold lamé, some parrot feathers, fishtail heels, ruby slippers, needle-toes. All the great names would be represented: Vivier, Ferragamo, Perugia, Schiaparelli, Frizon, Cover Girl, Jimmy Choo, Blahnik. There would even be a glass slipper of sorts, although actually it was made of transparent perspex.
It would all be there before you, a collage, a catalogue of shapes, colours and textures that corresponded to my mind, a collection that utterly revealed my personality. I would glow with pride. I’d tell you this was my great work, that it was me. You would see that putting the shoes together like this had been an act of creation and profound self-definition.
You would be filled with questions. I would explain to you that buying the first couple of pairs in this collection was a very big step for me. I was circumspect to start with. I would only buy through mail order. I bought either from specialist fetish suppliers or from conventional mail-order catalogues. But it took very little time before I had the courage to go into shoe shops and buy there. I would always say that I was buying the shoes as a present, which in a sense was true, and none of the shop assistants ever questioned my motives or indicated that they thought I was doing anything peculiar. The ones who served me could hardly have thought I was buying them to wear myself since my own feet are large, and I always bought shoes in conventional women’s sizes. In fact I bought them in a variety of sizes so that as and when I had new women in my life, whatever their foot size, I would have something to fit them.
My collection grew, became substantial. I poured a lot of money into it, though probably less than certain men pour into other hobbies. I’m sure it was no more expensive than sailing, golfing or running a classic sports car. There was, however, something lacking. My collection consisted entirely of brand-new shoes. They were often exquisitely beautiful. The styles and shapes were appealing, but as they lined up on my shelves and in my display cabinets, looking pristine and immaculate, they seemed curiously chaste and mute. It proved what I had always known, that a shoe in itself, however full of erotic potential, only comes to life when placed around a human foot. These shoes that I had so carefully selected were used only in the bedroom during sex. They had never been worn in the street. They lacked female warmth, they lacked that patina and character that comes from being worn.
I changed my hunting grounds. I visited second-hand and antique-clothes shops, market stalls, charity shops, and I added to my collection. The shoes thus obtained showed some slight signs of life and wear. They had been gently creased, moulded to the shape of the owners’ feet. Sometimes the inside of the shoes bore an imprint of the feet that had worn them. I found this very exciting. There was considerable pleasure to be had in imagining the previous wearer of the shoes, speculating about her feet, her personality, her sexual preferences. And I wondered how she might feel if she knew that her discarded shoes had become objects of fascination for some man, or that I had passed them on to some new woman who had worn them during sex. But of course it was all speculation, all imagination. I would never meet these previous owners.
And that is when I took the next step, and this I think is the only aspect of my obsession that ever actually made me feel ashamed. It was certainly the only thing I ever did that was even remotely illegal. I began to find ways of stealing the shoes from women’s feet. Not quite literally. I didn’t leap on women, knock them to the ground and rob them. I never used violence; rather I used a great deal of skill and cunning.
There are certain occasions, certain situations, when women take their shoes off in public. It happens in parks or at the beach, although, in the latter case, women rarely wear very exciting shoes when they’re walking on sand or shingle. They also take their shoes off in restaurants or bars, at the theatre or cinema. At parties and dances footsore women frequently kick off their shoes and dance in their bare or stockinged feet.
Again, I suppose my greatest advantage in all this was that I didn’t look like the sort of man who would steal women’s shoes. What would such a man look like in any case? I would saunter past my ‘victim’, looking innocent but purposeful, as though I had many things on my mind other than women’s shoes. It was surprisingly easy. In parks the women would be sunbathing with their eyes closed, or engrossed in a book or listening to a personal stereo. In restaurants and bars they tended to be engrossed in food, drink and conversation. In the theatre or cinema they were watching the entertainment, although the seating arrangements here often made access very difficult. At parties and dances the women were partying or dancing. In none of these situations were they expecting to have their shoes stolen. They would be guarding their handbags, their keys, their credit cards, but they would feel quite relaxed about their shoes. And that’s when I used to pounce; swiftly, deftly, expertly. A certain amount of crawling about on the floor was often required, but that went with the territory. I stole the shoes and I was gone. Later I’d imagine the women walking home shoeless, their bare feet exposed to the common gaze, and there was a certain sly pleasure in that too.
If I had taken you to my archive I would try to explain all this to you. Perhaps you would be looking at me a little askance by now — Catherine certainly was. But it would be time to press on. I would ask you to select a pair of shoes you liked and I would help you put them on. You would realize you were not the first to have worn them, that other women had been here as you were, and I would hope that the thought excited you.
We would enter the inner sanctum, the secret chamber, and I would draw the curtain closed behind us, so that we were in this enclosed space, the walls full of shoes, the ceiling mirrored, the floor lined with deep wool carpet. We would stand at the centre and I would undress us both. Perhaps you would have chosen a pair of red leather high-heeled mules with a peep-toe. I would kneel at your feet and kiss your flesh where it met the leather, then I would lay you down and fuck you long and intensely and tenderly, and no doubt you would look up, look past me, up at the mirrored ceiling, at our surroundings. And undoubtedly you would look at the rows of shoes, and you might think about all the past or future perverse acts these shoes represented. And with my cock inside you, with your feet encased in shoes of your own choosing, I would hope that you would finally be coming very close to understanding me. That, at least, is what I hoped for from Catherine, but perhaps I was asking too much, too soon.
Thirteen