Stu

Dan showed up at Maria’s and Steve’s house at exactly 8:30 p.m. on Saturday. Steve answered the door, introduced himself, and they sat down to talk. Steve talked about his career in the computer industry, while Dan talked about his plans for a business career. Dan seemed like a thoughtful, decent young man, although Steve felt Dan could use a haircut and a wardrobe makeover. If he is looking to impress beautiful women, Steve thought, the faded brown shirt and cheap blue slacks he is wearing tonight won’t quite get the job done.

To Dan, Steve seemed very much as Maria had described him: a nice, smart guy who was reasonably attractive but not exceptionally handsome. Looking at Steve, Dan felt that perhaps there was indeed some hope for himself. He was dying to know how Steve and Maria had met and fallen in love, but he felt it would be premature to ask.

The two men had been talking for several minutes when Maria entered the room. She was wearing a body-hugging, bright red dress, that was especially tight around her hips and thighs, and which ended just above her knees. Black seamed stockings and a pair of 5-1/2-inch blood-red stiletto sandals completed her attire. “Hello, Dan,” she said in a sultry voice. She vamped over to him, her hips rocking back and forth shamelessly, until she stood over her younger friend, who sat nervously in the couch.

“Stand up, please,” she said in a soft monotone.

Dan stood up. Maria moved over until her lips were only inches from Dan’s. She began caressing the back of his neck suggestively with her long, red fingernails, while looking deep into his eyes.

“Are you ready for a night of hot, Latin dancing?” she cooed. She finished the sentence and promptly broke out into a big smile and began laughing. “Oh, forgive me, Dan. I am such a bad actress. But I just couldn’t resist.”

“You had me going,” a relieved Dan replied.

Steve looked at Dan and said jokingly, “You see what I have to go through? Life with this woman is just pure torture.”

“The sultry stuff is not me. You know that,” Maria said to Dan. She took a couple of steps back from him and assumed a very feminine pose. “But this dress and these heels are me. Remember what I said the other night: Beauty is an attitude.”

They got into Steve’s car and headed toward the Latin dance club, the same club where Ana and Bob had taken Steve several years earlier, before he had met Maria. It was the ideal place to take Dan, as it catered to a mostly English-speaking, middle-class Latino clientele, including plenty of women who shared Maria’s philosophy concerning beauty and femininity. The club also attracted a small but growing number of Anglo women who dressed like Latinas. During the drive over, Steve and Maria told Dan how they had met and about their early dates, which enabled Dan to satisfy his curiosity about how these two people from completely different cultural backgrounds had established a successful relationship.

They arrived at the club in time to hear the salsa band begin its repertoire for the evening. As always, there were an abundant number of attractive women decked out in all kinds of colorful dresses and high heels. While Maria still drew her fair share of approving looks from the male patrons, the club nevertheless was one of the few places where she did not stand out from everyone else. There were a lot of well-dressed women to admire.

Steve bought beers for the three of them, while Maria led Dan out to the dance floor. “It is easy to fall in love with salsa music,” Maria told him. “Just move naturally with the music.” Despite her advice, Dan started dancing slowly with a jerky motion that looked anything but natural. He looked nervous and self-conscious.

“Just relax, Dan. You’re trying too hard,” Maria said. She took him by the hand, and wiggled her hips sensuously to the beat of the music. This seemed to have a soothing effect on Dan, who began moving a little more fluidly, although it was still a far cry from what most people would call dancing.

They both got into a groove as the song continued. Dan became lost in his thoughts as he looked at Maria rock back and forth in her tight red dress and ultra-high stiletto heels. Having spent hours in classrooms and libraries with Maria over the previous year, it had not occurred to him that she could be any sexier than she appeared on campus, but tonight she was a quantum level beyond anything he had previously imagined. He felt good that Maria was willingly spending time with him. It was better for her to be a platonic friend than not a friend at all.

The song ended, and they returned to their table to sip beer with Steve. They relaxed for a few minutes until Maria said to Dan, “I want you to look around the room here. Look at the women. In a few minutes, I want you to walk up to the most attractive unaccompanied woman here, the one who in your eyes is the biggest knockout, and ask her to dance.”

“Oh, Maria, I can’t do that…”

“No excuses, Dan. You danced with me, you can dance with them. You don’t have to talk with them, you don’t have to sit down with them after the song and try to get their phone number. Just dance one song with a lady, thank her, and come back here.”

“It’s not going to work…”

Steve broke in. “Dan, I hate to tell you, but Maria is right. No guts, no glory. You’re not trying to find a wife right now. It is just an exercise to build up your self-confidence. And it will. The first time is the hardest, and then it will get easier. Trust me. I didn’t get to meet Maria by being gun shy.”

Dan looked around the room. Two tables away, there were four women sitting around talking. “What about the one at that table, the one at the left?” he asked. The woman was a slim, dark-haired Latina, wearing a short white mini-skirt and white stiletto pumps.

“Yeah, good choice. She is hot,” Steve said. “If you don’t ask her to dance, I will.”

“You’re not going anywhere, Steve,” Maria said. “She looks fine to me. Go for it, Dan.”

Dan took two big gulps of beer, got up and walked over to the table with the four women. “Ex- excuse me, would you like to d-dance?” he said nervously to the girl. She looked at her friends and said, “Why not?” Dan and the girl went out to the dance floor. Dan was obviously nervous, and reverted to his jerky dance style. It might have been OK at a rock club, but salsa dancing required a little more refinement.

Maria sipped at her beer while she watched Dan dance. She said to Steve, “You have to believe me, when Dan is on campus, he is such a nice guy. Funny, witty, very pleasant, and he is bright when it comes to academics. He is a different person right now.”

