Stu

On alternate Fridays, George spent the day at the bank’s downtown headquarters to attend meetings of loan officers from the various bank branches. That was the preferred time for Patricia to visit the bank branch in her search for Ana. While George worked at the Metro branch, they actually lived closer to the South branch, and therefore Patricia handled routine banking functions at the South branch. She normally did not have any reason to go to the Metro branch.

The next time that George was downtown, Patricia paid a visit to the Metro branch. She entered the lobby, looked around, and did not see anything that interested her. The assistant manager was in the lobby at the time and noticed her.

“Hello, Patricia! What brings you here? George is not here today. He is downtown for his loan officers meeting,” the assistant manager said.

“Yes, he is,” Patricia said. “George absent-mindedly took some of our personal banking statements to work with him yesterday, and left them in his desk. I was coming down just to pick them up.”

“You know where his office is. Let me get you back here,” the assistant manager said. She opened the security door to let Patricia back behind the tellers. “I hope you find what you are looking for.”

Patricia politely said hello to several of the tellers and started down the corridor toward George’s office. She stopped dead in her tracks when she saw a woman walking down the corridor. She knew immediately that she had found Ana.

The woman was indeed striking. Patricia surveyed the woman from head to foot: the brown-red hair, the pleasant figure, pants that seemed a little too tight for the workplace but that nevertheless flattered her waist, hips and legs. And then, on her feet: what kind of shoes was this woman wearing? Impossible stiletto heels that must have been five inches high! And yet this woman was walking gracefully and effortlessly down the hall. And are her hips really moving back and forth like that? In heels like that, how could they not be? Sensuality seemed to flow from her with every step.

Damn it, George, Patricia thought. You have good taste in women. I’ll give you credit for that.

“Is there anything I can help you with, ma’am?” Ana asked Patricia.

“My name is Patricia. I am George’s wife. I know he is downtown today, but I needed to pick something up from his office.”

“Pleased to meet you, Patricia. My name is Ana. I am one of the tellers here. You are catching me right at the end of my break. I’ll be happy to walk you to your husband’s office.”

Patricia knew where George’s office was, but she was glad Ana volunteered to accompany her. Now she could observe Ana up close. She liked the fact that Ana made immediate eye contact with her and offered to help her. They walked down to George’s office, and Patricia could hear the click-click-click of Ana’s stilettos reverberate off the walls of the corridor. She could also tell from Ana’s accent that she was foreign born, probably Latina. Yes, she was quite a package.

“Here is your husband’s office,” Ana said. “Is there anything else I can help you with?”

“Thank you, Ana, I am fine. But I do have one question. You have a lovely accent. Where are you from?”

“I was born and raised in Costa Rica.”

“Ah, very interesting! I was sure you were Latina, but your accent is very different from a Mexican accent.”

“Oh, yes, it is quite different. It was a pleasure meeting you, Patricia.”


Patricia no longer had any doubt that Ana was responsible for George’s sexual renaissance. There was no question in her mind as to whether George still loved her, but the sad truth, she concluded, was that she no longer had the ability to stimulate him on her own. She was 5 feet, 2 inches tall, and weighed 190 pounds. She walked slowly and with considerable difficulty even in orthopedic shoes, and the available clothing for women of her age and size was not particularly appealing. How could she possibly compete with Ana? Patricia fondly recalled how she was when she was dating George in the early 1960s. She was young then, with pretty brown hair and a pleasant figure, and she often wore stilettos on her dates with George. Back then, she could have fought off Ana easily. But she could hardly blame her husband now for looking at another woman.

Some women might have become angry over their situation, while others might have become consumed by jealousy, or perhaps even slipped into a bitter depression. But Patricia had a different way of thinking. Two or three times a week, she lay under her husband and felt his passion. They would snuggle together afterwards like a couple of newlyweds. Before Ana, they had often gone a month or more without becoming physically amorous. What could be so bad about an older couple making love as often as they had in their 20s? Patricia began to think of Ana as a positive force in their marriage. While engaging in intimacies, she sometimes fantasized about how George would react if he came home and saw his wife putting dinner on the table while wearing a pair of 5-inch stiletto heels. As the weeks went by, she became more and more curious about Ana. Was she intelligent? Did she have a sense of humor? Was there a reason for George to be enamored of the entire woman, or only her physical qualities? Her one brief meeting with Ana no longer seemed adequate, particularly since George worked with her every day. She decided that she needed to know Ana at least a little bit better.

Patricia’s opportunity came several weeks later, when George went out of town for a two-day loan officers’ conference. Patricia called the bank and left a message for Ana, who returned the call a short time later.

“I don’t know if you remember me. I am George’s wife,” Patricia said.

“Of course I remember you. We met some time ago when you stopped by the bank to pick something up for your husband.”

“Ana, I have a big favor to ask of you. I am planning a big surprise for George. I would like to arrange for a trip to a foreign country, and one of the countries I have in mind is Costa Rica. Those rain forests seem spectacular in the tourist brochures. But I was hoping I could sit down and talk with you so I could really learn more about the country. I would be happy to take you out to lunch.”

“Oh, Patricia, that is so nice of you. I never really traveled to the rain forests, but there is a lot I could tell you about Costa Rica that you will never find in travel books. When would you like to meet?”

“How about tomorrow?”

“That would be fine.” They agreed to meet at a restaurant close to the bank.

“And remember, Ana, this is supposed to be a surprise for George. Please don’t mention anything about this to him,” Patricia said.

“Of course, Patricia. Your secret is safe with me.”

To be continued.

Stu

Patricia arrived at the restaurant a few minutes early the following day. When she was about to enter the front door, she happened to turn her head and she saw Ana walking toward the restaurant about a block away. Ana was wearing a light-green sweater, with tight-fitting cream-colored pants and matching 5-inch white stiletto sandals. Even from a distance, it was easy to see her hips swaying sensuously from side to side as she walked. Incredible, Patricia thought. This woman is more comfortable with her sexuality than anyone she had ever known. So expressive, total self-confidence, not a trace of inhibition. The best always make it look easy.

Ana greeted Patricia warmly at the restaurant entrance, as if they had known each other for years. They went inside, sat down, and ordered lunch. Ana declined Patricia’s offer of wine, but Patricia ordered a glass of white wine for herself. Ana began talking about Costa Rica. The rain forest preserves were almost exclusively set aside for foreign tourists, and few Costa Ricans actually visited them, Ana said. Instead, Ana talked about the country’s capital city, San Jose, several surrounding cities, and the country’s Caribbean and Pacific coast beaches. Patricia continued to be impressed with Ana’s friendly charm, and her ability to paint a picture of her native country for someone who had never seen it. Their lunch was served, and Patricia ordered a second glass of wine. When it seemed that Ana had exhausted the subject of travel to Costa Rica, Patricia decided to change the subject of conversation.

“I used to enjoy wearing stiletto heels when George and I were dating,” Patricia said. “But I could not ever imagine wearing heels as high as yours. And yet, you are on your feet all day, and you even walked here to meet me. I do not know how you do it.”

Ana giggled in a girlish way. “That is another aspect of Costa Rica that you should explore when you visit. Costa Rican women are practically born wearing high heels. They are really a fundamental part of our culture. We learn to wear them at a young age. We develop the skills and conditioning to wear them properly.”

“And you do have such a style, such an ambience about you,” Patricia said. “Men must really like you.”

Ana giggled again, this time with a trace of embarrassment. “I get compliments from men, but also from women. Of course, I also get a lot of icy looks from women who don’t care for my style. That goes with the territory. I do not let that stop me from expressing myself the way I want.”

