Entice Me Box Set: The Truth About Shoes and Men\Cover Me\My Favorite Mistake
Read Entice Me Box Set: The Truth About Shoes and Men\Cover Me\My Favorite Mistake Online
Authors: Stephanie Bond
Entice Me Box Set
The Truth About Shoes and Men
Cover Me
My Favorite Mistake
Stephanie Bond
Table of Contents
The Truth About Shoes and Men
Stephanie Bond
Chapter One
“Too much?” Denise asked, turning her ankle back and forth in front of the floor-to-ceiling mirror.
I squinted at the lime green stilettos with pointy roach-killer toes. “Too shrill.”
“And trampy,” Cindy chimed in, then thrust her foot forward. “How about these?”
Denise frowned at the shapeless clump of leather strapped to a flat cork sole. “They look like snowshoes.”
“Jacki?”
“Dreadful,” I concurred. “What do you think about these?” The red mock-croc mules were already squeezing my toes, but I told myself if I hadn’t eaten that dill pickle last night at midnight by the light of my refrigerator, my feet wouldn’t be bloated.
“They look tight,” Denise said.
“And your heel is hanging over the back,” Cindy added.
The debate was a mere formality, because we promptly boxed up our finds, trekked to the cash register, and plopped down our plastic.
And that’s when it hit me: The shoes we’d plucked off the shelf pretty closely represented the type of
men
we normally plucked off the shelf. Denise liked guys who were flashy, Cindy went for the bearded nature boys, and I…well, if my theory held water, then my current taste ran to guys who looked more classy than they actually were and who really crowded me.
Tim, Shawn, Rico —
hmm. All crowders.
* * *
Men and shoes. Shoes and men. As I surveyed my closet that evening, I decided I was definitely on to something. My shoe rack was a veritable chronicle of my love life — a couple of one-night stands (slick white go-go boots and unfortunate flowered platforms), several short-term liaisons that had seemed promising but ultimately disappointed (stunning sling-backs with droopy straps and leather sandals that squeaked like small trapped animals), and a couple of long-term relationships that triggered fond memories (soft loafers with curled-up toes and perfect black pumps that had been re-soled twice).
I spent the next few hours sorting through my shoe rack, tossing every pair that didn’t speak to me into a box bound for Goodwill. Somewhere in Manhattan there was a destitute woman who
needed
a pair of orange espadrilles with ties that laced up to the knee. And the red mock-croc mules would have to go back.
After all, I had just ratcheted up my standards for keeper shoes…and for keeper men. No crowders. No chafers. No simulated materials. From now on, I would focus on quality over quantity, substance over style, and a fit comfortable enough to endure every day.
Okay, so maybe I was taking my shoes/men metaphor to the extreme, but I’m a thirty-four-year-old woman with a biological clock ticking like Big Ben. Now that even Gloria Steinem was married, I felt as if I had nowhere left to hide. I was willing to grasp at any straw that might help me separate the marriageables from the merely-looking.
* * *
And shoes, I realized over the course of the next few days of field study, spoke volumes about the wearer — attitude, income level, physical well-being, even political affiliations. Funny, but for the past two decades, during Friday night happy hour I’d scanned bars, parties and coffee shops for potential mates based primarily on characteristics from the neck up — eyes, skin, smile, haircut — all the while ignoring the yardstick at the floor level.
In hindsight, the things I remembered most about the two men I had dated seriously were Kevin’s suede lace-ups and Mike’s worn hiking boots parked next to my nightstand. Comfortable. Intimate. Relaxed. If I’d only paid attention to all of my prospective dates’ footwear, I would’ve passed on Rick, Mr. Snakeskin Boots; Ben, Mr. Tractor-Tire Sandals; and Theo, Mr. Yellow Moccasins, and saved myself a lot of grief.
“So,” I told Denise and Cindy during lunch on Friday, “tonight when we go to Fitzgerald’s, I’m starting at the shoes, and working up from there.”
Denise laughed so hard that iced tea came out of her nose. Cindy looked sympathetic. “You can’t be serious.”
I shrugged. “What do I have to lose?”
“Not your mind, apparently.” Cindy squinted. “This sounds like something Kenzie would come up with.”
Our “fourth,” Kenzie Mansfield, had taken a new job with a magazine that had zapped her social life. Maybe it was in her absence, with the extra time on my hands, that I’d become more philosophical.
Denise had recovered. “You can’t fool us, Jacki. You’re not looking for shoes, you’re looking for
big
shoes. Size thirteen, wide.”
