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raybearYou know what makes me happy? Seeing ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
brucebanner's comments appear in my e-mail box. I love and miss that guy.
And as much as THAT makes me happy, know what makes me even happier? Going to sleep and waking up withdommeyourass back in our bed. I got the manic rundown of the week in Ireland last night and then she passed out just before 9 o'clock. We didn't make it to tango class unless you count horizontal tango-ing in bed. I know, that was a cheesy line, but how could I resist?
I just tracked my package from UPS and it should arrive today. I know I won't be able to resist trying it on before I get home. I hope it will match perfectly with my new boots I purchased over the weekend. I actually got two pairs. On Saturday, I ran some errands before meeting Miss Rook for lunch and stopped in the Brown Elephant near Irving Park. I've never had much success there, partly because I'm spoiled by Village Thrift prices. (Suddenly six bucks for a shirt seems outrageous when I could get it for three.) But I browsed through their shoes and found a nice pair of Kenneth Cole boots (I'm also a brand whore when it comes to thrifting, though I'd never in a million years pay full price for the names), which sort of looked like gay army boots -- they are black, six inches tall, shiny, and with the horizontal line across the toe. They weren't exactly what I wanted in black boots, more faggy than leather daddy, but they fit, they were in great condition, and I figured for six dollars, at least I would have a pair of black boots until I could get around to finding "the ultimate pair." I also figured that according to the laws of the universe, if I bought this pair now, the ultimate pair would show up quickly.
After lunch with Miss Rook, the weather was gorgeous, so I suggested we drive and walk around some and if she'd go shoe shopping with me. I flipped through the yellow pages of the diner looking for nearby discount shoe places and found a listing for Adams Shoe Factory on Irving Park, directly west of us. We headed out there and at some point we crossed a line and possibly a time zone into the past. We were in a neighborhood that's a different kind of Chicago, and a place that reminds me of parts of Atlanta and my childhood. More residential streets, older stores sandwiched between newer shopping plazas and mini-malls (or really micro-malls). I find the store (Est. 1929), surprised at how tiny it is since the ad was so big.
I turn down a side street to find parking. In the middle of chatting, I see two mormons ringing a doorbell. I told this story recently and someone asked "how did you know they were mormons?" and I thought how could I NOT know? They were two young white guys in dark dress pants and white dress shirts and I'm pretty sure their bikes were parked on the sidewalk. So I'm driving and what do I do? I blurt out "HEY! It's Mormons!" and then proceeeded to honk at them. They turned, I waved, and they waved back. Then Miss Rook and I started talking about how we should circle back and invite them into the car and have a foursome in the backseat. They looked sort of cute but more importantly they were probably sexually repressed which is really hot. As Miss Rook said, "give me a Catholic in bed any day." Thus began our afternoon of perversion talk.
We walk into this shoestore and it was like a Kinney's from the mid-80s. There was a store dog, cocker spaniel barking at us (for some reason, even that breed of dog feels like the 80s to me). A small television was on showing some strange movie from the early 80s taking place in the south, which added to my flashback feelings. Of course, we were the only customers. The main shoe guy was an older guy, a guy's guy which a gold watch and a gold chain that showed through his open polo shirt. I head to the boots section, and he says "oh, are you looking for a work boot?" I hesitate, then say, "um, sort of." Then he starts telling me about the perfect work shoe for me, and takes me over to a different rack to pull a box out after asking what size I am. He opens it up and it's the ugliest boot ever, a criss-cross of brown suede. "Do you have it in black?" I say meekly. He find it in black then I sit down and he puts the boot on me. Let me reiterate -- he put the boot on me. He had the stool with the slanted panel for me to rest my foot and he straddled my leg
and removed my shoe and put the new one on me. I immediately regretted even letting him get this far and said "you know, this is a nice boot, but not what I'm looking for -- I should have come here when I was shopping for a snow boot." He replied with "Coulda shoula woulda!" Seriously.
I head back over to the rack with boots that are closer to what I want. He asks again what I need -- steel toe? Traction? I wanted to say "I want a boot that can be worshipped." But it just wasn't that kind of store.
They had my perfect boot. I asked if they had it in my size. He went into the back to get it for me. I haven't shopped at a shoe store where the salesman had to go into the back to get my size in FORever. All my shoes have come from Payless or thrift stores. He brings it out, puts the shoe on me again. Laces it up. Miss Rook keeps eyeing me, trying not to laugh. It's incredibly homoerotic, despite or because of his obvious straight machismo and male bonding conversation in the midst of trying to land the sell. "It fits you like a glove," he says. I agree. It's my magic boot. I say I'll take it.