Patricia took a sip of wine. She realized how reckless she had been to order not just one, but two glasses of wine. Wine loosened her lips, causing her to say things that, while honest, were better left unsaid. She knew this was not the occasion to lose control of her discretion. But Ana was such a delightful, welcome change from her conservative, middle-aged friends. The occasion seemed to call for wine.

“You know, George is a big admirer of you,” Patricia said. Oh stop, Patricia! Pull back while you still can!

“Really?” Ana said, somewhat surprised. “He is such a quiet man, very professional, very businesslike. He has never complimented me in any personal kind of way.”

Patricia took another sip of wine. “That’s not his style. He does not come home and talk about you. He may have made a quick mention of you once. But after 35 years of marriage, I know George. You have made an impression on him. Don’t ask me how I know. But believe me, I know.”

“The things you don’t know about your own co-workers,” Ana said. She added jokingly, “I hope you are not jealous.”

Patricia sipped the last of her second glass of wine. “Jealous? Absolutely not! If anything, I would like to buy you lunch a dozen times over. After spending the day around you, George often comes home with so much passion that, lately, we have been more active than at any time since we were newlyweds. If you know what I mean.”

Ana’s jaw dropped. She looked down at her empty plate, having finished the last of her lunch. “Oh my,” she said. “I want to assure you, Patricia, that I have never been anything less than purely professional around your husband.”

Oh, God, Patricia thought. What the hell did I do? I had the best thing going with George in many years and now I have ruined it, all because I couldn’t keep myself away from the wine.

Patricia reached out and touched Ana’s hand. “Ana, do not misunderstand me. I am not in any way angry or jealous, and I do not think you have done anything inappropriate with George. He finds you attractive, as any healthy man would, but he uses it to bring himself closer to me. I used to enjoy dressing up and being fashionable when I was young. But we all age. Now I have health issues, and my medication makes me put on weight like an elephant. George still loves me, but you give him that little spark that I no longer can. And it has made things good for us.”

Patricia sat up straight and pushed herself away from the table. “I am a foolish, old woman who has had too much wine. I told you something that I should not have. Please forgive me. To be honest, I am not planning a trip to Costa Rica. I invited you to lunch because I wanted to get to know you a little better. Now that I have done that, I promise I will never need to see you again. I only ask one thing of you. Please do not tell George that we ever met. Do not tell him what I have told you. He is a very private, proud man, and if he ever finds out…”

“It’s OK, Patricia,” Ana said. “I will not tell George anything. The last thing I want to do is create trouble for the two of you. Don’t feel badly about this.”


Ana was studying herself in front of the mirror that evening when Bob arrived home from work. “If you spend any more time in front of that mirror, we will have to start calling you ‘Maria,’” Bob quipped.

“Sorry,” Ana responded. “I had a weird experience at lunch today.” She proceeded to tell Bob the details of her lunch with Patricia.

“So your co-worker fantasizes about you when he makes love to his wife. Nothing strange about that,” Bob said when Ana had finished her story. “But the wife then tells you about it. You are right – that is weird.”

“The question in my mind is how I should behave around George. I have always been polite with him, but never really friendly. Maybe I should open up around him a little more. If a woman has an admirer, the least she can do is show some appreciation, right?”

Bob playfully put his hands over his eyes and walked away. “I think you already know what you want to do, Ana.”

Ana walked back in front of the mirror. In the last several years, she had successfully developed a dual Costa Rican-North American persona that had worked well for her. Costa Ricans valued uninhibited femininity and style – how a woman presented herself was paramount in her native land. North Americans valued productivity and the bottom line – if a woman made money for her employer, her style was of little relevance. Ana had tested the limits of the bank’s dress code with her Costa Rican-style tight clothing and sky-high stiletto heels, and she had emerged unscathed because she also developed a North American-style determination to serve the bank’s customers well and to learn its operations. Until now, however, there was another aspect of her Costa Rican heritage that had remained dormant during her years in the United States: the propensity of Costa Rican women to flirt. Workplace flirting in the U.S. was mild compared to the much spicier Costa Rican version. Flirting in many ways was the national pastime of the little Central American country; the come-hither looks and strong body language were almost expected of attractive women in Costa Rica, but they could quickly get a woman in trouble in the U.S. And, besides, Ana was now married, which made the idea of flirting even more dubious. Ana had thought that her flirting days were a thing of the past, but the revelation about George was giving her all kinds of ideas that had previously been unthinkable. There were ways to flirt that would be apparent only to George, remaining invisible to everyone else at the bank. And what is wrong with responding warmly to George’s attraction? How could a woman learning about George’s feelings not respond in some fashion? Maybe a cold-fish North American woman would want to put a damper on the whole thing, but not a warm, feminine Costa Rican woman.

Ana took one last look at herself in the mirror and smiled mischievously. “You’re right, Bob,” she said, even though her husband had left the room. “I do know what I want to do.”

To be continued.

Stu

Ana walked by George’s office early the following morning, before the bank opened. She was wearing a black sweater, snug black-denim pants, and her 5-inch black stiletto pumps, which clicked quite loudly in the corridor. She stopped and stood in the entrance to George’s office and said cheerfully, “Good morning, George. How was your conference? We missed you here!” She looked at George, and could tell he was a little surprised by her unusually friendly manner. George managed to stammer out that the conference was fine, and Ana said she would see him later and walked away. It was important not to start off too strong.

The day proceeded normally until Ana’s mid-afternoon break. She walked back to George’s office, the clicking of her heels announcing her presence well before she actually arrived. “Hi, George!” she said. “Can I come in?”

“Why sure, Ana. Make yourself at home,” George replied, gesturing for her to sit down in the chair in front of his desk. “What’s up?”

Ana sat down in the chair, positioning it so that it was at a slight angle relative to George’s desk. This would allow a better view of her shapely profile. She crossed her legs, so that the heel on her right foot was dangling in the air, where George could readily see it.

“George,” she said. “I have a big favor to ask of you.” She explained that Joe, one of the assistant managers at the bank, was having a birthday next week. Ana had volunteered to go buy a birthday card for him for all the bank staff to sign. “I need a man’s advice to ensure I get the right card for Joe. I was hoping you could come with me to the store, maybe tomorrow during lunch, to help me buy a card.” She talked for a minute or two about Joe’s sense of humor and how she, as a woman, might not be able to pick the right card that would really appeal to him. As she talked, she let her shoe hang from her toes, which she wiggled slowly to make the shoe rock back and forth slightly.

“Why sure, Ana, that sounds fine. Let me know when you have lunch break tomorrow, and we can go,” George said calmly, but Ana could see that his eyes darted nervously a couple of times to her foot before returning to her eyes. Men are so helpless, she thought.

“OK. Let’s be ready to go at 12:30 tomorrow. Thank you so much, George. You are a real sweetie.” Ana got up, turned around, and exited George’s office with her standard wiggle. She turned in the doorway, looked back at him, and said, “See you then.”

Ana met George at their designated time the following afternoon for the five-block walk to the greeting-card store. Ana was wearing a navy-blue top, skintight blue corduroy pants, and matching 5-inch blue stiletto sandals. They talked about the bank as they walked over to the card store. Many men might have asked Ana whether she was comfortable making the walk in such high heels, but George was too shy to bring up the subject. They arrived at the store and began looking at cards. “You look here, and I’ll look over here,” Ana said, moving about six feet away from George.

