Shiny Pink Fuck Me Pumps
My wife’s quite the science fiction fan, so when she heard that the great Ray Bradbury was having a 90th birthday party at a science fiction bookstore in Glendale, she had to go. Place was packed with science fiction fans—a weird mesh of young hipsters, old hippies, bookish nerds, weirdos who talk way too much, completely normal looking people and at least one person in a fairy costume. Well, some kind of costume, this time it was an upper twenty something chick in a tinkerbelle-esque get up, that is a form fitting micro mini, green nylons, shiny pink fuck me pumps and bright green hair. Oh, and wings…big dayglo fluttery glittery and rather gorgeous wings that in the crowded store kinda brushed against everybody. She was chatty and terribly cute, leggy even, and she was from Texas. I heard her say that to three different guys. Me? I’m from Texas. Can’t you tell?…and she’d giggle a sexy giggle, lashes a-flutter, wings a-quiver. Of course, those pumps gave the whole thing away…this chick was trying like hell to get picked up, and picked up by a science fiction dude. It was hot and sweaty and crowded, there was wine, and I’m sure she succeeded. Which means that somewhere that night some science fiction fan got his nerdy brains fucked out by a nutso chick in a fairy outfit, complete with wings and those shiny pink fuck me pumps.
What a strange town this is.
Shiny Pink Fuck Me Pumps Again
There was a lady in the lobby here. Selling something, she and some normal looking type at a folding table with signs and stuff…. Not sure what it was as they were taking it all down and put it away. Actually the normal looking girl wasn’t normal looking at all, she was quite pretty. But you didn’t notice her. What you noticed was the other lady’s shoes. They were an insanely brilliant dayglo pink. I mean a violent pink. An eye hurting pink. A glow in the dark like a lighthouse pink. And they were high. Way high. You have to look up at these shoes. The stiletto’s could castrate with one glancing blow—and probably had. Teetering atop them was a tall, white—way white even—woman, thin, short black hair dyed an intense black, her face like alabaster, with gorgeous eye make up and insanely red lipstick. Her arms were covered in a delicate lattice of tattoos. This chick screamed sex, wild, sweaty, insanely positioned, kinkily done, hours long, crazy loud sex. She was this wild splash of x-rated sexuality in the lobby of a Walt Disney office building. She busied herself putting things away, quickly and decisively, and giving rapid fire instructions to the pretty little thing assigned to her. The people walking by made wide detours around her, thoroughly intimidated. They said nothing….but all eyes were on those shoes. You couldn’t help but look at them. They were either the most ridiculous shoes in history or the greatest shoes ever. You looked at her shoes and in that odd part of your brain you think my god she must be wild in bed. She must be the wildest. You hate her, or you’re scared of her, or you want her. Shoes are power.
And Shiny Pink Fuck Me Pumps again, even.
There have been no shiny pink fuck me pumps again, even. Would that there were. Then I could finally finish this goddamn story. Because everything comes in threes. Pairs, three pairs. Everything comes in threes which would make three pairs of shoes. Not six shoes. Otherwise everything would have to come in sixes. And nothing comes in sixes. Omne trium perfectum.
Epilogue: Finally, some Shiny Pink Fuck Me Pumps.
I was at Café Nela this past Saturday and there, slowing making their way down the steep driveway to the beer garden in the back (that’s where the coolest of the cool collect, that beer garden) was a truly outrageous pair of hot pink fuck me pumps. Tall, way tall, and a vivid pink, they were the fuckme-ist fuck me pumps I’d yet seen. Almost a parody. But they were sadly harmless. A man noticed these–they virtually glowed in the dark–and then noticed the woman wearing them was modelish, but her shoes weren’t intimidating. They weren’t even especially sexy. They were just tall and pink and gauche. A distraction. You looked at this pretty girl and saw her shoes and she became a tad less pretty. Besides, she was very sweet. Quiet and sweet and unobtrusive. Amongst the huge egos and personalities endlessly talking in the Café NELA beer garden, she was just a beautiful wall flower in some outrageously pink shoes. And though I’ve been waiting years now for that third pair of hot pink fuck me pumps so I can finish this goddamn story (an unfinished story can drive a writer mad) I need them worn with a vengeance. The kind of woman who struts into a room teetering atop some hot pink fuck me pumps and owns the room. Someone worthy of Shiny Pink Fuck Me Pumps one and two. This sweet pretty lady in slightly ridiculous shoes was not it. Damn.