Mark A. Carter
 

MONDO beyondo: foot obsession, women, and casadei stiletto

World famous Canadian Science Fiction novelist Mark A. Carter rants about his preoccupation with beautiful female feet, bright red lipstick, and stiletto heels, as if anyone is listening. Hello?

It is quite by surprise that I noticed a few years ago that I was turned on by the color red. It was my favorite color when I was young. And I was also particularly fascinated, as I recall, by women who wore bright red lipstick.

But over the years, my color preference for clothing and what have you has changed. When I studied Dramatic Arts, it was the tone black of course. I went through my grey tone phase and my white. I've been interested in blue. And currently my preference is green. But when I saw an ad recently with a model dressed in terribly expensive red high heels, my attraction to red was reawakened, and along with it an attraction to beautiful female feet, exposed and stretched, in those red high heel shoes. It is odd but true, and bespeaks shades of a Madonna / Prostitute Complex.

It reminded me of Fred the Foot who feigned perusing the larger books on the lowest shelves of the stacks at the old and now defunct St. Catharines Public Library where I worked as a page back in the day. Fred trolled for female feet and would actually remove books from the lower shelves so he could stick his head through the stacks and sniff the feet of inexperienced and unsuspecting female pages, as they went about their business putting books back where they belonged.

My obsession with female feet is restricted to an artistic preoccupation, at best. In an attempt to understand this mild obsession, I happened upon, of course, designer shoes, which I love to look at, which is an odd surprise connected to the first obsession. But I was even more taken aback by the prices. I realized immediately that the elegant designs that look so much like a foot is already mounted within them must psychologically prey upon the obsessions of certain women to adorn their beautiful feet with these mobile objet d'art. It's a case of their self absorption with their feet extending to the exposed and flimsy trappings of beauty that they place upon them to garner a feeling of elegance, self worth, and even monetary superiority.

Those who can afford the most expensive designer shoes are the Alpha females among women. The Casadei Women's 1800 Platino at $1,350 trumps the Casadei Women's 1859 Ankle-Strap at $980 trumps the Ralph Lauren Jessira at $695 trumps the L.A.M.B. Women's Mirage Ankle-Strap at $214. Everybody knows that. Oh yeah, baby! And, no doubt, these Alpha females have a closet filled with designer manifestations, one pair for each new haute couture dress.

 
I'm not stupid. I just wear stupid shoes because stilettos look great.

Years ago while at university, I proposed a theory on the high heel or what I still call the stiletto based on the Inverse Square Law which says that radiation is inversely proportional to one over distance squared. My take on it was this: the height of the stiletto heel is inversely proportional to intelligence. In other words, the higher the heel, the lower the IQ of the wearer. Why do I say this? Imagine, if you will, the surreal moment I had in autumn of 2010 when I fell out of my right slipper, which had a three quarter inch sole, and came crashing down on the top of my foot. Crunch. My hair literally stood on end when I looked down and saw the bottom of my foot pointing up at me. It was wrong. It was way wrong. The result was a severe sprain with all of the usual bruising, pain, and swelling that goes with it. I couldn't flex my right foot for seven months. And I still walk with a limp because of that sprain more than a year later and maybe forever. Now imagine the damage from falling off of a six inch heel.

My question to the women of the world who don the stiletto heel is this: Why? Are you willing to risk permanent back damage from wearing these monstrosities let alone the likelihood of ankle strain, sprain or break all for the sake of fashion? The cost far exceeds the benefit. But I forget that you also wear them to accentuate your ascending superior spine. And where would a girl be if men weren't staring at that with her pelvis abnormally tilted because her entire body has had to realign itself to compensate for the six inch heels she is wearing.

Also, when you think about it, which you obviously have not if you are a woman with a closet filled with stiletto heels, these attractive foot coverings are designed to hobble women. Hobbling was done to negro slaves in the United States, who were considered the human property of rich plantation owners, to keep them from running away in the night. A sledge hammer was commonly used to break one or both of their ankles. And this is how I see women in stiletto heels. You cannot run away when you're wearing them. And you most certainly will be limping for the rest of your life after you fall out of them and damage yourself. And you will. As the saying goes: it's not a matter of if. It's a matter of when. So, the question becomes, why are you purposely choosing to be a slave to fashion, to men, and to yourself? It is a great step backward in the hard fought struggle for the liberation of women. So, I am confused.

 
Casadei Women's 1859 Ankle-Strap

I would like to scream from the rooftop: don't hobble yourself in the name of fashion. But I won't. I would like to shout: liberate yourself. But nobody is listening. No one ever listens to what I say. It is the curse of my Cassandra Complex. In fact, most women will, no doubt, do the opposite of what I say just to be rebellious.

So, here goes nothing: Do not buy any of the shoes mentioned on this page. But they call to you. Don't they? I would be the first one to admit that they are indeed beautiful. I can even see you in them. The smell of foot sweat on Corinthian leather is intoxicating. Isn't it? And those red heels are to die for. With apologies to Shakespeare and his vile Scottish play: Is that a Casadei Women's 1859 Ankle-Strap I see before me? Cha ching ...

Now you know.

from the imagination of Mark A. Carter - novelist

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