She looked through the cards, realizing that George had an excellent view of her high heel-enhanced profile. As she looked at the cards, she kept an eye on George through her peripheral vision. George was turned towards her, so that he could see her through his peripheral vision while he looked at the cards. Ana smiled to herself.

“Oh, look, George. Here’s one. Let me read it to you.” Ana said. She then employed a flirting technique she had learned as a teenager in Costa Rica. She turned so that she was facing George at a slight angle. She positioned her right foot a little ahead of her left foot. This particularly sexy angle gave George an excellent view of her feet, legs, posterior and her figure as a whole, and she could still look him straight in the eye while appearing completely natural. Costa Rican women flirted this way all the time, but Ana had almost never seen it done in the United States.

Ana read the card, giggled, and asked George what he thought. George liked the card and said it definitely was a candidate, but suggested they keep looking. Ana had used her peripheral vision to observe George as she read the card, and was certain he had given her a split-second elevator-eyes look. How can you not love men, she thought.

They spent a good 30 minutes looking at cards. During the last 15 minutes, Ana changed her strategy entirely, choosing to stand right next to George as they looked at cards together. She was wearing one of her favorite perfumes, expecting it would make a favorable impression on George. They made a lot of eye contact as they read and reread the cards that they felt were the best candidates. They finally picked one, paid for it, and left the store.

“I am not sure I have ever spent 30 minutes looking for a card, not even for my wife,” George said as they walked back. “That was a very pleasant lunch break, and I am sure ‘ol Joe will like the card. Thanks for asking me to come along, Ana.” It was one of the few times Ana had ever seen him smile.

“George, you were very helpful. I could not have done this alone.” Ana added, “Would you mind if we slowed down a bit? I would be more comfortable walking in these high heels if we went a little slower.”

“Of course,” George responded. “No need to get back to the bank so quickly any way.” He added, “I suppose you must look forward to weekends, when you wear shoes that are a little lower.”

As far as Ana was concerned, she had hit the bulls-eye. She did not think she would be able to get George to say anything about her heels, even though she had set him up for just such a comment. The man must really be enjoying himself.

“Actually,” Ana said, touching him on the arm, “on most weekends, I wear shoes that are even higher. I know all of you at the bank think I am crazy, but we Costa Rican women live in our high heels.”

“And I am sure your husband appreciates that,” George said. Another bulls-eye!

Ana turned to George and said playfully, “As a matter of fact, he does!”

*** *** ***

George got very little work done that afternoon. He felt like a teenager again, with every cell of his being filled with desire. Ana completely dominated his thoughts. Every detail of her was vivid – her lovely brown-red hair, the scent of her alluring purfume, her shapely hips, world-class ass, long legs, and those killer heels. But there was something else that filled George with both excitement and dread. Ana knows, he thought. She knows I have been looking at her. But how? I have been so subtle and so careful, it seems impossible that she could have noticed. Ana has never shown the remotest interest in me, so there is no reason for her to think I had been admiring her. Perhaps I had not been as careful as I had thought. However she did it, she knows I have been looking at her. That is the only explanation for sudden interest in me, he concluded.

And anyway, he thought, look at the bright side: She knows, and she likes it, and she is being friendly with you. It could be a lot worse: She could have made efforts to avoid me, or, heaven forbid, filed a complaint against me. If she had to find out, this is the way it should turn out.

He stopped at the supermarket on the way home and bought flowers and a card for Patricia. Part guilt, perhaps, but also an affirmation for himself that no matter how much he lusted after Ana, he knew Pat was his woman. By 9 p.m. that night, he could not stand it any longer, and he practically had to beg Patricia to get into bed. He was like an uncontrolled bull, with his head full of thoughts of Ana. He tried to bring Patricia into his fantasies, but his experience with Ana was only a few hours old, and there was no way that Patricia could compete with Ana in his imagination. So he just thought of Ana, her ass, the way she stood, her near-vertical feet in her heels, the blue nail polish on her toes that matched her heels, the smell of her perfume, the way she stood so close to him that he could reach out, seal her lips with his and stick his tongue down her throat. He was moving so forcefully that Patricia had to ask him to be more gentle. They both climaxed but, an hour later, as they thought they were going to bed for real, George wanted to do it again. Patricia could not remember the last time they had made love twice in the same night.

As she lay in bed after the second lovemaking session, Patricia could only think of one thing: What had Ana done to him? She may have kept her promise of not telling George about that awful lunchtime conversation, but she was clearly acting on the information she had gained from it. Was she acting out of revenge to Patricia because of the way she had embarrassed her at lunch with her stories of George’s sexual interest in her? Or maybe she was a tease who got her kicks by whipping men into a frenzy?

To make things worse, George went to the kitchen and returned with a glass of her favorite wine. Oh, God, wine was the last thing she wanted right now! But she sipped it anyway, not wanting to hurt George’s feelings. George talked about all the romantic places they could visit once he retired, how they could do so many things that they had never had the time to enjoy over the years. Oh, Patricia thought, what he must have been thinking about Ana to feel so guilty that he has to do this!

She finished the first glass of wine and George poured her the second glass. She did not want it, but she simply could not say no. Despite her protestations, George poured her a third glass, pointing out that she was going to go to asleep anyway, so there was no problem with it.

“So how was work today?” Patricia asked as she worked on her third glass. She began asking about long-time associates of George’s at the bank that she had known for years. They talked a bit about each of them, and then Patricia asked, “And how is Ana?”

George gulped hard on his wine. “Ana?”

“Yes, Ana. One of your bank tellers. You know, while you were at your conference, I was in the neighborhood of the bank and I needed some money, so I stopped inside. Ana was the teller who assisted me. I introduced myself to her, said I was your wife. She was very friendly. A real snazzy lady.”

“I don’t really talk to her much. I don’t know her very well.”

Patricia knew she should have stopped, but her husband’s understated response annoyed her. So she kept pushing.

“She is a very nice lady. I actually had lunch with her the other day. I was interested in what she could tell me about Costa Rica, because we might want to go there someday. So I called her up and asked her to lunch.”

“You did? That’s funny. Ana never mentioned it to me,” George said. “But it is even more curious that you never mentioned it to me. You usually tell me about things like that.”

Somehow, I have done it again, Patricia thought. George is right; I would normally tell him something like that. If I could just say no to wine. “I guess I just forgot,” she said.

George put the wine glass down. The pieces of the puzzle were starting to come together in a way he did not like. “OK, Patricia. Tell me what is going on. Why are you interested in Ana?”

“I could ask the same of you, George,” Patricia said defensively. “I heard you say her name when we were making love that one time. You denied it, but I heard it. So I decided to find out who she was, and I went to the bank, and one thing led to another, and we had lunch. That is all. Is your story that simple?”

“There is no story,” George said. “She is a teller at the bank. Yes, she is a very attractive woman, and she dresses sharply, as you undoubtedly observed. I can’t control the fact that the bank hired an attractive woman to work as a teller. You want to know something? She asked me today if I could help her select a birthday card for Joe. That is the most I have ever talked with her.”

“And look at what it did to you. You go pick out a birthday card with this woman Ana, and you come home like Casanova possessed. How long has it been since we did it twice in one night?”

“It is odd that Ana never showed the slightest degree of interest in me until today. And now it turns out that she starts becoming real friendly and flirtatious with me right after you have lunch with her.”

George stopped. All of a sudden, the puzzle came together in his head. “Oh, my God, Patricia! You hear me mention this woman’s name once, you become curious, you have lunch with her, and suddenly she is friendly to me. What did you tell her, Patricia? Did you tell her I blurted out her name once when we were making love?”

