Man, oh man, I can't wait to get my feet into these beauties. First I will have to shower, put on my makeup and make my hair all pretty and soft. Perhaps I will wear some lingerie. Maybe not. Then I will lie on the bed and don my new shoesie-woozies.
"Oh Pumpkin, Yoo hoo," I call out hoping that my precious one can hear me from the television room.
"I'm watching boxing, my angel. What do you want?"
"I want to show you my new shoesies!"
"Well come here and show me!"
"No. You have to come here," I say in my best baby voice.
"Why is that, my precious angel?"
"I cannot walk in them, my totem pole of love."
"Why did you buy them?" Do I sense irritation in his voice? No. Couldn't be.
"For you, my hunka hunka burnin' love." I'm practicing laying on my back with my feet in the air and figuring out how not to ass rape my lover with the heel during the heat of passion... or worse, puncture his kidney.
"Okay. After this round, I'll check out your new shoes."
Saddened, I decide to go to the kitchen in the meantime, then I twist my ankle, grab some snacks, limp back to the bedroom with one shoe hanging on to my ankle by a thread, finally rip them off and throw them across the room, tie my hair into a ponytail, put on my flannel nightie and munch on pretzels, coffee cake and diet pepsi with the remote firmly in my hand as I switch between gardening shows with my lower lip thrust outward.
Then my punky-poo comes to our love room after his show, ready for action, sees me in bed eating and pouting, trips over my new shoes, hits his head on the edge of the dresser which makes a protrusion on his brow larger than the bulge in his jeans and yet he still looks at me lovingly.
"Are these your new shoes?" He holds one of them up and accidentally stabs himself in the arm with the spiked heel.
"Yes, sweetness."
"I don't like the color." He licks the stab wound.
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