“This cannot possibly be happening.”
It’s not the first time I’ve said it. It’s not the first time I’ve been absolutely certain that this wasn’t my life, but the follies of an unwitting character in some reality sitcom. Surely, I was being Truman Showed.
“Hey, baby. Looks like you could use some help.”
There I was, limping my way through Harlem, half drunk, and completely unable to remember just when (and how) the night before, I’d managed to snap the heel off my shoe. Limp. Limp. My perfect shoe. They were like sex on four-inch heels, those beautiful black pumps. If, you know, the sex was really painful and consistently rubbed all the skin off the knuckles of your middle toes. So really, aside from the twenty-minute gimp down 125th Street at 9AM on a Sunday morning, I actually a little relieved by the shoe death.
Besides, they went out of this world dancing. I think they’d have liked that.
At least, I assume they did. At 4AM, the house party had turned dance party and six of us were spinning around the living room to Frank Sinatra. Luck be a lady tonight! I’d tried to beg off, being that from my spot on the couch, the room was already spinning.
But the boy was cute and I do so like to be twirled.
So we twirled and drank and come 5AM it was quite clear that some of us were not making it home until we’d had a bit of sobering. I crawled onto the couch, kicked off the sex shoes and settled in. And the, for the very first time since… ever, when the cute boy said, “You know, you’re welcome to crash with me…” I stayed right where I was on the couch. Why? Because apparently, I’ve turned over a new leaf.
“No. Not just a new leaf. No. Apparently, I’ve turned over the Stupid Leaf.”
“No, no. That was actually very smart.” Ari wiped her hands on a dish towel, stirred the pasta and whipped up some consolation.
“How’s that?”
“Okay. What’s the best that could have happened? You have a night of anonymous sex and that’s that. But if you stay on the couch, you have a possibility for future run-ins without having had the awkward anonymous sex and then maybe he calls, you have dinner… and then you get to have all that sex anyway.”
“You’re the smartest woman alive.”
Granted, the smartest woman alive had just poured an entire box of pasta onto the linoleum floor, but that is neither here nor there. Clearly her genius is meant for the bedroom and not the kitchen.
And just for the record, I was kidding about the Stupid Leaf. You see, I’m not really a total trollop. I only play one on this blog.
sounds like the black pumps had a fantastic send-off. and Ari is absolutely right.
blove you; don’t always follow you; but always blove you.
No pictures of the shoes to commemorate their passing?
I do so love your stories! They make me miss my high-heel shoe’d adventures.
a fish that trollops!
(p.s. and cheese louise, pick your friends wisely. don’t trust ‘em all. ::hugs::)
You best not be talking about Ari. She’s hand-picked for quality and freshness.
Ok, I was confused. Thank God you’re still posting!
No need to explain away your trollopness or lack thereof. Does fiction really exist? I’m convinced creativity is just editing out the extraneous bits of reality.
Great story!
oh, no, not ari. i mean those on the slight periphery that just aren’t makin’ me feel it. (dang, i’m all protective and i don’t even ‘know’ you!)
H…the couch was a great idea…just staying on that couch saved you from so many awkward anonymous sex glares…great choice…just wish I could do the same thing…lol
as for the shoes…at least they went down dancing…what more can a great pair of shoes ask for…
What was the last song they lived to hear?
I thought it was a given that you don’t trollop yourself to them if you want there to be something more. And something more is so worth not trolloping for.
I know, I know. That’s why I said I was just kidding about the Stupid Leaf.
Sometimes sex is painful, Fishface. Also sometimes it rubs the skin off your middle toes.
At least it does when I do it…..
Oh feh Raz, I thought you were talking smack about me. Glad that’s not the case because two girls kicking your butt is rarely the girl on girl action guys wanna see.
I do so love to be twirled too. I also love chocolate chip cookies. But that is a different kind of love. One based on trust and mutual affection.
hats off to a broken shoe and being too tired to get off the couch where you crashed. And if the Cute Boy doesn’t call, then he’s so not worth it. Trust me on this one. *wink*
G, do you want to make me puke on my desk? Make all of us? Apparently, the answer is yes.
Heather- fiction or not, if you’re amused then I’m amused. -Gregg
P.S. I guess the goofballs really do try to hit on you here.
oh, no no no, ari, not you!
i’d actually just read another blog entry elsewhere just before this one and was still reeling from it; hence the misplaced comment. no butt-kickin’ needed! 
If the boys in your reality fail to call at least you will have the cyber boys chasing after your heels. However broken they might be.
fish is a lady. not a trollop. but trollop is a great word
Tired trumps trollop, then torn toes tread.
Sorry.
OK, so you didn’t get any ass on Saturday, you did the right thing in not taking the offer. More importantly, though, did they finish Ari’s kitchen?
A moment of silence for the death of your shoe…
…
Rest in peace, shoe.
It is so nice to wake in the morning without the remorse our doubt of the decisions made the night (morning?) before.
Good work Fish. Good work.
I’ve always considered Harlem to be the place where pumps go to die. Also the place to go if you want crack.
You may have turned over the Stupid Leaf … but lo and behold, on the other side was the Smart Leaf. It’s like two sides of the same coin!
Hmm… I feel sad on your part for losing a shoe!! And happy at the same time that it was a shoe that had caused pain & not one of your favorites!! :O Banish the very thought…. it sounds fatalistic to me!!
Full marks to Ari for solid wisdom – who cares if it’s limited to the bedroom & not the kitchen?? Isn’t that where it matters most anyway…
Losing a shoe is always a sad event, but losing a shoe being twirled. By a cute boy. To Frank Sinatra. Well, that is worth losing your sex in a shoe shoes.
And Ari’s advice? Legendary.
I’m sure cute boy is still racking his brain trying to figure out where he went wrong…
sexy woman…check
Sinatra…check
twirling…check
home alone???
where did he go wrong?
“You’re on this date with me
The pickings have been lush
And yet before the evening is over
You might give me the brush”
Tell me those weren’t MY pumps!
Oh my god, YES. Derek, those were your pumps. We’re going to have to find you a new pair. Pink, maybe?
I loved those effing shoes. It’s like, it’s like, it’s like they–they weren’t just footwear. They were an extension of me.
I, I’m going to need a moment.
Reminds me of Stacy London saying on the What Not to Wear site that Christian Louboutin shoes are “pure sex on a stiletto.”
I think the couch was a great idea…just staying on that couch saved you from so many awkward anonymous sex glares…
Purchasing these replica shoes when they are on sale is a great deal. Purchasing Christian Louboutin Replicas will become one of the finest shopping experiences in your life, which will be worth of money spent.