“Oh, George, do you think I would ever tell her something like that?” She stopped, and tears began to well up in her eyes. “What I told her was something far worse. Oh, George, it was an accident. I never wanted to say or do anything that would embarrass you! Please forgive me!”

George filled his glass of wine and downed it in one gulp. “Just what did you tell her, Patricia?”

To be continued.

Stu

Ana was in the bathroom, combing her hair and applying her make-up, when Bob walked in. “Whoa,” he said. “That is pretty hot. Are you sure you want to wear that?”

Ana was wearing a red blouse, and a long, tight black skirt with a slit that ran practically to her waist. If she stood a certain way, the slit exposed the top of one of her stockings. Capping her outfit were a pair of 5-1/2-inch black stiletto pumps.

“I need to be very, very sexy tonight,” Ana said.

“Explain this to me again. Your co-worker, George, and his wife, Patricia, have invited us to dinner. Why?”

“I don’t know all the details,” Ana said. “Patricia told me they talked it out. George must have admitted he fantasized about me during their lovemaking, and Patricia must have admitted she had figured that out on her own and had let that little fact slip out when we had lunch. So now they want to ‘legitimize’ their friendship with me. Um, I mean with us.”

“Thank you. I am glad someone is thinking of me while your strange little love triangle develops,” Bob joked.

They drove over to George’s and Patricia’s house, and were greeted warmly at the door. The evening proceeded in a very normal fashion. As the two couples ate, Ana and George talked about working at the bank. George and Patricia talked about their two grown children. Ana and Bob talked about how they had met. After finishing dinner, they moved to the living room and sipped coffee while Ana shared some of her experiences about growing up in Costa Rica. It was only then that the evening’s conversation took an unusual, if not completely unexpected, turn.

“So tell me, Ana,” Patricia asked. “Do a lot of Costa Rican women share your taste in clothing and shoes?”

“In all honesty, Patricia, my style has evolved to the point where it is a bit extreme, even for Costa Rica. But, clearly, my tastes are derived from Costa Rican fashions. You might say I take Costa Rican sensibilities and combine then with the North American penchant for experimentation and risk taking.”

“And I am so glad you are willing to experiment and take risks!” Patricia said. “It is nice to see someone who is not afraid to step out there and be different.”

George cleared his throat. “I have something to say. Inviting you for dinner was Patricia’s idea. It has been a very pleasant evening until now, but I can no longer ignore the elephant in the room. The only reason the four of us are here tonight is because I had some very personal thoughts that were never intended to be shared with anyone. But they were shared. And I cannot just sit here, especially talking about women’s fashions, and pretend that it did not happen. Maybe I am old-fashioned, but I am very embarrassed about it all. And, furthermore, Ana, knowing what you know, I don’t quite understand why you would want to be my friend.”

“But I do want to be your friend, George,” Ana said reassuringly. She stood up so that the other three could clearly see her from her hair down to her stiletto heels.

“There are some things you should know about me,” Ana said. “I come from a culture that strongly embraces high heels and other bold forms of feminine expression. Women are encouraged to express their femininity in a very physical way. And men feel comfortable about openly admiring women. We are not taught to hide our feelings, as people often feel they must do here in the United States.”

She turned slightly so that the top of her stocking was visible through the slit in her dress. “I dress boldly because it is the way I express my true self. And I always appreciate it when others enjoy my form of expression.”

Bob said, “I will vouch for that. Ana believes in being honest with herself and with others. She is not shy in the way she dresses, and you don’t have to be shy in the way you react to her. If you like her style, you can tell her. Ana takes a special pride in brightening peoples’ days.”

“Look, I could be jealous of Ana,” Patricia said. “I could have made George feel guilty for finding her attractive. But what purpose would that have served? By embracing her presence in my husband’s life, we both became closer to each other, physically as well as emotionally. So I appreciate what Ana has done for us. The only thing that came close to ruining it was my big mouth.”

Ana walked over to George and said, “I know it is hard, George. Men, especially North American men, are taught to hide their feelings. In the workplace, you are warned that you are putting your career at risk if you tell a woman she is attractive. But around me, you can feel good about being a man. Compliment me or don’t compliment me as you see fit. If you are open with me, then I will be open with you, too.”

“OK, I will try,” George said. “Your attitudes are all a little foreign to me, but I think I will be able to embrace them. Ana, thank you. You are indeed a lovely woman.”

“If there is anything I can ever do for either of you, please let me know.”

“There is one thing,” Patricia said. “I can’t wear high heels any more, but Ana, I like your eye shadow and eye liner. I would love to go shopping with you so you can teach me more about the cosmetics that are available today. I would like to experiment with that.”

“How about next Saturday?” Ana asked. Patricia agreed.

Bob and Ana said goodbye a short time later and left for home. When they got in their car, Bob said, “Well, the hard part is over. Now you can relax. George and Patricia will incorporate you into their fantasies as they see fit. And there is nothing more that you need to do.”

Ana replied, “With all due respect, Bob, I do not think it will be that simple. I see George every day at work. Will I flirt with him more now? Will I start going out to lunch with him? And I have a funny feeling this upcoming shopping trip with Patricia will not be the last. What other highly personal things will she end up telling me? And lastly, we will have to invite them over to our house for dinner some time. What do you think I should wear as an encore after tonight? Do you really think we are going to have a normal friendship with these two?”

Bob thought for a few moments and said, “You are right. We have managed to establish yet another unusual relationship with another couple based on a mutual interest in high heels and bold feminine fashion. Except this time, you do not have to share the spotlight with anyone. You are the sole star of this show.”

Ana turned to Bob, smiled mischievously and said, “I know. Isn’t that great?”

Next: A prequel: Ana’s experiences in Costa Rica

Stu

Prequel: Ana’s Experiences in Costa Rica

This story was written in the first-person by Ana, with assistance from Steve.

The high-heel shoes stood on the wood floor by the foot of my bed. They were beautiful black, strappy sandals, with four-inch stilettos that seemed to demand one’s full attention. It seemed impossible that these could be my shoes. I had seen such shoes all my life, but always on the feet of other women. Someday, I was told, I would be able to wear shoes like those. And now, incredibly, that day had come.

It was my 18th birthday, and my parents had invited family and friends over to celebrate the occasion. Aunts and uncles, cousins, my grandparents, family friends of my parents, and many of my friends were in the house. I had greeted them as they entered, and spent the early part of the afternoon socializing with them in the living room. Then my mother looked at her watch and quietly motioned me to go to my room. It was time for the next stage of the party, as we had planned. I quietly left the living room, went into my bedroom, and closed the door.

Those steps I took before shutting my bedroom door were the last ones of my childhood.

It felt strange being alone in my room. There were three beds in the room – one was for me, and two for my younger sisters. Very few children in Costa Rica had the luxury of having their own bedroom, and I was certainly not one of them. But mom and dad had made sure that, on this special day, I would have my room to myself.

I had been wearing a simple blouse, plain jeans and two-inch block heels prior to entering my room. This had been my basic attire for the last two years or so, and as much as I had wanted to shed them for something better, I felt sad doing so. But there would be time later for feeling sentimental about such things. I took off my shoes, and unzipped my pants. I hung the pants up neatly in my closet, perhaps for the last time. I then picked up the pair of pants that my parents had folded neatly and left on my bed. They were black, and made of a clingy, polyester-like material. I had never worn such pants before, even though I had long wanted to do so. As I pulled them up, I looked at myself in the mirror, and my heart started to beat a little stronger. The pants were outlining my thighs, hips and waist far more explicitly than anything I had worn in the past. I had studied myself in the mirror countless times, but I had never seen myself quite like that.

