Leather and Hyde: If the Shoe Fits

Leather and Hyde

Odysseys and Observations
If the Shoe Fits
by Debra Hyde

I thought I could do it, I really did. I thought I could get through Autumn without buying any new boots. After all, I had several pairs already and really used only two in particular --

Although I don't get aroused by shoes, I do enjoy the role they play in the game of notice and flirtation... men notice, and I notice that they notice.

my lace-up flats for daily, knock-about comfort, and my three-inch stacked heels for most any casual leather/fetish event. They suited the occasions of my life just fine and should've been enough.

What's more, I had successfully fought my shoe-shopping compulsion for several months running. The Summer had been void of any compelling styles; I saw nothing inspiring enough to swipe the credit card over. And Autumn seemed to be following suit. Nine West fell flat on its face. Etienne Angier hadn't innovated at all, still relying on old classic styles that I found ho-hum. Styles at The Wild Pair were getting clunkier and clunkier -- big shoes were back and, frankly, while they might work for raves, they don't work for fetish. In fact, the entire Summer shoe season had been such a bust that I entirely forgot to undertake my seasonal pilgrimage to Nordstrom's, where usually I would adore the best in European heels.

I was in a rut. And a decent pair of heels hadn't stuck me there.

The rut didn't last long. I did climb out of it in time by concentrating on the saving I was incurring. I was feeling pretty good about myself, too, having avoided temptation for months on end and finding satisfaction in what I already had on foot... I mean, on hand.

But then, it happened. Boots appeared, beautiful, attractive boots. Two pairs. Affordable, too. And at Parade of Shoes, of all places.

Though it was lust at first glance, I fought the temptation to buy them. "Not until they're on sale," I told myself. Inwardly, I prayed they wouldn't be popular enough to sell out before the end-of-season sales.

What's Afoot

OK, I admit it: I have a thing for shoes. I wouldn't call it a classic sexual fetish, but I would call it a socially-sublimated fetish. I prefer "socially-sublimated" for two reasons.

Reason Number One: Although I don't get aroused by shoes, I do enjoy the role they play in the game of notice and flirtation. They heighten my sexual attractiveness because I'm heightened. Men notice, and I notice that they notice. I like that dynamic and I'll take that ego boost, thank you very much.

Reason Number Two: I live in a consumer-based society which constantly encourages us to spend, indulge, accumulate, and own.

I looked up to see a woman trapped under ship's debris, Wicked Witch of the East style. Only her purple suede boots were visible. My first thought was, "Nice heel."

So if you don't quite fit the psycho-sexual definition of a shoe fetishist, you still have an avenue for expressing your pleasure and compulsion through the act of buying and accumulating. Consumerism allows you the heightened pleasure but without the hard-on.

Having a Shoe Thing has its pitfalls though. For me, concealing it from others is the most difficult aspect of my compulsion. Mind you, I'm no Imelda Marcos. I probably have less than forty pairs of shoes and boots all told, and some are almost a decade old and mothballed. Probably only a dozen pairs qualify for leather/fetish outing. And only three pairs -- common boots, shoes, and sneakers -- see routine use.

But people know. They've figured it out. And they're telling me in telling ways.

The first moment came one night while my kids were watching Star Trek Voyager. I had my face in a book, ignoring the show, when I heard my daughter say, "Boy, Mom would like those boots." My son piped back, "Yeah. They're perfect for her." I looked up to see a woman trapped under ship's debris, Wicked-Witch-of-the-East style. Only her purple suede boots were visible.

My first thought was, "Nice heel." But I didn't have the heart to tell my kids that purple suede doesn't cut it for me (too Woodstock-gone-commercial). My second thought was one of instant horror and went something like, "Oh my God, they know!" Later, that shock would grow: While shopping for new shoes, my daughter would complain about how no one made shoes with heels for little girls her age. Talk about taking the spring out of my step!

The Ugly Downside

Not everything about my Shoe Thing is attractive or funny, however. In fact, some of it's rather ugly. Like the sixteen-year-old dock shoes I'm wearing right now. Five years ago, my oldest nephew had declared them "just right," having assessed their aging condition.

A precursor to the platform, the chopine was a pedestal of a shoe, consisting of a wood or cork sole that towered from just a few inches in height to a ridiculous 18 to 30 inches.

He also told me, in so many words, that I'd be committing ratty-shoe sacrilege to toss them at their peak of holey-ness. I wonder how he'd view them now, what with their scuffed leather toes, broken rawhide laces, ever-widening holes at the seams. Maybe he'd think me wise to relegate them to house shoe status.

Just as bad, it's not always easy to let go of old shoes, which can date you. Or outdate you, as the case may be. Like the pair of sandals that go back to 1979. You know, those half-inch, multi-colored thongs that went with tube tops. Then there's the beige mukluks from the same era, having outlived the moon boots only because the leather outlasted latex. My oldest pair, though, are Made-In-India sandals from the mid-70s. Maybe you remember them: the ultra-flat leather thong with a braided toe loop and vamp strap. The kind that, when you see them, you think "hippie."

Sigh. I told you it wasn't a pretty picture.

