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My heartbeat quickens, for my desire to wear the steel-toed, tightly laced boot, crusted with dirt, no yearning to be cleaned, born pre-hardened to this world. They protect me stiffly, holding me tight through the day this beast destroys any sense of self I might have had, they dominate me, control me, lead me into an unknown fire and allow me to gaze upon that which I will never understand. I… rage for it, the throbbing, pulsing, stomping bastards, I beg the masculinity to crush me. 

So alluring is the loose fitting slider dangling nonchalantly from my foot, daring to caress my sole, ready at any moment to be entertained, they allow me my freedom, they send themselves down from the heavens, biblically accurate, they know no torment, like a slither of light creeping in from a drawn curtain, they bring with them a new dawn. Is this what making love is supposed to feel like? 

Truly sickening is my thirst for the trainer, the non-marking, machine washable, delicately robust, never-been-worn-outside these beauties make for a challenging partner, so clinically clean, tightly wound, understatedly anal. With them I make the most successful financial deals, we talk stocks and shares sensually, they send me to shower sweat dripping fast and loose, I leave for work fulfilled. 

Faithful is the welding boot, scorn by the decades they survive, they outlive us all, a deity amongst thieves, they mock me, genuinely, relentlessly but justifiably, for I would be nothing on my own, my naked skin tortured by the metallic heat, I deserve their ridicule, I deserve it all. 

Stern is the heel, not sharp but tall, its height comforts me, caresses my ego when deflated, guiding me not quite as gently as I'd prefer. More of a push in the right direction, a slap on the back and sometimes the face. Get out there and do us proud. Like a mother, these heels aren't always kind. Unrelenting in their guidance I find a dissidence within myself, no longer a boy, not yet a machine.