Hog on the Run
Wednesday, April 13, 2005
Boot Based Erotica
It's not really
related in any way but it reminded me...
Way back in the dark past, when I was still trying to improve my handwriting to something approaching legibility (NOWADAYS WHEN I HAVE TO HANDWRITE I USE CAPITALS SO IT CAN BE READ) and working out just who the hell I was, I decided to buy a pair of commando type boots. You know the kind; long, hefty, hardwearing, great for wearing with stupidly short skirts and eye-paringly bright tights*. I harboured goth intentions, a reinvention of myself as "kewl" or maybe "hott". In hindsight, I must have looked like I was wearing them either for a bet, or so I wouldn't blow away in high winds.
In the shoe shop was the most beautiful boy, no older than me, perfect in black T shirt and tousled straight-from-a-warm-bed hair. Nervous sweat inducingly gorgeous. So far out of my league I could have cried. But he is coming this way, and shitshitshit, he is talking, quick! form words you moron! After silently gibbering for a matter of minutes I succeeded in stuttering out my size and hefted my boot of choice at him, simpering helplessly like a drugged chimp all the while.
He came back with the boots and I was so pleased with their lumpen effect, I paid for them there and then.
Picture the scene. There I am, preparing to walk out wearing my new pavement crushing megaboots, when he stops me and points out the price tag still hanging from the laces. I fumble pointlessly with it and stand up. And then he kneels down on the floor, looks right up at me and bites the fucking tag off. While looking at me in a meaningful way, remember. Goodbyes were said. I left the shop and giggled hysterically all the way down the road.
Formative experience that. If only I was a little older and wiser at the time, I'd damn well have asked him what time he finished.
*Translation: Pantyhose. My God that is one filthy suggestive term
:: gibbered Okapi, at 8:41 pm
2 Comments:
Hahaha!
God I would have died had some man kneeled before me and bit the tag off my shoe.
Why is it that I always get the fat grandmotherly type as my shoe person? The ones wearing support hose, and when their legs rub together they sound like sandpaper? And their skirts are always slightly hoiked the wrong way?
Either her or the gum popping blonde chick in tight tight jeans who says "WE don't have YOUR size, the largest we have is a 5".
It was a once in a lifetime thing I think, because I too now get the wee wifey / skinny blonde with attitude+ sales assistant everywhere I go.
"They" have obviously changed the employment rules and not bothered to tell us.
Wednesday, April 13, 2005
Boot Based Erotica
It's not really
related in any way but it reminded me...
Way back in the dark past, when I was still trying to improve my handwriting to something approaching legibility (NOWADAYS WHEN I HAVE TO HANDWRITE I USE CAPITALS SO IT CAN BE READ) and working out just who the hell I was, I decided to buy a pair of commando type boots. You know the kind; long, hefty, hardwearing, great for wearing with stupidly short skirts and eye-paringly bright tights*. I harboured goth intentions, a reinvention of myself as "kewl" or maybe "hott". In hindsight, I must have looked like I was wearing them either for a bet, or so I wouldn't blow away in high winds.
In the shoe shop was the most beautiful boy, no older than me, perfect in black T shirt and tousled straight-from-a-warm-bed hair. Nervous sweat inducingly gorgeous. So far out of my league I could have cried. But he is coming this way, and shitshitshit, he is talking, quick! form words you moron! After silently gibbering for a matter of minutes I succeeded in stuttering out my size and hefted my boot of choice at him, simpering helplessly like a drugged chimp all the while.
He came back with the boots and I was so pleased with their lumpen effect, I paid for them there and then.
Picture the scene. There I am, preparing to walk out wearing my new pavement crushing megaboots, when he stops me and points out the price tag still hanging from the laces. I fumble pointlessly with it and stand up. And then he kneels down on the floor, looks right up at me and bites the fucking tag off. While looking at me in a meaningful way, remember. Goodbyes were said. I left the shop and giggled hysterically all the way down the road.
Formative experience that. If only I was a little older and wiser at the time, I'd damn well have asked him what time he finished.
*Translation: Pantyhose. My God that is one filthy suggestive term
related in any way but it reminded me...
Way back in the dark past, when I was still trying to improve my handwriting to something approaching legibility (NOWADAYS WHEN I HAVE TO HANDWRITE I USE CAPITALS SO IT CAN BE READ) and working out just who the hell I was, I decided to buy a pair of commando type boots. You know the kind; long, hefty, hardwearing, great for wearing with stupidly short skirts and eye-paringly bright tights*. I harboured goth intentions, a reinvention of myself as "kewl" or maybe "hott". In hindsight, I must have looked like I was wearing them either for a bet, or so I wouldn't blow away in high winds.
In the shoe shop was the most beautiful boy, no older than me, perfect in black T shirt and tousled straight-from-a-warm-bed hair. Nervous sweat inducingly gorgeous. So far out of my league I could have cried. But he is coming this way, and shitshitshit, he is talking, quick! form words you moron! After silently gibbering for a matter of minutes I succeeded in stuttering out my size and hefted my boot of choice at him, simpering helplessly like a drugged chimp all the while.
He came back with the boots and I was so pleased with their lumpen effect, I paid for them there and then.
Picture the scene. There I am, preparing to walk out wearing my new pavement crushing megaboots, when he stops me and points out the price tag still hanging from the laces. I fumble pointlessly with it and stand up. And then he kneels down on the floor, looks right up at me and bites the fucking tag off. While looking at me in a meaningful way, remember. Goodbyes were said. I left the shop and giggled hysterically all the way down the road.
Formative experience that. If only I was a little older and wiser at the time, I'd damn well have asked him what time he finished.
*Translation: Pantyhose. My God that is one filthy suggestive term
:: gibbered Okapi, at 8:41 pm
2 Comments:
Hahaha!
God I would have died had some man kneeled before me and bit the tag off my shoe.
Why is it that I always get the fat grandmotherly type as my shoe person? The ones wearing support hose, and when their legs rub together they sound like sandpaper? And their skirts are always slightly hoiked the wrong way?
Either her or the gum popping blonde chick in tight tight jeans who says "WE don't have YOUR size, the largest we have is a 5".
God I would have died had some man kneeled before me and bit the tag off my shoe.
Why is it that I always get the fat grandmotherly type as my shoe person? The ones wearing support hose, and when their legs rub together they sound like sandpaper? And their skirts are always slightly hoiked the wrong way?
Either her or the gum popping blonde chick in tight tight jeans who says "WE don't have YOUR size, the largest we have is a 5".
It was a once in a lifetime thing I think, because I too now get the wee wifey / skinny blonde with attitude+ sales assistant everywhere I go.
"They" have obviously changed the employment rules and not bothered to tell us.
"They" have obviously changed the employment rules and not bothered to tell us.
