Feminism in high heels! Or, let the lady choose
1. About Ingrid and feminism!
Ingrid! She is the most beautiful woman in my life, she is my ecstasy and my despair, my love and madness. And never, ever did she become mine. But again and again she
almost
did: with just three feet of air between her skin and mine. Riddles? Read on!
She is a beautiful blonde woman, with an attractive, somewhat mischievous face, shining blue eyes, soft rosy cheeks with nice dimples in them when she smiles, and an expressive mouth with lovely full lips. She always wears her hair pinned up high, leaving her slender neck free. She has a gorgeous figure, somewhat full and yet slender at the same time: well-developed full breasts, a narrow waist with wide hips underneath (but not too wide), long legs with full, firm thighs, shapely calves and slender ankles. Which she always accentuates by wearing high stiletto heels.
Very soon I was crazy with longing for her. I had made her acquaintance at a dancing school, and I dated her sometimes, or visited her at home. And then usually we danced a little, and I could press her supple body to mine. But it had never gone any further than that: we might dance sensual tangos, a dance that's sometimes called 'sex with your clothes on', but no more than that. Not even a kiss... let alone anything
without
our clothes on.
I felt the desire not only in my groin, but also in my belly, my chest and my throat: a tingling feeling in my skin that was only temporarily assuaged when I masturbated, yet I would never feel really relieved. Only the touch of her flesh against mine could cure me of that desperate longing that sometimes even felt like a disease.
Yet I didn't have the nerve to approach her. She wasn't prudish, not shy about sex at all. I felt she probably had several lovers to satisfy her sexual desires, but she would not give up her independence for any man. She was a gorgeous woman, lusty and proud!
Then why was I so shy with her? I vaguely feared she wouldn't find me attractive enough... but that might be only the
fear
of rejection. Besides, with other women I never felt so bowled over if one happened not to want me. I could always find someone else. So there was nothing to fear, was there?... But for some reason it was different with Ingrid.
In short, Love's lightning had already struck me terribly. And then it struck again, even more terribly. Read, and tremble, oh men!
One night (I'll never forget it) I had come to visit her, and as always my longing for her almost constricted my throat. She wore blue that night: a somewhat tight blue blouse, a tight blue skirt that showed her enticing buttocks and thighs well, and blue nylon stockings underneath. Her skirt crept up a little when she sat down, and I saw the skin of her thighs showed delightfully against her stockings. And though she was tall for a woman, she wore blue shoes with high stiletto heels that accentuated the beauty of her exquisite legs even more. She had her hair up as usual, only a few little curls hung loose cutely beside her face.
We had been chatting. About sex! And about men's and women's roles, and the advantages and disadvantages of casual sexual contacts. With a straight face I had been giving very women-friendly opinions about that, but I had been as silent as the grave about my own feelings.
For example, we discussed if high heels were compatible with feminism. Of course, I said: if a woman feels comfortable with them, then why not? But I didn't have the guts to say anything about the crushing effect her high heels had on me. (Oh... how they lenghtened her beautiful long legs even more. Oh, how they made her hips' buttocks' thighs' tempting movements even more voluptuous when she walked. How their ticking on the floor seemed to pierce my heart: it almost hurt me physically!)
However, I was thinking that now I should at last...
2, Feminism and a smooth operator!
The bell rang. Ingrid walked to the front door ('click, click', her heels sounded on the stone floor in the corridor) and she greeted the second visitor enthusiastically. It was Willem, another guy from the dancing school whom she also dated occasionally. Willem was a handsome, cheerful fellow with an athletic slender body and a naughty bad-boy smile with dark eyes and black curly hair; an easy, humorous talker with a rapid flux-de-bouche.
Ingrid used to call Willem a 'true Amsterdammer' ("een ras-Amsterdammer"), and she clearly meant that as a compliment. I always felt a bit uneasy when I saw Ingrid and Willem together, although I didn't want to admit that to myself.
Willem sat down and the three of us chatted on. Still about sex and relationships. Willem sometimes made a witty remark which made Ingrid laugh delightedly. I joined in the laughter, but cursed myself at the same time that I hadn't thought of a joke like that.
For example: "What were you talking about before I arrived?"
"About feminism and high heels!", Ingrid said.
"Are you a feminist?", Willem asked.
"In principle, yes, but not today. For today is High Heels Day!" she said with a coquettish smile.
"Today, you say? I've never seen you wear anything else! But do you mean high heels aren't feminist?"
"Many feminists say they're not. Well, Jan is a feminist man, and he has another opinion."
She smiled ironically, and my heart skipped a beat.
"Well, so do I! High heels are pure female power! They make us men completely powerless! At least, as long as you keep the strings tightly as a woman. I understand Jan completely, you know. Long live women's stiletto power!"
She laughed, again with that delightful ironic smile:
"So even men can teach me something about feminism. But don't you guys objectify me, if I wear high heels for your pleasure? Isn't that called 'the male gaze'?"
"No, sweet Ingrid", Willem said. "The real male look admires you! And you enchant us through it! Without heels too, of course, but with heels our fate is sealed for good! If men objectify you, it's because they can't stand that. Such men can't bear your stiletto power!"
"At least you can say it beautifully. Besides, a little bit of objectification can be quite fun, if at least you guys can bear my stiletto power!"
And Ingrid laughed delightedly at him. I laughed with them, but I cursed myself that I hadn't thought of making a remark about her stiletto power.
Was I mistaken, or was there really something not quite definable growing in the room's atmosphere? Ingrid's cheeks were always somewhat rosy. Was her blush really deepening, or did I only imagine it? Were her shining eyes really shining even more?
I caught himself trying to see to whom Ingrid's eyes turned more often: to Willem or to me? Was Willem really winning out on that point, or was that only my own fear?
And then Willem made the proposal that I hadn't dared to make myself.
3. The plot thickens
"Shall we do a little game of strip poker?" With a straight face, just like that, you know.
I half expected Willem would get a slap in his face. But Ingrid's only looked at Willem with surprise and then pensively.
"Strip poker? And then? You can't make me believe you want to leave it at that. Besides, there are three of us. Jan, what do you think? Isn't this too impudent to be acceptable?"
But she said this with a smile, a little ironic again, but not angry.
Now! Now I had to drop my restraint!
"Seems fun to me too! But you're probably right that Willem and I don't want to leave it at that."
"Exactly!", Willem added with a broad grin.
Ingrid looked back reservedly.
"Well, no", she said. "No way, and that's that. I don't want to make love to two men at the same time. I'm not so fond of threesomes. And just teasing the two of you by undressing... no, I don't want to do that either."
"But then why don't you pick one of us? Then only one man will remain unsatisfied, but otherwise all three of us!"
Had I said that myself? What was coming over me?
(There was an itch in my groin that demanded I'd make happen whatever might happen.)
Now Ingrid's blush really deepened.
"What are you saying? And the one I