With my pants properly zipped, I looked down and turned my attention to the stilettos on the floor. I moved them to the middle of the floor, and eased myself into them, first my right foot and then my left. I momentarily lost my sense of balance, as it felt like the shoes were making me fall forward. I reacted by thrusting my hips out slightly and arching my back. I felt back in balance, at least somewhat. My pants felt so tight, and the shoes had twisted my feet into a semi-vertical position and forced me to assume this strange posture. I turned back to the mirror and fixated on what I saw. My hips and waist appeared curvier than before. I turned to the side and looked at the shape of my cola, which is the Spanish term for rear end. I also observed my suddenly longer legs, and my now-twisted feet. It reminded me of the women I had long admired as they walked down the street wearing their high heels. I had dreamed for years about looking like this, and now that it was happening, it seemed so surreal. It was almost as if I had simply borrowed someone’s body, and that, when the day was over, I would return to the little girl’s body I had known all my life.

This was not the first time I had worn 4-inch stilettos. I had practiced walking in them in the house on several occasions in the past, but never with guests in the house. And I had never worn them with pants like this. I took a few practice steps around my room, and was able to walk comfortably as I had done in those earlier practice sessions. But this was different. I walked to the bedroom door and started to open it, but I had to take one last look at the room, at the little girl’s life I was leaving behind. I would be sleeping in this room tonight, but it would not be the same.

I opened the door and started down the hallway, my heels clomping loudly on the wood floor. I entered the living room. A few relatives saw me, their conversations stopped and they looked at me approvingly. Then my father saw me, walked up to me, and shouted, “Hello, everyone! I have someone that I want you to see. Behold my beautiful daughter, Ana!”

As I walked to the center of the room, relatives and friends that I had known all my life cheered. A few of the men whistled, and I could hear some of the women telling each other how beautiful I was. I stood in the center of the room and turned to the side, sharing with everyone my new feminine profile, enhanced by those magical stiletto heels. The applause went on and on, and it was one of the very proudest moments of my life.

I was no longer a little girl. I had become a tica, a Costa Rican woman. And my life would never, ever be the same.

*** *** ***

When people from the United States express their patriotism, they normally talk about the freedom they enjoy in their country, and its prosperity. The land of the free and the home of the brave. When Costa Ricans express their patriotism, they remind everyone that their little nation is the oldest and most stable democracy in Latin America, and the only country in the western hemisphere that does not have a military. And, in many cases, they say proudly that Costa Rican women are the most beautiful in the world.

The adoration of beautiful women permeates much of Costa Rican culture. I do not know how this began. Many cultures, particularly in Latin America, place a premium on feminine beauty, and at some point Costa Ricans put their own special twist on it. It makes us feel special. Unlike countries like Mexico and Peru, Costa Rica had no great Indian civilizations, and therefore we have no indigenous culture to incorporate into our national identity. Costa Rica was originally settled by small family farmers from Europe who built no great cathedrals, opera houses, or museums. But we have our women, and they are the ones who make Costa Rica special. Whether they are the most beautiful in the world is a matter of personal opinion. But the country operates as if they are.

The nation’s obsession with beauty is focused primarily on single women between the ages of 18 and approximately 25. Life for many of these women can resemble a seven-year-long beauty pageant. They primp and preen constantly, squeeze themselves into tight, form-fitting clothing, and wear high heels almost exclusively. They smile a lot, flirt with men of all ages, and soak up the attention like sponges. And they do get attention. Soccer may be the favorite sport of Costa Ricans, but the national pastime is looking at women. Everyone in Costa Rica looks at women – men and women, the old and the young, even little children look at women. They are all judges in this 24-7 beauty pageant, evaluating the figures and the poise of these women, how well they dress, and how well they walk in their high heels. In part, these young, single women are engaging in an elaborate mating ritual, in which they compete for the attention and affection of young, single men. But the women are also competing for the hearts of other Costa Ricans as well. Every town, village and community in the country takes pride in its beautiful, young women. Costa Ricans are not an entrepreneurial people, and they do not measure their wealth by national income levels, exports, or production of key commodities. As long as there are beautiful women in the streets, they are satisfied that things are going well.

Of course, not everyone in Costa Rica buys into the culture of beauty and femininity. Many young women avoid heels and attractive clothing, and there are even families that prohibit their daughters from dressing or behaving in any way that attract attention. My family was not one of those. We were enthusiastic participants in a culture that worshipped beautiful women, their high heels, and their colas. And I am glad we were.

To be continued.

Stu

Prequel: Ana’s Experiences in Costa Rica

This story was written in the first-person by Ana, with assistance from Steve.

The high-heel shoes stood on the wood floor by the foot of my bed. They were beautiful black, strappy sandals, with four-inch stilettos that seemed to demand one’s full attention. It seemed impossible that these could be my shoes. I had seen such shoes all my life, but always on the feet of other women. Someday, I was told, I would be able to wear shoes like those. And now, incredibly, that day had come.

It was my 18th birthday, and my parents had invited family and friends over to celebrate the occasion. Aunts and uncles, cousins, my grandparents, family friends of my parents, and many of my friends were in the house. I had greeted them as they entered, and spent the early part of the afternoon socializing with them in the living room. Then my mother looked at her watch and quietly motioned me to go to my room. It was time for the next stage of the party, as we had planned. I quietly left the living room, went into my bedroom, and closed the door.

Those steps I took before shutting my bedroom door were the last ones of my childhood.

It felt strange being alone in my room. There were three beds in the room – one was for me, and two for my younger sisters. Very few children in Costa Rica had the luxury of having their own bedroom, and I was certainly not one of them. But mom and dad had made sure that, on this special day, I would have my room to myself.

I had been wearing a simple blouse, plain jeans and two-inch block heels prior to entering my room. This had been my basic attire for the last two years or so, and as much as I had wanted to shed them for something better, I felt sad doing so. But there would be time later for feeling sentimental about such things. I took off my shoes, and unzipped my pants. I hung the pants up neatly in my closet, perhaps for the last time. I then picked up the pair of pants that my parents had folded neatly and left on my bed. They were black, and made of a clingy, polyester-like material. I had never worn such pants before, even though I had long wanted to do so. As I pulled them up, I looked at myself in the mirror, and my heart started to beat a little stronger. The pants were outlining my thighs, hips and waist far more explicitly than anything I had worn in the past. I had studied myself in the mirror countless times, but I had never seen myself quite like that.

With my pants properly zipped, I looked down and turned my attention to the stilettos on the floor. I moved them to the middle of the floor, and eased myself into them, first my right foot and then my left. I momentarily lost my sense of balance, as it felt like the shoes were making me fall forward. I reacted by thrusting my hips out slightly and arching my back. I felt back in balance, at least somewhat. My pants felt so tight, and the shoes had twisted my feet into a semi-vertical position and forced me to assume this strange posture. I turned back to the mirror and fixated on what I saw. My hips and waist appeared curvier than before. I turned to the side and looked at the shape of my cola, which is the Spanish term for rear end. I also observed my suddenly longer legs, and my now-twisted feet. It reminded me of the women I had long admired as they walked down the street wearing their high heels. I had dreamed for years about looking like this, and now that it was happening, it seemed so surreal. It was almost as if I had simply borrowed someone’s body, and that, when the day was over, I would return to the little girl’s body I had known all my life.

