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Monday, September 01, 2008
From High Heels
These are some of Duyen's essays from her "High Heels" Website, which she no longer maintains.
Age After Beauty?
My beloved and I were chatting yesterday about changes in the prevailing level of physical beauty. He's 55 and his wife is 54. He puts in a lot of effort at staying healthy, flexible, and strong, and he says he's managed to stay about as fit as when he was 30. She does a little yoga, nothing else. He looks his age -- bald on top, gray on the sides, lines and wrinkles on the face, a sag beneath the chin, and a certain look of age in the eyes. He says she looks as good as she did in her late thirties, when they met.
"Not fair, is it?" I said.
Yahoo Messenger doesn't transmit shrugs, but I'd swear it came across the wires anyway. "What can you do?" he said. "There are clocks in the genes that no one's learned how to stall or reset. Anyway, at this point I'd rather have the content than the form. Of course, if I were still single and under thirty, I'd have said the opposite."
That surprised me quite a lot. "Why?"
"Because it would be more important to me to be able to compete romantically than athletically," he said. "Look at the young men around you. Believe me, dear, men your age didn't look nearly that good twenty and thirty years ago."
(I'll bet you did, I wanted to say but didn't. It hurts him to be reminded how much I want him, and I don't want to give him any reason to avoid me. Anyway, it wasn't relevant to the subject.) "What about young women?"
"The same," he said. "The technology of beauty has advanced by leaps and bounds these last few decades. We know so much more about good skin, good teeth, hair care, proper diet, weight control and stress management than we did in the seventies and eighties. Back then, most of our efforts to keep slender, keep our skin clear and our hair strong were contradicted by the terrible stuff we ate and drank, the stupid ways we treated sleep and relaxation, and the crazy attitudes we took toward work. And we're not just smarter about our bodies, we're a lot richer as well, so we have far more resources to put into looking and feeling good."
"You're scaring me a little," I said. "So in another twenty years, women my age will all look like today's beauty queens?"
"The ones that want to will be able to," he said. "What do you think is driving the advances in microsurgery? It's almost all cosmetic. It'll keep getting better, cheaper, and less painful as long as American medicine stays free of government control. Stay healthy and manage your business and your money right, and you'll be able to stay as beautiful and vital as you are today, well into your seventies."
But will I want to? I didn't say. It was a sobering idea. Fifty year old beauty queens? What will the twenty year olds look like? What will they be like?
I think the scariest part, though, was what he said about "competing romantically." I'm single, and likely to stay that way for a while longer. The available men in LA mostly don't impress me; I don't care for the prevailing "grubby look" or the prevalent attitude of self-absorption, and there aren't many exceptions around. But time marches on. What do I have to look forward to?
When I look around me at women my age and younger, it puzzles me why anyone thinks I'm attractive. I'm not bad looking: I'm petite and slender, and I have good skin and hair. But I don't think I'm above average for LA. If the next ten years are likely to continue this trend of ever fitter and better looking people, will a doddering old wreck in her forties get any attention at all? What about ten years after that? Will I have to get breast and buttocks implants, a face lift and collagen treatments to be allowed out on the street?
Marriage is supposed to make that sort of worry unnecessary. But my married friends seem at least as worried about it as my single ones.
Does anyone know a nice Catholic matchmaker in Southern California? What the Jews call a shadchen? I could use a little help here!
In L.A., You Never Know
...whose acquaintance you've just made.
I was doing some cosmetics shopping less than an hour ago when a voluptuously beautiful woman took note of my new shoes and complimented me on them. We struck up a conversation and were soon chatting like old friends. She said her name was Amber, and I gave her mine.
As usual, the topic quickly moved to our trades. When I told her about my marketing business, she expressed an unusual degree of interest, and I plunged into the subject with enthusiasm. She listened avidly. After I'd been running on for about twenty minutes it occurred to me that I was monopolizing the conversation, and I became embarrassed. She noticed and smiled winningly.
"It's okay," she said. "I like hearing about other people's jobs. I'm looking to get out of the business I'm in."
