Confessions of a Kinky Divorcee. Lana Fox
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then louder and louder, like some scene from a steamy movie. And then, suddenly, something’s changed – something very, very hot – and the bangs become louder and faster and harder, and Janey shouts, ‘Oh, fuck, baby.’ And once again, I’m burying my fingers inside me.
I climax like the clappers, Kitten. Oh. My. Gosh.
After this, I shower, dress and go to breakfast, thinking about Guy and the date we have this evening. Someone – hopefully Janey, not Lil – is making breakfast and the aroma of coffee is wonderful. It reminds me of Henry and the way he used to look after me, bringing me breakfast in the mornings, and croissants on Saturdays.
Still, he’s gone. Get over it, Debs.
In the kitchen, my tenant’s laptop is open on the table, next to an empty plate. On the screen is a picture of a giant red stiletto shoe. The headline of the article is Why We Can’t Let Go of Our Heels. Janey herself is standing at the coffee maker in a new, shorter T-shirt, which shows a tantalising glimpse of her wonderful buttocks in a pair of pale-blue Lycra briefs. And oh, my gosh, I so want to stroke those buttocks – tiptoe up and lean against her back, cupping each cheek and feeling her respond. If I did so, God knows what would happen. Perhaps she’d give a little jolt of surprise before leaning back into me, purring as she presses my hand against the outline of her breast. If I had a cock, Kitten, I’d sweep aside her briefs just enough to push myself into her and feel her, wet from Lil, her lovely muscles gripping this new bit of me as I slide in and out, harder each time. (Honestly! This ‘diary’ business is hard. I’m embarrassed just writing about my fantasies, and you’re not even human.) And anyway, what does this penis envy say about me? Does it make me lesbian? Henry would call me a gender-bender – and he’d probably be right. But is that such a bad thing? Gender-bending, I mean? This is what I’m thinking in the kitchen, when Janey turns back towards her computer and jumps with surprise to see me there. ‘Oh, gosh,’ she says, laughing and rolling her eyes. ‘You startled me. Again.’
I tell her I’m sorry. I’m so used to living alone. At least, for the past year anyway. ‘Hard at work, I see?’ I say, pointing at her laptop screen.
‘Did you know “stiletto” means “needle” in Italian?’ says Janey.
‘Really?’ This floors me a little. The things I don’t know about shoes.
Janey walks to her laptop, coffee mug in hand. ‘In the 60s, the fashion gurus tried to get rid of stilettos. But women weren’t having it. Demand was so high that the shoe shops had to give in.’
‘I wouldn’t give up my high heels for anything,’ I tell her.
‘I wouldn’t either,’ says Janey. ‘If I wore them, I mean.’ Then she looks me right in the eyes. ‘What size are you?’ she asks. ‘Feet,’ she adds, when I look at her blankly.
I tell her I’m a six. ‘Why d’you ask?’
Turns out she bought Lil some sexy shoes, but the girl doesn’t like them. Lil takes a size five, I take a size six. The sad thing is, she’d have given them to me, if we shared a shoe-size.
I all but gush my thanks, and Janey gives a small smile. ‘I just like it that you appreciate these things,’ she says, sitting back at her computer screen. And I felt a little disappointed that she didn’t look down at my red, furry boudoir-slippers – with kitten heels, no less.
‘I bet we’ve got some lovely shoes for Lil at Pussyfoot’s,’ I say, ever the saleswoman. ‘You should drop by.’
‘Oh, I will,’ says Janey, looking up, gaze intense. ‘Soon, in fact. And if Lil can’t make it, you can model them for me.’ She stares at me for a moment, her pupils blackening with meaning, before turning back to her screen.
And, once again, I’m wet because of my twenty-three-year-old tenant. I have got to get over this. If anyone found out, what would I say? I wish you had a padlock, Kitten, but you haven’t, so that’s that. You know, I think it’s time I started packing you in my handbag, carrying you with me, scrawling my secrets on the sly.
