Every winter since I was a bespectacled teenage hot thing with a wad of disposable fivers earned serving barking toff artillery officers cheap wine at banquets, I’ve purchased a pair of boots.
For my international readers (yes, turns out there are some – who’d a thought it?) unacquainted with British seasonal climate change you should know, if you ever visit, that boots are a must have fashion accessory for UK wintertime, and tbh, much of spring, summer and autumn time as well. This is because of the rain (which I’ll get to in next week’s post should we have enough rainfall this week to cause me poetic inspiration). And the biting wind.
My winter boots search is very specific in its aims. I want a pair of boots that are all of these things: made from brown leather, stylish, chunky but sleek, versatile (to be worn with skirts and trousers, night and day), rain and snow resilient, calf or knee-length, fabulous in a totally unspecifiable way, and priced at under one hundred pounds.
As you can imagine, fulfilling the requirements of this list is no easy feat, and I’ll admit that over the years of boot consumerism I have regularly had to settle for less. Which is not ideal. But then again, they’re only boots. I have managed to get over it and soldier through wintrous seasons dressed in chunky black ankle ones, or biker-esque lesbian* ones complete with buckle.
This was all well and good, and I had pretty much accepted that I’d never find the pair that existed only as a vague smoky image somewhere in my brain foam. Settling for less than fabulous boots is acceptable. It’s not like settling for a violent man, or one that cheats on you. There’s none of that corrosive self-loathing, or the gnawing undercurrent of fear. Although, as you may well know, if you’re shallow and have ever purchased subpar footwear, your self-esteem is minorly affected. The you that you want to be – the you that lurks in that brain foam, dressed in amazing boots that you might once, in the 90s, maybe, have seen your friend Sarah’s sister wearing, does not really exist.
She is a figment of your deftly brilliant imagination where you are also an esteemed social commentator whose talent for both written and oral wit is notorious worldwide.
Life can be shit like that.
But life can be sublime too, and hit you in the face with things you thought would never happen.
I think you might see where I’m going with this, but just in case you don’t, really, I’ll tell you: last year the boots of my smoky mind haze appeared, in real true life, inside the Dr Martens shop, Leeds, in the sale priced at £82.50. I call them my sex boots.
They haven’t aroused many men who’ve seen them (well not so that I’ve noticed), but l that’s how they feel to me. Physically pleasurable. Like sex, except they’ll last longer. I know! Perhaps there is a God.
I’m not going to ramble on here with a description of the boots I purchased last winter. Mainly because that description exists already (see paragraph three, above). But also because what is more important than how they make me look is how the boots make me feel.
They make me feel fated, fierce. Like the me that the universe conceived of before I used free will to fuck it up. Glamorous, sexual, defiant, desirable, cunning, beautiful and sharp.
Putting them on, which I do regularly, is better for my sense of self than any number of hours of psychotherapy, sex or exercise. They are what I’ve been looking for my whole life – or at least the day or so of every year of my life that I’ve spent spent shopping for footwear since 1997.
My sex boots have made the need for a relationship obsolete. The pleasure I feel when I’m wearing them literally cannot be bettered. Anyway, I wouldn’t want it to be. In the same way that happily married people don’t want to meet the real love of their life and fuck up the good thing they’ve got going.
My sex boots are my other half, and I don’t even mean that metaphorically (except that I do). I recommend you start hunting for your sex boots single people. I can only modify a poem to communicate the passion you’ll feel once you find them: I’ll wear those boots like bones, like skin. They’ll be the goddamn boots they bury me in.
Best of British luck with your hunt.