Then he says, "do you wear gym shoes?" Um, yeah? Sometimes? "I got something I want you to try on -- I don't even care if you buy it, I just want you to try it." So I indulge him. I admit, I sort of liked him handling my feet. He wasn't hot, but the perversion of the experience was. He put them on me. Then he asked me to walk around. He asked me to walk all the way to the front and "try them off the carpet". Miss Rook was barely holding it together and I wasn't far behind. I was convinced he really just wanted to see my ass as I walked away from him.
I came back and looked at her. "What do you think? Are they my style?" I was obviously not going to buy these ugly ass cross training sneakers, but I couldn't help playing along for a minute. I think he assumed we were a couple, so I was playing up that angle as well. We agreed they just weren't my style and I would stick with the boots only.
Another co-worker, a younger woman, rang me up, but he walked me up to the counter and clapped his hand on my shoulder and wished me luck with my boots.
If he only knew what I had in mind for those boots.
If he only knew what I had in mind while he was massaging my feet into them.
brucebanner's comments appear in my e-mail box. I love and miss that guy.And as much as THAT makes me happy, know what makes me even happier? Going to sleep and waking up with
dommeyourass back in our bed. I got the manic rundown of the week in Ireland last night and then she passed out just before 9 o'clock. We didn't make it to tango class unless you count horizontal tango-ing in bed. I know, that was a cheesy line, but how could I resist?I just tracked my package from UPS and it should arrive today. I know I won't be able to resist trying it on before I get home. I hope it will match perfectly with my new boots I purchased over the weekend. I actually got two pairs. On Saturday, I ran some errands before meeting Miss Rook for lunch and stopped in the Brown Elephant near Irving Park. I've never had much success there, partly because I'm spoiled by Village Thrift prices. (Suddenly six bucks for a shirt seems outrageous when I could get it for three.) But I browsed through their shoes and found a nice pair of Kenneth Cole boots (I'm also a brand whore when it comes to thrifting, though I'd never in a million years pay full price for the names), which sort of looked like gay army boots -- they are black, six inches tall, shiny, and with the horizontal line across the toe. They weren't exactly what I wanted in black boots, more faggy than leather daddy, but they fit, they were in great condition, and I figured for six dollars, at least I would have a pair of black boots until I could get around to finding "the ultimate pair." I also figured that according to the laws of the universe, if I bought this pair now, the ultimate pair would show up quickly.
After lunch with Miss Rook, the weather was gorgeous, so I suggested we drive and walk around some and if she'd go shoe shopping with me. I flipped through the yellow pages of the diner looking for nearby discount shoe places and found a listing for Adams Shoe Factory on Irving Park, directly west of us. We headed out there and at some point we crossed a line and possibly a time zone into the past. We were in a neighborhood that's a different kind of Chicago, and a place that reminds me of parts of Atlanta and my childhood. More residential streets, older stores sandwiched between newer shopping plazas and mini-malls (or really micro-malls). I find the store (Est. 1929), surprised at how tiny it is since the ad was so big.
I turn down a side street to find parking. In the middle of chatting, I see two mormons ringing a doorbell. I told this story recently and someone asked "how did you know they were mormons?" and I thought how could I NOT know? They were two young white guys in dark dress pants and white dress shirts and I'm pretty sure their bikes were parked on the sidewalk. So I'm driving and what do I do? I blurt out "HEY! It's Mormons!" and then proceeeded to honk at them. They turned, I waved, and they waved back. Then Miss Rook and I started talking about how we should circle back and invite them into the car and have a foursome in the backseat. They looked sort of cute but more importantly they were probably sexually repressed which is really hot. As Miss Rook said, "give me a Catholic in bed any day." Thus began our afternoon of perversion talk.
We walk into this shoestore and it was like a Kinney's from the mid-80s. There was a store dog, cocker spaniel barking at us (for some reason, even that breed of dog feels like the 80s to me). A small television was on showing some strange movie from the early 80s taking place in the south, which added to my flashback feelings. Of course, we were the only customers. The main shoe guy was an older guy, a guy's guy which a gold watch and a gold chain that showed through his open polo shirt. I head to the boots section, and he says "oh, are you looking for a work boot?" I hesitate, then say, "um, sort of." Then he starts telling me about the perfect work shoe for me, and takes me over to a different rack to pull a box out after asking what size I am. He opens it up and it's the ugliest boot ever, a criss-cross of brown suede. "Do you have it in black?" I say meekly. He find it in black then I sit down and he puts the boot on me. Let me reiterate -- he put the boot on me. He had the stool with the slanted panel for me to rest my foot and he straddled my leg
and removed my shoe and put the new one on me. I immediately regretted even letting him get this far and said "you know, this is a nice boot, but not what I'm looking for -- I should have come here when I was shopping for a snow boot." He replied with "Coulda shoula woulda!" Seriously.