"What business is that?" I asked.
I can't find the words to describe her expression. "Movies," she said. She gave me a URL where I could find some of her work.
I hadn't heard of her. I would have assumed she was in the direct-to-home-video part of the market, still straining to break into the "big time," except that she was so gorgeously dressed: an exquisite, form-fitting skirt suit, Christian Louboutin pumps (you knew I'd notice that), and a triple strand of pearls. It was a four-figure outfit at the very least. The sort of actress who only appears on DVDs doesn't usually have the means for that. Still, there was no one hovering around her waiting for an autograph, and we weren't in an exceptionally upscale store, so I kept my guesses to myself and steered the talk to hobbies.
When I mentioned this site to her, her eyes widened. "You're Fetiche? I was wondering!" Apparently she's a regular visitor here. She complimented me on my writing, and expressed the hope that I'd keep at it for a long time. At that point, I was ready to take her home with me; there's nothing a writer craves as much as praise for her writing.
"The parts I like best," she said, "are when you talk about yourself and your loves. It's so touching and genuine. I envy you so much."
I was unable to frame a reply. Envy me? I'm alone in the world and in love with a man I can never have. But if you could have seen her face, you'd know why I couldn't doubt her.
She noticed my confusion and said, "You'll understand why when you go to that link I gave you." We exchanged phone numbers and parted shortly afterward.
I'm not going to post that link here. By now I think you've guessed why.
I won't condemn people who enjoy porn. It's just a form of entertainment. But it's a sad way to make a living, a total surrender of both body and privacy. As an entertainer, you're the lowest of the low, regardless of your looks or talents. Maintaining your self-respect must be tremendously hard. Then there are the physical risks, which don't apply to any other line of work. Not even prostitution; a prostitute can demand that her clients wear some protection, at least here in America.
If I were forced to choose between going back to prostitution and doing what Amber does, I'd take prostitution without a second thought.
I'm going to stay in touch with Amber. She was very sweet, appealing in many ways, and I got the sense that she's serious about getting out of the porn trade. If I can help her with that, I certainly will. Amber, when you read this, as I hope you will, please believe that I'm serious. Know that you will be in my prayers.
Because in L.A., you never know.
Unavoidable Sadness
I've been getting some unexpected letters. They're about loss of marital desire. They ask about how to reawaken their spouses' interest in sex. They confess to complete ignorance about how the situation developed, or how it might be remedied.
They're coming from men. Husbands. Fathers of children, whose wives must have wanted them at some point.
I don't understand it. I simply don't. Maybe it's because I'm relatively young, but then, not all the letter writers are older than I am.
Long ago, I was told by a very wise woman that however much a man wants his woman sexually, there's something he wants even more: for her to desire him.
It makes sense. Men don't have the same experience of sex we have. I used to wonder why they want us at all. That makes a wife's loss of interest in her husband about the saddest thing I can imagine.
I was once a prostitute. Don't frown; it was what I had to be if I wanted to survive. I left it behind many years ago, but I remember those days very well. I wasn't any good at the trade until I learned to convince my customers that I wasn't just a paid performer, that I wanted them, not just their cash. It took a lot of work with some of them, but it was part of the job, part of what I had to do to earn my fee.
Some of those men felt compelled to tell me about their wives. The stories were never pretty, but they were seldom critical. Mostly they were just very sad.
But that was in Vietnam, where life itself was very sad. I expected things to be different in America. So far, in this regard, it hasn't been.
There are times it makes me very sad. I brim over with desire, just about all the time. Partly that's because I've been without a man for a long time, but even more it's because I see so much good in men. Here in Los Angeles it can take some effort -- the single men are always on the make and straining to present an impression of power and studliness -- but if you can get past that, you can find all sorts of assets, including a lot even they don't know they possess.
Women have so much power over men, and they don't appreciate it! All their whining about "male patriarchal oppression" is just so much childish nonsense. And they never bother to ask themselves what their lives would be like if there were no men.
