THE SHOE FETISHFor most of us, a shoe is simply something that stops us from getting home with our feet completely destroyed. For other people, however, it can become a powerful object of desire. Not necessarily because they want to have sex with a stiletto heel —although the internet is always ready to prove that absolutely anything is possible— but because
the brain has an extraordinary ability to load objects that are not inherently sexual with erotic meaning.
A shoe is not entirely separate from the body. It covers it, retains its shape, changes its posture and alters the way a person walks. High heels visually lengthen the legs, lift the buttocks, encourage the hips to sway and can turn an ordinary entrance into a full-blown statement of intent.
Desire may begin at the foot, but it rarely ends there.
There is also the appeal of what remains hidden. A shoe encloses a part of the body that stays out of sight for most of the day. And eroticism has always got along particularly well with anything that is suggested, concealed or never completely revealed. Sometimes, slowly removing a shoe can create more tension than taking off a much more intimate garment, because
arousal does not depend solely on how much is shown, but on everything our imagination builds around it.
Psychoanalysis has interpreted the shoe as a sexual symbol associated with penetration, femininity, domination or even as a symbolic substitute for a part of the body.
Modern psychology tends to view the matter in slightly less dramatic terms. Desire can also be learned through association: an intense sexual experience, someone we found attractive, a smell, a texture or a particular image can become connected in our memory. If a pair of shoes was present during especially exciting moments,
the brain may eventually turn them into a direct shortcut to arousal.
Shoes also say a great deal about the person wearing them. They can convey elegance, power, rebellion, vulnerability, authority or availability. We do not desire only the object, but also the attitude, the body and the fantasy it represents. The heel stops being a simple piece of leather and plastic and becomes the promise of a particular woman, a particular situation or a particular role within the sexual game.
As long as the fetish is enjoyed between consenting adults and causes no suffering, there is nothing to cure and very little to worry about. We have all learned to become aroused by following some rather peculiar paths. Some people need a certain look; others, a voice or a particular item of clothing; and some, apparently, need
a high-heeled shoe with exactly the right toe and enough reasons not to ask what happened to the other one.
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AUGUST IS SLIPPING AWAYAugust officially ends on Monday, but we’ve decided to say goodbye to it today, the way it deserves, because the end of August should always be marked with
a minute of silence, a cold beer and a distant stare into the horizon.
August isn’t just a month. August is a way of looking at life. It’s the month we automatically associate with holidays, even if it’s been years since we had the kind of summer break we remember from childhood. It means waking up without an alarm, having no idea what day it is, eating at ridiculous hours and discovering that a shower, a pair of flip-flops and a clean T-shirt can be considered perfectly acceptable formalwear.
For a few weeks, even people without a penny to their name get to feel rich. Not because their bank balance suddenly has more zeros, but because they have something far more valuable:
time in which nobody is telling them what to do.
You can be sitting on your balcony in a plastic chair, drinking a can of beer while listening to your neighbor argue with his wife, and still feel as though life is smiling at you. Because you don’t have to work tomorrow. Because you don’t need to set the alarm. Because for a few hours, the world can keep spinning without you having to take part in it.
But everything comes to an end. The suitcases go back into the closet, the flip-flops return to the bottom of the shoe rack and the alarm clock reappears on the bedside table with the same asshole attitude it has always had. September arrives loaded with schedules, unanswered emails, school runs, traffic and people claiming that this time they really are going to start taking the gym seriously.
Most people will already have to start looking ahead to
August 2027 to fantasize about that brief period of the year when we can pretend we’re actually in control of our own lives. There are twelve months to go, but there’s no point thinking about it too much. We just have to keep surviving one week at a time, one public holiday at a time and one beer at a time.
Today, we raise a glass to August. To those who traveled to the other side of the world and those who never left their neighborhood. To those who slept in five-star hotels and those who set up an inflatable pool on the terrace. Because holidays aren’t always about going somewhere far away. Sometimes they’re simply about
nobody being able to force you to be anywhere else.
Until next year, August. You didn’t last long, you cost us far too much and, as always, you disappeared just as we were starting to get used to being alive.
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