I head back over to the rack with boots that are closer to what I want. He asks again what I need -- steel toe? Traction? I wanted to say "I want a boot that can be worshipped." But it just wasn't that kind of store.
They had my perfect boot. I asked if they had it in my size. He went into the back to get it for me. I haven't shopped at a shoe store where the salesman had to go into the back to get my size in FORever. All my shoes have come from Payless or thrift stores. He brings it out, puts the shoe on me again. Laces it up. Miss Rook keeps eyeing me, trying not to laugh. It's incredibly homoerotic, despite or because of his obvious straight machismo and male bonding conversation in the midst of trying to land the sell. "It fits you like a glove," he says. I agree. It's my magic boot. I say I'll take it.
Then he says, "do you wear gym shoes?" Um, yeah? Sometimes? "I got something I want you to try on -- I don't even care if you buy it, I just want you to try it." So I indulge him. I admit, I sort of liked him handling my feet. He wasn't hot, but the perversion of the experience was. He put them on me. Then he asked me to walk around. He asked me to walk all the way to the front and "try them off the carpet". Miss Rook was barely holding it together and I wasn't far behind. I was convinced he really just wanted to see my ass as I walked away from him.
I came back and looked at her. "What do you think? Are they my style?" I was obviously not going to buy these ugly ass cross training sneakers, but I couldn't help playing along for a minute. I think he assumed we were a couple, so I was playing up that angle as well. We agreed they just weren't my style and I would stick with the boots only.
Another co-worker, a younger woman, rang me up, but he walked me up to the counter and clapped his hand on my shoulder and wished me luck with my boots.
If he only knew what I had in mind for those boots.
If he only knew what I had in mind while he was massaging my feet into them.
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no subject
Date: 2004-03-09 10:28 am (UTC)1) As a former shoe salesman I must defend my brethren: We are NOT perverted foot-strokers looking for a heel to love!
(For the most part,anyway.)
and
2)Six-goddamn-bucks for a goddamn designer boot!
I spent the weekend paying full price to satisfy my shoe lust and you bust out with this!
I hate you! I hate you! I hate you!
(Can I stroke your foot now?:)
no subject
Date: 2004-03-09 10:35 am (UTC)Let me have my fantasy! Don't ruin it with the truth!
Re: #2
I don't know what to tell you. {*goes back to stroking his Kenneth Cole's and thinks about how nice they'll look after being polished tonight....*}
no subject
Date: 2004-03-09 10:39 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-03-09 10:55 am (UTC)this salesman sounds as though he could have an alternate career as an IML bootblack contestant, for sure.
no subject
Date: 2004-03-09 11:23 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-03-09 11:25 am (UTC)good luck with your love!!
no subject
Date: 2004-03-09 01:35 pm (UTC)Thanks!
no subject
Date: 2004-03-09 01:31 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-03-09 01:37 pm (UTC)You make me feel like an unnatural woman
Date: 2004-03-09 10:54 pm (UTC)Oh you terrible flattering flirt! You know just how to make a boy feel special. Thank you for being so kind.
And now I will share a secret with you, from one boot perv to another. For boots that can be worshiped, try REDWING shoe store. They have the hottest, manliest black boots ever. Also, Army Navy Surplus is a great place to go. The Redwing folks will caress your ankle while they lace the boot onto your other foot.
Also, try Fetbot.com. It's a "fetish resource guide and hangout" They know all the best supplies that are non-toxic for boot care.
Not to be too candid, but are you a boot slut or the proud, (hopeful) recipient of boot love from a boot slut? I am, of course a proud boot dom. I like to have em buffed by my boy's buz cut...mmmm, it's good to be a perv.
Hey, since you live in Chicago, I know that Adam's Factory Shoe Outlet on West Irving Park Road carries RedWings, or else they used to. (773) 539-4120 Also, there's a real RedWing shoe store in Berwyn on W Cermak.
Thanks for giving me an opportunity to totally out myself as a bootperv. I'm so glad that my Granny is not on lj!
Lace em tight, shine em bright,
Joe
This is the pair I got for Christmas: http://www.redwingshoe.com/shoe-zoom.cfm?style=970
Re: You make me feel like an unnatural woman
Date: 2004-03-10 07:31 am (UTC)You're stalking me. Were you hiding in the trunk of my car that day and I didn't see you behind the cat food?
Like most all things sexual, I'm a bit switchy, though definitely more of a boot top. Basically I ALWAYS like to have them worshipped, but I will occasionally worship someone special's boots. Like
Thanks for the tips, you sexy perv.
Re: You make me feel like an unnatural woman
Date: 2004-03-11 12:07 am (UTC)BTW, I've been living in your dryer and I wanted to say that you should really stop putting your undies in the dryer cuz the waist bands are really starting to wear out.
A stalker is just a friend you have not met yet,
Joe