(My beloved once pointed me to a science-fiction story about a future in which there were no more men. I think the title was "Houston Do You Read?" Three men popped into that world out of past time, and immediately caused so much trouble they had to be killed. It was the silliest piece of garbage I've ever read, and I told him so. I expected anything but what he said next. He said, "That's why I wanted you to read it. As moronic as it is, that's the attitude that prevails among American women today." It turned out that the author was a woman writing under a man's name. Stupid bitch.)
But there's nothing I can say to a man whose woman has "lost" her desire for him. The problem is almost always hers. I wish it were his; that way, he'd have a chance of fixing it. But what could he say to her? "You ought to want me as much as I want you" -- ? Good luck with that approach.
Middle-aged men are always being derided for their "trophy wives." How many of those September-May couples are motivated, not by the man's desire to relive his youth, but by his desperate need to feel wanted again?
Some men are clumsy about sex, even with their wives of ten and twenty years. But far more women just don't appreciate how cruel they're being toward the men who've pledged fidelity and protection to them. They don't understand the danger they're putting themselves in.
Thinking about it, I wish there were ten million of me. Maybe a hundred million. But I can't fix it all by myself.
Gentlemen, you are in my prayers. All of you.
The Essence of Sex Appeal
...is the perception that you want him.
My beloved knows he's a wanted man -- wanted by me. It disturbs him a lot, because he's married to someone else. But he's honest about it; he's told me that he's never met anyone sexier -- and that was before I started wearing heels.
High heels enhance your physical attributes in several ways, but all of them are about the same thing: the sort of posture and movement that says "I want you" to the man in your company.
How? Because they make you move slowly and sensuously. And they make you stick out your chest and your rear as if to say, "Come and get it, handsome."
Now, you might not really want him to "come and get it." You might want him to work for it a little. But that's one of the inborn skills of every woman: to play the game of love just enough slower than your target that he thinks he's seducing you.
Yes, it's a sort of game. The stakes are unusual, and there's plenty of room for both players to win, but it's still a game.
I live in Los Angeles, where the standards for female beauty are higher than most other parts of the country. But I must tell you: most of the women on the streets of my city should go home and change before they head out again. They dress like defrocked nuns: everything loose and casual, no hint of erotic tension. The single ones are doing nothing for their prospects.
High heels must be part of a well thought out system of presentation -- what my beloved calls "a persona." You can't just put them on with a sweat suit. But if you want to wear them, you must already be aware of their power, no?
Know what impression you want to leave in the minds of those who see you. Get comfortable with it. Plan your dress, walk, and posture to reinforce it. And then choose your heels.
Perhaps these:
Booties convey both innocence and sexiness at the same time. Something about the combination of a high heel with a completely covered foot.
Use all your tools, ladies!
The most important thing to know about high heels is how to select them. The second most important thing is how to walk in them.
The basics are simple enough for anyone to learn and remember:
- Keep your legs close together.
- Put one foot directly in front of the other.
- Take short steps; don't be in a hurry!
But that's only a procedure. It doesn't tell you much about the walk itself, or how to live with it.
The walk is profoundly sensual...or it can be. It can also be irritating enough to make you toss your heels out the window. You have to do it right. That involves a lot more than the three rules above.
First, keeping your legs close enough together to walk properly in high heels will almost certainly make your thighs rub against one another, at least a little. If you're wearing the wrong sort of clothing, the chafing will go from irritating to unendurable by the end of a normal day. High heels demand good lingerie and good stockings or pantyhose -- preferably of silk. Avoid anything that might increase the friction.
Second, putting one foot directly in front of the other will cause your hips to sway. You might not think you have hips. Believe me, you'll discover otherwise when you adapt yourself to high heels. Your hips will sway and your rear will flex in ways you've never experienced before. It will all be visible from behind. Very visible. And those around you will notice.
Third, a slow walk of short steps, each foot put directly in front of the other, is inherently sensuous. If you work around men -- if you don't, why not? -- you're going to get attention. You're also going to get comments. Because most women in office environments wear flats or low heels, you have to expect to stand out. So you have to learn two other things: a little-girl smile and a come-hither smile.