This was not the first time I had worn 4-inch stilettos. I had practiced walking in them in the house on several occasions in the past, but never with guests in the house. And I had never worn them with pants like this. I took a few practice steps around my room, and was able to walk comfortably as I had done in those earlier practice sessions. But this was different. I walked to the bedroom door and started to open it, but I had to take one last look at the room, at the little girl’s life I was leaving behind. I would be sleeping in this room tonight, but it would not be the same.

I opened the door and started down the hallway, my heels clomping loudly on the wood floor. I entered the living room. A few relatives saw me, their conversations stopped and they looked at me approvingly. Then my father saw me, walked up to me, and shouted, “Hello, everyone! I have someone that I want you to see. Behold my beautiful daughter, Ana!”

As I walked to the center of the room, relatives and friends that I had known all my life cheered. A few of the men whistled, and I could hear some of the women telling each other how beautiful I was. I stood in the center of the room and turned to the side, sharing with everyone my new feminine profile, enhanced by those magical stiletto heels. The applause went on and on, and it was one of the very proudest moments of my life.

I was no longer a little girl. I had become a tica, a Costa Rican woman. And my life would never, ever be the same.

*** *** ***

When people from the United States express their patriotism, they normally talk about the freedom they enjoy in their country, and its prosperity. The land of the free and the home of the brave. When Costa Ricans express their patriotism, they remind everyone that their little nation is the oldest and most stable democracy in Latin America, and the only country in the western hemisphere that does not have a military. And, in many cases, they say proudly that Costa Rican women are the most beautiful in the world.

The adoration of beautiful women permeates much of Costa Rican culture. I do not know how this began. Many cultures, particularly in Latin America, place a premium on feminine beauty, and at some point Costa Ricans put their own special twist on it. It makes us feel special. Unlike countries like Mexico and Peru, Costa Rica had no great Indian civilizations, and therefore we have no indigenous culture to incorporate into our national identity. Costa Rica was originally settled by small family farmers from Europe who built no great cathedrals, opera houses, or museums. But we have our women, and they are the ones who make Costa Rica special. Whether they are the most beautiful in the world is a matter of personal opinion. But the country operates as if they are.

The nation’s obsession with beauty is focused primarily on single women between the ages of 18 and approximately 25. Life for many of these women can resemble a seven-year-long beauty pageant. They primp and preen constantly, squeeze themselves into tight, form-fitting clothing, and wear high heels almost exclusively. They smile a lot, flirt with men of all ages, and soak up the attention like sponges. And they do get attention. Soccer may be the favorite sport of Costa Ricans, but the national pastime is looking at women. Everyone in Costa Rica looks at women – men and women, the old and the young, even little children look at women. They are all judges in this 24-7 beauty pageant, evaluating the figures and the poise of these women, how well they dress, and how well they walk in their high heels. In part, these young, single women are engaging in an elaborate mating ritual, in which they compete for the attention and affection of young, single men. But the women are also competing for the hearts of other Costa Ricans as well. Every town, village and community in the country takes pride in its beautiful, young women. Costa Ricans are not an entrepreneurial people, and they do not measure their wealth by national income levels, exports, or production of key commodities. As long as there are beautiful women in the streets, they are satisfied that things are going well.

Of course, not everyone in Costa Rica buys into the culture of beauty and femininity. Many young women avoid heels and attractive clothing, and there are even families that prohibit their daughters from dressing or behaving in any way that attract attention. My family was not one of those. We were enthusiastic participants in a culture that worshipped beautiful women, their high heels, and their colas. And I am glad we were.

To be continued.

Stu

I grew up during the 1970s and early 1980s in a small farming town in the mountains of Costa Rica. My father was not a farmer; instead, he bought the potatoes and carrots produced by the family farmers in our town, and he sold them to vendors in retailers in nearby cities like San Jose and Cartago. We were not wealthy, even by Costa Rica’s modest standards, but neither were we poor. We always had food, a roof over our head, and, of course, enough clothes and shoes for everyone in the family.

During my childhood, I always remember seeing women in high heels. My mother, aunts, cousins, family friends – all wore heels. The single women tended to wear the higher stiletto heels, while the married women wore lower and more conservative wide heels, but flat shoes on women were a rare site. To me, high heels were as inevitable a part of growing up and becoming a woman as developing breasts and menstruating.

I first asked my parents for a pair of heels when I was 13, and I was told no. When I was 15, my parents bought me a pair of loafers with 2-inch block heels. I was only allowed to wear them on weekends. Indeed, I wore them with relish, and particularly to Mass on Sundays. The church was the one place in town where women liked to show off their best heels, thanks largely to the captive audience of chuchgoers. Lots of young women found any reason at all to walk up and down the aisles during the service, with their heels clicking on the hard floor. Nobody seemed to mind, and I joined right along.

When I turned 16, my parents bought me new loafers with a 2-1/2-inch heel. They then bought me a pumps with a slightly narrower 3-inch heel when I turned 17. The same rules applied: I could wear them only on weekends. Two months before my 18th birthday, I received a sneak preview of my next present: those wonderful, strappy 4-inch stiletto sandals. I practiced walking in them in the house, with my mother and an older cousin supervising me and giving me tips on how to walk properly in them, like a true tica. In Costa Rica, it is not enough simply to wear high heels. Instead, a woman must develop her own style of walking. In truth, a truly proficient high heel wearer would develop several different walking styles – elegant, flirty, even sexy and seductive. There was no way I could become an expert in the two months prior to turning 18, but my mother and cousin were able to give me the basics. My mother took out her own pair of 4-inch stiletto pumps, which I had only seen her wear on a relative handful of special occasions. Within seconds, she was strutting around the house like a woman 20 years her junior, and she put on an exhibition of sensuous movements of her cola that even made me blush.

“You think I was never young? You think I was never interested in impressing men? Think again,” my mother said to me as she laughed. “Of course, there were a lot of reasons why your father fell in love with me. But my walking style in high heels did not hurt.”

Yes, mothers teach those things to their daughters in Costa Rica.

After my 18th birthday party, I was allowed to wear high heels whenever I wanted. My flat and lower-heel shoes went in the closet forever, and virtually overnight I became a full-time wearer of 4-inch heels. My cousin, whose shoe size was the same as mine, gave me a couple of pairs of her 4-inch heels, and my parents bought me another pair within a few months of my 18th birthday. Those four pairs of shoes carried me a long way. My loose clothing also gradually gave way to tight pants and skirts that shamelessly advertised my feminine figure. My parents beamed with pride in the morning when I would walk out of the house in my 4-inch stilettos and tight clothing. In the eyes of Costa Rican society, I was an attractive, sociable woman with a good upbringing, and someday soon I would become a desirable mate for some worthy man. I was a credit to my community and to my country. In Costa Rica, style counts for a lot.

Strutting through town in my stilettos, I loved the fact that so many adults I had known my whole life would come up to me and tell me how fast I had matured, and how lovely I was. I also loved the attention I received from boys my own age. The compliments bolstered my self-confidence, and the more confident I became, the more compliments I got. Oddly enough, I liked to spend time during that period with our local priest, a handsome man in his late 30s. I would walk into church during the week in my stilettos, and offer to do little errands to help him out. I always loved to turn and give him a nice, sensuous wiggle whenever I left the church. I was not trying to seduce him. I simply felt badly that a nice man like him could not date or marry, and I wanted to be at least a little feminine presence in his life. I think he appreciated it, as he always seemed glad to see me, and he frequently complimented me on my appearance.