Cindy giggled; I sighed. Denise’s ex-husband was spectacularly endowed, and she projected her fixation onto everyone in sight. “No, I’m honestly interested in the shoes.”
“But what kind of shoes?” Cindy wanted to know.
“I’ve got to hear this,” Denise said, leaning forward. “What kind of shoes do you think the man of your dreams will be wearing?”
Having given that part of the equation a good bit of deliberation, I whipped out a page I’d torn from a men’s magazine. “Ladies, may I present the quarry.”
Chapter Two
While shoe shopping with friends, I’d had a relationship revelation: over the years, the men I’ve chosen to date mirror the shoes I’ve chosen to wear — showy, on the smallish side and high maintenance. And what do I have to show for it? Hurting feet and a hurting heart. I promised myself that from this point on, I will invest only in footwear (and men) of quality materials that can withstand years of wear and tear. Once armed with the knowledge that the shoes a person wears speaks volumes about their personality, I decided to first identify what I consider to be the perfect men’s shoe — with the intention of then embarking on a hunt for the man wearing said perfect shoe….
I held up the torn-out magazine page for my friends seated around the table, then bit my lip in last-second remorse. Considering the hours I’d spent poring over men’s couture magazines and mail-order catalogs using sticky notes and a ten-point rating system to pinpoint what I judged to be
the
perfect men’s shoe, I should have taken the time to dry-mount a picture of the winner on a piece of foam-core board…or perhaps reduce the photo and laminate it for easy reference…or at least trim the ragged edges of the crumpled advertisement.
It was, I acknowledged, a rather pathetic presentation, not worthy of the significance of my revolutionary “shoes and men” theory. I steeled myself, waiting for the girls’ reactions.
Denise stared at the ad. “Jacki, if you’re looking for a loafer, I should introduce you to the guy in the cubicle across from mine.”
I summoned patience. “
No
. I’m looking for a man who would
wear
this loafer.”
“I don’t get it,” Cindy said.
“It’s the perfect Friday shoe,” I insisted, tapping the picture of the saddle-tan leather loafer with a braided vamp. “Casual, classic and not cheap. Any guy who owns a shoe like this has got it going on.” I didn’t add that it also struck me as a paternal shoe for some unknown reason.
Denise scoffed. “What if you find a guy wearing shoes like these, but he has a face as big as a dinner plate?”
“Or he chain-smokes?” Cindy added.
Those thoughts had crossed my mind because I’m human and I knew that the possibility of wrecking my own theory out of sheer shallowness was very real. I cleared my throat and tried to sound philosophical. “Like I said before, I’ll start at the shoes and work my way up. If I see something completely objectionable, like a wedding ring, I’ll stop. But even if the guy isn’t great-looking, I’m going to give this system a chance to work.”
* * *
The girls were still guffawing when we climbed onto stools at Fitzgerald’s Friday around a tall table. I ignored them, ordered a cosmopolitan and crossed my legs to show off my I’m-a-funny-warm-caring-sex-goddess brown snakeskin pumps. Then with fierce determination to follow my plan, I fastened my gaze on the floor.
Wing tips, wing tips, wing tips, penny loafers, flip-flops, running shoes, bowling shoes, suede sandals, saddle oxfords, orthopedic lace-ups, wing tips, wing tips, wing tips. Cowboy boots, chukka boots, biker boots, deck shoes, canvas sneakers, wing tips, wing tips, wing tips.
Denise and Cindy grew bored with my sport and paired up with a couple of guys hovering near the bar (patent leather tennis shoes and combat boots, respectively). Now I’m no great beauty, but I do have nice skin and I drag myself to the club four times a week, so before I had finished my first drink, a man’s elbow appeared next to mine on the table.
“Can I buy you another?” a sturdy, graying fellow asked, pointing to my glass.
I coughed to cover my downward glance to take in his shoes and breathed a little sigh of relief that he was wearing oxblood penny loafers. The shiny new pennies tucked into the little slots clinched my decision.
“No, thanks,” I said. “I’m waiting for someone.”
Not a lie — I
was
waiting for someone…someone not wearing penny loafers.
Or softball cleats, like the next guy who offered to buy me “a real drink — beer.”
“No, thanks,” I said, resisting the urge to offer to buy him a
real
pair of shoes. Didn’t he know what those turf shoes did to wood floors? Barbarian.
I studied shoes until I realized I was suddenly studying the bottom of my second cosmopolitan. I was contemplating switching to sparkling water when across the bar I spotted THE shoes: rich, saddle-tan loafers with a braided vamp, nearly new and perfectly perfect. I held my breath and lifted my gaze slowly.
Chapter Three