The little-girl smile is how you respond to attention and comments from men whose interest you don't want to encourage: married men, boors, mama's-boys, and so on. The come-hither smile is for the others...assuming you're not married already yourself.
I can't teach you those. Every woman has her own set. Mostly they start inside you, in the place where you understand sexual attraction and the proper relations between the sexes. For even a boor's wolf whistle is a compliment, not a reproach or a condemnation. It doesn't deserve to be treated as an insult. As for the sincere admiration and desire of a potential spouse...we don't really need to go there, do we?
Practice both smiles. Make them sincere. Make one completely innocent and the other one a promise of infinite delights. Make both of them feminine.
Oops, I just said a bad word, didn't I? We're not supposed to be feminine any more, are we? We're supposed to be strong, independent, assertive! Femininity is too vulnerable. It's too traditional. It's a tool of the patriarchy. Well, screw that! You're a woman. In your heart of hearts you know what a woman is...what a woman can be...what a woman can do...especially to the mind, heart, and soul of the man she wants.
In the end, that's what high heels are all about.
Staying Over At A Friend's House
...can cost you some unusual difficulties the following day, especially if that day is a Sunday and you're a practicing Catholic.
Amber and I did a little partying last night. More than a little, actually. We made something of a mark on the local nightlife, and went quite a bit deeper into the wee hours than I intended. When she invited me to stay over rather than go home, I accepted without thinking. But when I got up this morning, I had only the clothes I'd worn the night before. I wound up going to Mass wearing a red glitter-satin blouse, a suede miniskirt, a black leather shortie jacket and red five-inch platform heels. In a parish in which I'm a stranger.
I don't recommend this. Not even in Los Angeles.
Well, at least I persuaded Amber to come with me. (It wasn't even that hard.) But I must say, we made quite a sight: the marketing consultant with a child's body dressed like a porn star, next to the porn star with a very un-childlike body dressed like a corporate vice-president.
Well, it was a nice service, anyway.
What Is Wrong With These People?
I'm not sure I can take any more of this.
Los Angeles is a wonderful place to live, but we have more than our fair share of crazies. Big cities are like that, or so my beloved says: "Any large city creates niches for marginal types. They could never survive in a rural or small-town environment, because no one would be willing to deal with them. But when enough of them concentrate in one place, they become a self-sustaining micro-society -- and big cities are where that's most likely."
The eco-crazies and animal-rights crazies have been all over me lately. I wear a lot of leather and suede. Not only is it attractive, comfortable clothing, but it also helps little Fetiche look more formidable than she really is. (Yes, that's one of the reasons I love my heels, too.) Well, lately the more aggressive greenie types have been on the lookout for my sort of garb -- and they've been finding me.
I ignore most of the commenters. Some I can repel with a cold glare. One or two loonies, recently, have tried to compel me to listen to them by grabbing for my arm. That's when my keychain-mounted mini-canister of pepper spray proved its value.
Last night was a bit more than I could deal with, pepper spray or none. It was cool enough that, when I went out for the evening, I decided to wear my mink jacket, a garment Southern California doesn't give a girl many opportunities to wear. It's a pretty piece, makes me look a little "fuller" than I really am, and usually wins me a compliment or two. I was pleased to have the opportunity to parade around in it for the evening.
Well, that's the way the evening started, anyway.
Would someone please explain to me why so many animal-rights crazies are big, ugly women? Is it that way everywhere? Last night I was confronted by a pair of them: loud, angry, intimidating, and completely unembarrassed at browbeating a petite Oriental woman about her mink. They literally pursued me down the street, screaming at me about how I'm a despicable murderess to wear such a thing. It was enough to send me back to my apartment in tears.
I used to wish it was legal for me to carry a gun. Maybe one would have come in handy yesterday evening. Or maybe I'd be in jail this morning, as a real murderess.
You notice, these brave champions for the voiceless never harangue motorcyclists or truckers about their leather gear. I wouldn't want to be one, but one would have been handy yesterday evening at about 9:30 PM.
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