I graduated from high school at about the same time that I turned 18. For the first year after high school, I attended a one-year secretarial training program in Cartago, which was only a short bus ride away. The students in the program were primarily 18-year-old women like me. At least two-thirds of us wore 3- to 4-inch heels on a regular basis, and we soon divided into two general groups: those who wore heels, and those who did not. In retrospect, I regret not paying much attention to the flat-shoe wearers, as most of them were good people. I was still immature in that regard.

After one year, I graduated from the secretarial program with honors, and was ready to start my first job. I was hired as a sales clerk in the only real store in my little town. The store was a little bit of everything. It had started as a savings and loan where the farmers of our town could get loans and deposit their savings. The savings and loan remained its core business, but it was so successful that it expanded to also sell clothes and agricultural supplies. Naturally, I was assigned to the clothing department. My parents were delighted that I was hired, and I soon found out why. Virtually everyone in town frequented the store and got to know the employees on a first-name basis. At age 19, I was now one of the most visible women in my little town. Women would come in throughout the day to look at clothes, and I would help them with their questions and their purchases. Being well-dressed gave me credibility with them, and it helped me maintain my good reputation. The atmosphere at the store would change greatly in the late afternoon, when the men would come into the store after a day of work in their fields to buy farming supplies, chat among themselves, and also to look at us. In those afternoon hours, I easily had 10 or more pairs of male eyes focused on me at any moment as I went about my duties. I would walk up to the men, say hello, flirt with a few of them and then wiggle my way back to my duties. I loved the attention because my family and my culture had raised me to view this kind of attention as a compliment. No one ever expressed concern about my on-the-job flirting with the men, because this was also acceptable in Costa Rica. I (along with my fellow female employees) were bringing in customers to the store, and making the store an indispensable part of community life. It never occurred to me until I moved to the United States that such workplace behavior could be considered unprofessional.

There were two women at the store, Rita and Victoria, who had a big influence on my life. Rita, the assistant store manager, was an attractive black-haired woman in her early 30s. She was married with three children. It was somewhat exceptional in my town for married women to have full-time employment, but Rita was an exception to everything. While most married women rarely wore any heels higher than 3 inches in public, Rita wore 4-inch stilettos to work on most days. She also had an affinity for relatively tight dresses (although not as tight as mine, but the comparison is an unfair one because I was still single). Rita also flirted more than most married women. But what impressed me most about Rita was her intelligence. She had worked at the store for a number of years, and knew every square inch of it. When things went wrong and the store owner was out, Rita took charge to make things right.

One day, I was so busy flirting with several men that I put the wrong price tags on several articles of clothing. Rita noticed this, and called me into a back room. “You know, Ana, you are a very attractive, personable young woman,” she said. “The management likes you because you bring in customers, both men and women. You can keep this job for several years without learning anything new or improving yourself. But in five years, there will be new 19-year-olds who will attract more customers to the store than you. If you learn this business and do your job right, you can be promoted to more important jobs. If you don’t, you better hope you have good marriage prospects, because you will not have much of a future here. You seem to have a good head, Ana. Start using it.”

Rita was right, and I knew it. After that, I redoubled my efforts to learn all I could about the store and to do my job well. I still flirted with the men and wiggled in their presence, but I learned how to not let that distract me from doing my job. Over time, I learned an incredible lesson: My potent feminine expression would have an even bigger impact on people if they could see I was smart and effective on the job. The physical and the intellectual reinforce each other rather well.

Unfortunately, I could see that Rita was sad and frustrated much of the time, despite her important job. The rumors in town were that her marriage was not going well, and that she was even involved in extra-marital affairs. I can look back at her now and know that, if she had been born and raised in the United States, she would have gone to college and had a high-powered career. But those kinds of opportunities are not available to women in small towns in Costa Rica. Rita was indeed trapped. As I will explain later, I often thought of Rita when I had to make important decisions in my own life. She was both a role model for me, and a model of what I did not want to become.

Victoria was also an important influence on me, but for completely different reasons. She was the secretary and personal assistant to the store’s owner, which made her the highest-ranking woman in the business. Rita may have been the problem solver, but when the owner was out (which was often), Victoria was in charge of the entire operation. She had a pretty figure and long, brown hair that was just a slightly lighter shade than mine. Perhaps most significantly, she was 29 years old and single.

Costa Ricans get very traditional when it comes to marriage. They believe that a healthy, well-adjusted woman should be married by about the age of 25. Women who reach their late 20s without getting married are viewed with some suspicion, as if there may be something wrong with them. They are under continuous social pressure to prove that they are still feminine and desirable. An important way that Costa Rican society gives these women to prove their femininity is to exempt them from many of the social rules that apply to everyone else. High heels are perhaps the best example. As much as Costa Ricans revere high heels, there is a general taboo against wearing heels higher than 4 inches on a regular basis. However, this limit does not apply to single women beginning in their mid-20s. It is socially acceptable for these women to move up to 5-inch heels, as if they need the extra height to reassure others as to their femininity. These women also can wear tighter clothing and engage in even more flirtatious behavior than younger, single women.

Victoria seemed to enjoy the freedoms that society granted her. She wore 5-inch heels on most days, along with the tightest clothing of anyone who worked at the store. She was very outgoing, and usually emerged from her office in the afternoon to join us in flirting with the men who would gather in the store. As much as I enjoyed the attention I got during these daily flirt sessions, Victoria was clearly the main attraction. She would wiggle up to the men, stand close to them, laugh at their jokes and tease them with her own. I am certain the men looked forward to her daily demonstrations of flirting, and who could blame them? She was a master at walking in heels, and I learned a lot by observing her. She had at least five different walking styles – a normal walk mode, an elegant style she employed for senior citizens and important visitors, a sensuous style she used with younger women, and two sexy styles that she utilized in front of men. She could switch styles in an instant, depending on who was in sight of her.

I was supposed to feel a little sorry for Victoria, because she was about to turn 30 and was still not married. Instead, I grew to envy her. She seemed to enjoy her 5-inch heels so much that I wanted to try wearing them. However, I was too young, and could not wear anything like them without causing a scandal that would have embarrassed my family and jeopardized my job. I also envied the way she could dress and flirt more daringly than the rest of us. I did not think of her attire and behavior as a last-ditch effort to attract a good man; instead, I saw it as a rebellious expression of freedom that I might want to try myself some day. These were radical thoughts for a small-town, Costa Rican girl, and I did not share them with anyone.

Victoria took obvious pride in the fact that she wore the highest heels in the store, and there was one occasion when I succumbed to the temptation to imitate her – or, more accurately, to challenge her. On Fridays, it was common for the female employees to dress down by wearing lower-heel shoes. Many of my co-workers and I moved down to 3-inch heels on Fridays, which cleared the way for Victoria to move down to 4-inch heels. I borrowed a pair of 4-1/2-inch heels from my cousin with the intent of wearing them to work on a Friday, even though the shoes were really only meant for special occasions. On the day I wore them to work, I noted with satisfaction that Victoria had indeed worn a pair of 4-inch heels, which meant that I was wearing the highest heels of anyone. I got a number of compliments, including a grudging one from Victoria. My triumph, however, was a short one. During the morning break, Victoria went home and returned in a pair of 5-inch stilettos with a needle-thin heel, and the tightest pants I had ever seen her wear up to that time. She strutted up to me later that morning and said to me, “Do not be in such a rush to move up, Ana. You do not know what I had to go through to earn the right to wear what I wear. Stay away from things you do not understand.” To emphasize her displeasure with me, she reassigned me for the rest of the day to take inventory in one of the back storage rooms. I never challenged her again!