Anyhoo, the other things that happened today were both shoe-related. I’d been at Pussyfoot Shoes for about an hour when I went to take a loo break. On my return, I find my Saturday girl, Cheryl Brown, prancing around the sale section in a pair of Jimmy Choos. Dressed in her Pussyfoot uniform, which, by the way, is the same as mine – a white blouse with a pink, flared skirt – she looks like a gangly flamingo as she tries to strut in six-inch heels that are far too small. What’s more, some boy in saggy teenage clothes (I assume this is her boyfriend) is half-snorting, half-laughing behind his hand as she performs this whole pantomime. It wouldn’t have been so bad if there hadn’t been a woman waiting, shoe in hand, clearly after some help. And by the look of her reddened cheeks and pursed lips, she’d been waiting quite a while.
This is not the first time this sort of thing has happened with Cheryl. She’s a sweet girl, but lazy, and she seems to think it’s fine to leave customers waiting while she has her fun. I should have fired her, Kitten – after all, she’s already had two warnings – but when I got her into the back room and her boy wasn’t there to impress, she looked paper-pale, and I felt sorry for her. ‘I love working for you, Deborah,’ she said, her bottom lip all quivery. ‘This is the best job I’ve had.’
So I gave her a formal warning and sent her back to the shop floor. What a softie I am, Kitten. I wish I could be all strict and pro, like they are at Shoes by J down the street. People come from all over the country to shop at Shoes by J. The managers have more self-control than I have – and there’s no way they wouldn’t fire Cheryl on the spot. Maybe this weakness of mine is why I lost Henry, Kitten. I didn’t assert myself. I just let him treat me like I didn’t exist.
What’s more, those poor Jimmy Choos that Cheryl had toyed with were so stretched that I had to take ten pounds off the price. My gosh, I love those shoes. They’re black and lilac with steel heels. Steel heels! Delicious. Someone put care into those, Kitten. Mark my words, they were made with love.
Thank heaven for this afternoon, when an elegant man walks into the store. He’s like a jaguar in his stylishness – all designer suit and cool stance. It’s raining outside, which is why I wasn’t expecting many customers. Besides, Cheryl’s popped out for a coffee break and Pearl, my other member of staff, must be in the stockroom. So I dash over to help him, but when I get close he gives me a dazzling smile and I realise it’s Guy. He kisses me on the cheek, takes my hand and says, ‘Just thought I’d stop by and make sure we’re good for tonight,’ and he holds my gaze with those deep-brown peepers that swallow you up before you’ve even breathed.
I tell him I haven’t forgotten. He’s picking me up around seven.
‘Ready for a little spice?’ he says, raising a single eyebrow. It takes me a moment to get it – we’re eating Thai tonight.
‘I’m all about spice,’ I say, gesturing towards the central display, where shoes rest on fur-trimmed shelves, their gold inner soles gleaming in the light.
I feel a glow of pride as Guy wanders across to the shoes. And guess which ones he reaches for first? The tiger-print stilettos! Kitten, I almost die. ‘I’ve been saving up for those,’ I say. ‘They’re rather too … dear for me.’
‘Well, my dear,’ he says, with a wink that makes me smile, ‘let’s see how you look in them.’ And before I’ve had a moment to object, he’s down on one knee, sliding my stockinged foot out of my pink three-inchers and into the tiger-print beauties. His fingers on my ankle make my legs tingle and the tingle shoots up my thighs, making me giddy and light. He gives a long ‘Mmm’ while he strokes the arch of my foot, as he places me into the shoe. And I must say, he handles me beautifully! So firm and in control, with just the right touch. When the delectable shoes are on, he even runs a hand down one of my calves, giving a breathy sigh. As he rises again, his gaze burns on my feet and legs, and oh, my gosh, I’m more turned on than ever!
He tells me to model them, and off I strut, proudly showing off these high-heeled beauties.