High Heels

I wonder how do they menage to balance on top of those high heels, their swollen ankles and squished toes. I’s lovely to see how much they suffer to get their butts all pointing up. Some walk straight, some seem stuck, feeling the pain on each step. The higher the needle, the greater the pain. If it all depended on me, I’d make it a law for every woman to wear 6 inch heels and to cry their way to my pleasure. But, all in all, how do they menage to walk on top of those. I can see them walking so graceful so full of womanhood, unconfortable. Even though I write, I’ve never met them. They seem to smell like sex (sweat and latex). They seem to want sex, to call for it. I don’t think I’ll ever meet them, it’s like a slap on the face. When they walk they seem to walk over me, and it hurts. Hurts because I have this scary feelling that I’ll never be able to get them off. And with those sharp needles, every path turns into a runaway, and they walk like queens of my painful desires. I sincerely want to know why I may never met them. They all seem só distant to me, so full of pride and demands. And why is that?