To be continued.

Stu

My little run-in with Victoria was soon forgotten. In fact, Victoria championed my promotion the following year to work as a teller in the savings and loan department. At age 20, I became the third highest-ranking woman in the store, behind only Victoria and Rita. This increased my visibility and status in the community. Also, instead of working primarily with female customers in the clothing department, I was now attending to a mixed clientele of men and women, including many of the prominent male farmers in town who trusted me with sizable transactions of money. I took this very seriously, and soon earned a reputation as an efficient worker who never lost track of a centavo of money. But I also pushed my flirting skills to new heights. I could give many of my male customers a look that made them feel like they were the most important and attractive man in the world. And I learned a lot about them by talking with them.

Not coincidentally, I began dating a lot at about this point. Men now considered me one of the most desirable dates in town, and it was fun to have different men compete for my affections. My parents were ecstatic over my promotion and my popularity. The following year, when I turned 21, I began going steady with Carlos, a son of one of the more successful farmers in our community. He was handsome, well-mannered, hard working and reasonably intelligent, and was expected eventually to take over his family’s farming operation. My parents seemed to welcome him as their future son-in-law, almost from the start. I was not thinking so far ahead, but I did enjoy our time together. We went dancing practically every weekend in one of the small dance places in our town. Afterward, we would walk out of the dance hall in the night air, find some dark spot between two buildings, and spend what seemed like hours kissing while he massaged my cola with his strong, field-toughened hands. Those were good times, indeed.

Carlos first proposed to me a year later, when I was 22 and he was 24. Many women in my town would have jumped at the chance to marry Carlos, but I told him I was not ready. I enjoyed my status and visibility in the town, and the last thing I wanted was to get married, become pregnant, quit my job and spend the next two decades in flat shoes raising children. Alternatively, I did now want to end up like Rita, trying to hold onto a job while raising children, and not being particularly happy at either. My parents were a little disappointed with my decision, but they accepted it. They still believed a marriage announcement was only a matter of time, and they were willing to give me that extra time to get the single life out of my system.

When I turned down Carlos for the second time a year later, my parents were not so forgiving. What was I thinking, they asked me. I was so fortunate to have someone like Carlos, so how could I turn him down twice? His patience will not last forever, and if I lose him, I will regret it for the rest of my life, they warned me. I could end up like Victoria, they said, hoping to shock me. The problem was that, deep down, I wanted to be more like Victoria. The idea of a life without limits – wearing incredibly high-heeled shoes and clothes that were considered too hot for other women, and being the star attraction in the daily afternoon flirting at the store – appealed to me more and more. I still did not dare sharing such subversive thoughts with my parents.

Carlos nobly stuck with me. He convinced his father to let him use his family’s pick-up truck to take me on dates to Cartago and San Jose, in the hope it would satisfy my desire for a more worldly existence and make the idea of getting married more appealing. The strategy largely backfired, as it made me even more dubious of marriage. I would look at the people in these cities, who were somewhat more sophisticated than the farmers in my little town, and I would question even more how I could be happy raising children within the four walls of some house in my little town.

When I turned 24, Carlos proposed to me for the third and last time. The romance and anticipation that had been in his voice the first time around had pretty much vanished. Instead, he almost sounded impatient and weary. He made it clear that if I turned him down again, we would have to break up, which was fair. I told him I could not decide right away and I would let him know, which irritated him even more.

The following morning, I did something I had never done before: I took a sick day from my job when I was not really sick. I had to get away for the day, and I took the bus to Cartago. I was beginning to doubt myself. At one level, it was pretty dumb to be turning down Carlos, as he was one of the better marriage prospects in town. Why was I so scared of ending up like Rita, and why was I so enamored of Victoria’s lifestyle? I had been part of the Costa Rican 24-7 beauty pageant now for six years, and my society was telling me it was time to give it up and move on. But I did not want the beauty pageant to end! It seemed so cruel. Why did my parents and my culture teach me to love the attention I got from wearing high heels and nice clothes, only to expect me to give it all up when my feminine appeal was at its peak? But other women did just that. I thought of all the girls I had grown up with, and how we were all excited to start wearing high heels when we were 18. Most of them were now married, rarely venturing out in public in anything higher than 2-inch heels, and they seemed happy. What was wrong with me that I did not want to follow in their footsteps?

The bus arrived in Cartago. I got off and wandered aimlessly in the city, lost in my own thoughts. I stopped at a street corner and noticed a pretty clothing boutique shop. I went inside. The woman working inside was quite beautiful, with flowing brown hair and a slim figure, and she was wearing tight denim pants and a pair of 5-inch stiletto sandals. I judged her to be about 30 years of age. And she was definitely single.

She asked me if I needed any help. I said yes, and she showed me her various clothing lines. Her name was Gloria, and we talked for quite a while about clothes. She finally said, “If you have any other questions, please do not hesitate to ask.”

I shocked even myself when I replied, “I actually do have a question, although I will certainly understand if you do not want to answer it. Do you like being single?”

Gloria was surprised by the boldness of the question, but she recovered quickly. She looked at me, studied what I was wearing, and seemed to note my 4-inch stiletto pumps. “Let me guess,” she said. “You are about 24 or so, your boyfriend and your parents are pressuring you to get married, and you do not want to.” When I said yes, she responded, “Something very similar happened to me.”

We talked for a little longer – fortunately, it was a slow day and there were no other customers in the store to divert Gloria’s attention. She finally said, “If you have doubts, you should not get married. If you stay single, do the things that you enjoy. I do not regret not having married because I am doing what I want to do. If I meet the right man, I will know it.”

She added, “I think you are a high-heel lover, aren’t you? Come over here.” She walked me over to a corner of her store where a number of pairs of 5-inch heels were on display. “Try some on and see if you like them.”

I had never even tried on a pair of 5-inch heels in my life. But Gloria brought me a pair of sandals in my size. I took off my 4-inch stilettos and eased my feet into the 5-inchers. It reminded me of my 18th birthday party. How could one little inch make such a big difference? I was not used to the way my feet were stretched vertically, and how I had to thrust my hips and my back to stand up straight. When I felt all balanced, I took a few cautious steps and stopped in front of a full-length mirror. As much as I had liked my appearance in 4-inch heels, I was staggered by the way I looked in 5-inch heels. The difference was stunning.

“Ooh, Ana,” Gloria said. “If you are going to give up shoes like that for a man, he had better be good!”

It was at that moment that I made my peace with not marrying Carlos. In four years, I had gone from being one of the most promising young women in my community to something of a disappointment. I had been someone with excellent marriage prospects, but now people had their doubts about me. I either had to marry Carlos, or become the next Victoria. I chose Victoria.

“I love these shoes. I’ll buy them,” I told Gloria.

While paying for the shoes, I told Gloria about my job at the store in my little town. She suggested I walk over to the Bank of Cartago a few blocks away and apply for a job there. If I was not going to get married, I needed to get out of my town, meet new people and expand my horizons, she said. And she was right. She gave me her business card and told me to use her as a reference. The bank had given her the loan to start up her clothing store, and she was on good terms with everyone there.

I walked over to the bank (in my 4-inch stilettos), and filled out an application. I took the bus home, told Carlos I was not going to marry him, and then went home. My parents were waiting for me, and I told them my decision. As I had expected, they were crestfallen. As far as they were concerned, their hopes and dreams for me were crushed. I did not make things any easier for them when I took my new shoes out of the shopping bag. “By the way,” I said, “I will be wearing these from n