But A Pretty Picture Book

Yeah, it's hard to hide your Shoe Thing from the world. If the Star Trek incident wasn't bad enough, my husband made things a touch worse on Mother's Day when he present me with a book called "Shoes." Written by Linda O'Keefe and published by Workman's Press, it's a small pictorial pocket-book of shoe history, covering everything from the lowly sandal to the high-heeled fetish shoes to the well-heeled designer pump. It's a visual explosion of style through the ages. When I first opened it, I thought I'd spend all my time drooling over the sections about stiletto and fetish footwear. But then the chapter on chopines and platforms caught my eye.

And my imagination.

A precursor to the platform, the chopine was a pedestal of a shoe, consisting of a wood or cork sole that towered from just a few inches in height to a ridiculous 18 to 30 inches. And there, women were perched in 15th-century Venice. Sources are conflicted about where the Venetians got this idea; some claimed 14th-century Spain, which suggests a Moorish influence, while others look to the Far East, an influential Venetian trade source at the times.

Why the chopine became so popular is also open to some debate. Polite history claims they were created to allow women to walk the dirty streets of Venice without getting messy. In fact, the next time you see a man offer his arm to a woman, think chopine. That's how the tradition started -- to help a woman walk in those impossible shoes. The shoes also became something of a status symbol, a reflection of wealth. By elevating its wearer above the muck of Venetian streets, the chopine meant an elevated place in society.

But the chopine has another side that history books don't always discuss. Because their extreme heights prevented a woman's freedom of movement, husbands routinely used them to prevent wives from straying. They became, in a sense, a form of chastity assurance. Even the Catholic church overlooked the chopine's phallic appearance to give tacit approval to the shoes. After all, they kept people from indulging in such sins as dancing.

Enough history. We are, after all, talking about my Shoe Thing, aren't we?

Chopine Dreams

Ever since seeing the chopine, I've fantasized about wearing a pair to a play party.

Ever since seeing the chopine, I've fantasized about wearing a pair to a play party. Like Cinderella waiting to happen, I can imagine how wearing them would affect me.

Like Cinderella waiting to happen, I can imagine how wearing them would affect me. My only movements would occur at Master's discretion, making the chopines, in effect, a form of bondage. Because they would hobble me, they would humble me. And erotic humility is a clear reminder of Master's control over me.

The chastity association would further humble me, reminding me that I'm in a proprietary relationship with Master, that I'm well-owned. Beyond basic control, Master decides how accessible I am to the rest of the scene world. Though he prefers a highly exclusive relationship, he does enjoy putting me on display now and then. And the chopines are a means to that end, that's for sure.

Which leads right into the fact that I'd be a spectacle, a curiosity, what with an obscurity like the chopine defining our scene. I can imagine humility turning into humiliation as friends snicker over my predicament. They'd be repeating history as well -- tourists once flocked to 15th-century Venice as much to mock and laugh at women in their chopines as to see the greatest of renaissance sites.

All these converging facets would make for one incredible scene.

Sigh.

Dreams Aside

Well, I will see if my local leather maker could fashion a pair of chopines for me. (I figure, if he can make saddles for pony play, he can fashion chopines for me.) But my fantasy will, for now, remain a dream.

So I'll have to get my jollies in other ways. And I know just what it will take.

It'll take bringing the Spice Girls back to town, the only venue where you can legitimately wear your highest, sexiest heels while catering to your daughter's pre-teen, Girl-Power-pop-music whims.

It'll take another shoe sale like the one I encountered last spring at The Wild Pair, a great place for clearance-priced fetish shoes. Last time out, my local store practically gave away several pairs of platforms -- all in size seven, in several styles, and in a perfect fit. What heaven! Still, I exercised restraint and settled on three pairs: a pair of platforms with such severe stiletto heels that they'll do for now, in lieu of the chopine; a pair of platforms, open-toed with a broader heel; and platforms with the same heel design but with strappy sandal uppers. And at prices slashed so low I spent a mere $14.00 blissful dollars for all of them.

It'll take another unexpected find like the one two years ago in which I discovered red patent leather, four-inch stiletto, buckle-strap ankle boots. In an antique store. Its very reasonable $35.00 dollars was worth every discomfort I felt when the store manager scrutinized me and my purchase. (Always plead "I'm into costuming" when confronted by the vanilla public.)

But those were the rare finds and they happen infrequently. Sure, the memory of each find is as ecstatic as the actual experience, but I have to be realistic. It'll be some time before I can match those moments.

For now, that's OK. I'll be content with my new boots. Yes, new boots -- those Parade of Shoes boots. They went on sale two weeks ago.

And each pair is divine. Just divine.

About the Author

Debra Hyde is a mostly submissive switch who lives in New England with her husband, two children, three cats, and a dog. She says she is "well-owned and well-loved" by a very special Master, and shares a unique triangle with him and her somewhat submissive husband.

"When England Calls," one of Debra's short stories, graces the pages of the recently published Mammoth Book of Historical Erotica. She is currently working on a number of others, as well as the Great American Leather Novel. Her BDSM work has been previously published on the Internet by Leather Online and Section 12, but Leather and Hyde was her first regular column, originally hosted by About.com's BDSM site and relocated here with her kind permission.

Debra also maintains a personal Weblog called Pursed Lips and can be reached at 75222.2150@compuserve.com... but no junk mail or "Wannas," please.