I'd like to blame my perversions on the thrift store but I know it's not true. It's merely the enabler. It all stared with a pair of thrift store boots, black leather, at least they looked like leather. They were in the usually gender-free zone at the intersection of the men's and women's shoes typically occupied by androgynous sneakers and work shoes. These boots though were obviously intended for a woman's foot. The heel was too high for a man's shoe, even a "fashionable" man. The heel came down to a tiny point. Very sexy. Not like those clunky dyke boot heels down the aisle. I wondered how anyone could walk in such a shoe. Actually I wondered if I would be able to walk in such a shoe. The thought excited and embarrassed me.
I pretended to check out the adjacent sneakers. I don't remember anything about them. The sneakers that is. The boots I remember in every detail. The formentioned heels. The row of studs running down the outer side of each boot. The severe curve of the toe. I guessed that they would go about half way to my knee.
I glanced around and saw that no one was watching me. Why would they be? People are allowed to look at shoes. Maybe I was looking at them for a girlfriend or wife. No, they wouldn't believe that. Maybe a sister or cool aunt. I picked up and scanned the left boot for any markings of size. I found none but they looked like they might fit. Then I realized that even if I found a size I had no idea of how to translate women's sizes into men's. I glanced around again. All clear. I held up my leg and put the bottom of the boot to the bottom of my shoe. It was too short. I put the boot down and moved back towards the men's shoes. I repeated the comparison with a pair or hiking boots that were obviously too large. I wanted anyone who might be watching that I was just checking something. I don't know what. I tried to think of some innocent reason to be checking out women's shoes, but came up blank. The shame of it all was too much. I walked away.
At the start of the "better clothes" rack I looked back at the boots towering over the other shoes. Of course they would be shorter than my shoes. So much of the length of the foot is taken up by those heels. It was too late now. If I went back over there now everyone would know what I was doing.
I pretended to look at the "better" button-up shirts for a while, glancing every so often over at the boots. Imagining what they would feel like to walk in. How they would look on my legs. I realized then that I had been staring at the boots for several moments. I looked around again. There was nobody near the shoes. I looked back down at the ugly and uncomfortable-looking nylon shirts. I hatched a plan. I would take a couple shirts to the dressing room, grabbing the boots on the way. Then I could try them on without anyone seeing.
I picked up a couple shirts and walked the long away around the rack so that the boots would be between me and the dressing room. I started down the aisle and was halfway to the boots when a woman and her young daughter came around the corner and started rummaging through the little girl shoes at the far end. I walked pass them to the dressing room door but it was locked. I turned and returned the shirts to the rack where I found them. I stood there red-faced, nearly hyperventilating, barely believing how stupid I was. At once I felt like a coward for not being able to just go ahead and try on the shoes and at the same time imagining the shame my family would feel if they ever found out.
I pretended to look at the other "better" clothes while the mother and daughter went down the line of shoes. They were dressed exactly the same in clothes too old for a ten year old and too young for a woman with a ten year. When mom picked up my boots I nearly screamed. She measured them against her own heels but they were too big. Then they turned and went down the row of shoes again. Jesus, did they think that somebody snuck more shoes in when they weren't looking?
Finally the fashion twins gave up on the shoes and left. With the dressing room out I had to decide if just buying the boots would be worth it. They were only ten bucks. If they didn't fit I could always just re-donate them. It's not like I'd be wearing them out in public. That thought made me cringe. I pictured myself wearing the boots in my crummy little apartment walking back and forth in front of my bedroom mirror. It made me sick.
I started to leave but had a thought. What if I did wear them out in public? Would anyone even notice? What if I got longer pants that hung down hiding them? I've seen women do that. No one would know. I wondered if I could do this.
I looked at the clerk. Would she react if I brought the boots up to the counter? She didn't seem too interested in her job. She was reading a magazine and chewing her gum with exaggerated angry chomps. Like the gum had done her some wrong and she was teaching it a lesson. When she was done that gum would know that it had been good and truly chewed. I didn't want to be part of that gum's punishment so I left the store.
At home I sat down with a stiff drink to plot how I would get those boots. Of course I knew they wouldn't be there when I went back. Good stuff at thrift stores is never there when you go back. The Belgian waffle makers are eternal. They were there when the store opened in the sixties and would still be then when the building was bulldozed some time in the distant future. But the good stuff, usually the stuff you can't afford just at that moment, will never be there when later you can afford it.
With the possibility of actually obtaining the shoes out of the way I relaxed and had another drink. I wondered again the physics of walking in the boots. The trick I imagine is to put all the weight on the fronts of your feet, using the tiny heels merely for balance. I visualized myself walking in the boots. It wasn't as awkward as I imagined. I wondered at my reaction to these boots. I'm not gay. I don't think I'm gay. I see a naked man and I feel nothing. I see a naked woman and I feel all kinds of things. Things I know I'm not supposed to feel. As I said, I'm a perv. What do you expect?
On my third tequila my mind started playing games. I pictured myself walking down the street in the boots. Then I met a woman wearing the same boots. We were suddenly back here in my apartment. We were both naked except for the boots. She was wearing them. I wasn't. Unconsciously I started playing with myself. Then I noticed that the woman was the clerk from the thrift store. She was still chomping her gum. I felt liked I was about to be chewed up and spit out. I consciously stopped playing with myself. I had another drink. That's the only thing that can stop these feelings. Drinking so much may be bad, but for my family it's not anything unusual. I'd rather my family know I'm a drunk than a deviant.