RIP Slut Boots

Last week I laid to rest a pair of my boots that were dear to me. I literally danced them to pieces, the tall leg part coming away from the actual shoe part of the piece. These were no ordinary boots. These came to me through special circumstances one Christmas when I was seventeen and have been with me ever since. I’ve known my best friends and lovers less time than that, so it was with a heavy heart I threw them in the dumpster behind the nightclub where they finally let go.

It was Christmas 1997, and I was attending a special arts school and in the throes of teenaged goth-punk-witch angst. My mother, in an effort to spare her sanity, knew I wanted boots for Christmas. She also knew that no matter what she chose for me, it’d be not what I wanted. So come Boxing Day, she gave me some cash and instructed me to go downtown and buy the boots that she’d never be able to find. Eyes bright and rimmed in too much eyeliner, I grabbed my leathers and headed out.

I had meant to buy a pair of awesome, practical 16 -hole Doc Marten boots. Perfect for punk shows and not getting my feet trod on. However, before I made it to the store that sold those, I passed another shoe store. I can’t remember what it was called but it should have been called ‘Hooker’s Shoe Hook Up Emporium’ or something to that effect. There, hanging on the back wall were the most epic boots my 17-year-old brain could wrap around. Thigh-high black PVC stiletto fuck me boots. I still remember that moment of excitement when I realized they fit and I had enough money to buy them. I got them boxed up and spent my last bit of cash on a studded bracelet to match.

I arrived home and my mother insisted on seeing the boots. I guess she was wondering what it was that she had never been able to locate. On seeing the boots she likely though because she hadn’t been shopping for footwear with me in sex shops. “Those are the boots?” she asked, her voice neutral. “Yup!” I said, proudly. “You’re going to wear those to school everyday.” It was a statement, not a question. “I sure am!” I chirped. “No, you don’t understand,” my mother said, “You will wear those to school the rest. Of. The. School Year.” I nodded my head in the affirmative. Of COURSE I was going to wear these the rest of the year… these boots were glorious!

Classes started again, and I went back to school and turned heads with my new boots. But by the end of the first day my feet were killing me. The following morning  I was putting on my regular shoes when my mom stopped me, and made me put on my boots. She made me wear them to school everyday til I started sneaking my other shoes out and wearing them at school. Of course, we all think we’re smarter than our folks. I figure she knew I was up to something and she phoned the school to see if I was still wearing them. My principal finked me out. I got home from school, and my mom was there, waiting.

“So, I talked to your principal today. He tells me you’ve not been wearing your boots at school. Why is that?”

I caved. I folded like a cheap card table and told her they hurt my feet and I shouldn’t have mislead her, etc, etc. She stood over me, smirking and asked, “What did we learn?”. I’ll tell you what I learned; don’t mislead your mother. I kept the boots up til last week. They were a good reminder of a number of things: honesty, intention, and clarity are good communications skills to have, and that my ass looks really good in stiletto fuck-me boots.

RIP KINKY BOOTS

Xmas Dec ’97 – Xmas Dec 13

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One Response to RIP Slut Boots

  1. You are a fucking goddess. I love your blog. <3 Please write a book!

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