“It happens,” Steve said. “It starts in high school, maybe even middle school. Other students develop a little faster than you do, maybe by only a few months. But the other boys put you down, girls ignore you, and your self-confidence can dry up quickly. And it takes years to get it back.”

The song finished, Dan walked the girl back to her table, thanked her, and then returned to Maria and Steve with a big smile on his face. “That wasn’t so bad. A baby step is a baby step.”

Dan went out to ask another girl to dance, and then another and another, each one looking as if she had been personally instructed by Maria in the art of feminine appearance. He told Steve and Maria he wanted to ask one last girl to dance, and walked up to a thin blonde Anglo woman sitting alone at a table. She got up to dance, looking very striking in a tight black skirt and pumps with heels that were as high as Maria’s. They danced one song, and then another. The band then began playing a romantic ballad. Dan turned to accompany her back to her table, and he was caught totally off-guard when she walked up to him, put her left hand in his, put her right arm around his shoulder, and began slow-dancing with him. He felt awkward for the first minute, but kept his composure and relaxed. They slow-danced for one song, and then a second. The woman then thanked him and Dan accompanied her back to her table.

A surly man was sitting at the table and glared at Dan. “Thank you for dancing with my woman,” he said.

“Oh, what do you care?” the blonde woman snapped back at him. “He asked me to dance, I was alone, and I said yes. Where the fuck were you, anyway?”

“Don’t use that kind of fucking language with me!” the man shouted. Dan scurried back to Steve and Maria, while the blonde woman and her male companion became increasingly louder and profane. A couple of bouncers walked quickly up to their table, talked to them for a minute and then accompanied them out of the building, as most of the other patrons looked on.

“That’s the story of my life,” Dan said dejectedly. “Even when I do the right thing, I still mess things up.”

“You did nothing wrong,” Maria said. “It’s not your fault those two started to fight with each other and use foul language.”

“Maybe not,” Dan said. “But they would not have started fighting if I had not asked the woman to dance. Every thing I try to do with women just turns to shit. It happens over and over and over.”

“Don’t be so hard on yourself,” Steve said. “You had a good night tonight. You handled yourself well with all those women.”

“Yes, you did,” Maria said. The band was still playing slow tunes. She took Dan by the hand and said, “Come on. This was a good night, and it is going to end on a positive note for you.”

They started to slow dance, but Dan held Maria at some distance, dancing the way a young boy would dance with his aunt at a wedding. Maria could tell he was nervous and shaking a little. She pulled him close to her, pressing her chest against his, and taking his left hand and guiding it down to her hip. She wanted Dan to experience the feel of her shapely body, to know the thrill of intimate contact with a beautiful woman so that he would be determined to go back out in the world and not give up until he found one of his own. She felt him tense up, then she stood on her tiptoes and whispered in his ear, “Relax, just relax. Enjoy this.” She felt the tenseness leaving his body, and she noticed that he was now the one holding her tightly. As the song continued, Dan started running his nose along the side of Maria’s neck, experiencing the wonderful scent of her perfume. The music ended, and Maria gave him an affectionate kiss on the cheek.

“You know, I think that’s the nicest thing anyone has ever done for me in my entire life. Honest,” Dan said.

“It makes up for all those times you helped me with homework,” she replied. “I’m glad I could help you with something.”

To be continued.

Stu

Almost two weeks went by. Maria saw Dan in class during that time, but professors tended to go easy on assignments for a while following midterms, so there was no reason for Maria, Dan and Laurie to get together to study. One day, following her last class in the afternoon, Maria decided to stop at a café and get some coffee to drink during her drive home. While waiting in line to order, she noticed Dan and Laurie were sitting in a booth at the back of the café. She bought her coffee and walked toward their table to say hello to them.

She was approaching the table when Dan and Laurie leaned toward each other and began kissing. “Oh!” Maria said in a total surprise. Dan and Laurie looked up.

“Maria! Come join us,” Dan said.

Now Maria was the one who appeared nervous and awkward. “I’m sorry. I see I am interrupting something. We’ll see each other in class tomorrow. Why don’t we talk then?”

Laurie got up from the table and said, “Maria. Look.” She was wearing a pair of wide, 3-inch block heels. They were not in any way fashionable, but it was the first time that Maria had seen Laurie in anything other than flat shoes.

“Laurie, that’s wonderful!” Maria said. “A lot has happened with you two!”

“And we want to tell you about it. Please sit,” Dan said. When Maria sat down with them, he said, “The week after we went dancing, I got together with Laurie after class and told her about our outing to the Latin club, and our late-night conversation a few days prior.”

Laurie said, “That got me thinking. I went through a brief period in high school when I wanted to wear high heels. My parents bought me these shoes, but I quit wearing them after a short time because none of my friends were interested in heels. I pretty much forgot about them. But when Dan was telling me what happened, I asked him if I should go to my parents’ house that weekend and bring back my heels. He said yes.”

Dan said, “We got together again the weekend after Laurie picked up her heels. We talked some more, one thing led to another and, well, here we are.” He kissed Laurie on the cheek. “We have you to thank, Maria. You brought us together.”

“I hardly think I did that,” Maria protested.

Laurie said, “When Dan and I were talking, we realized it was not an accident that the two of us started studying with you. We were both attracted to you. It is obvious why Dan would find you attractive. In my case, I now realize I saw you as the kind of woman I wanted to be. I didn’t realize it, though, because I had never thought of myself as attractive. It took my conversations with Dan to bring all that to the surface.”

Laurie continued, “Beauty is a value. Beauty is an attitude. Great lines, Maria. You should teach a class in that.”

“Well, it’s clear that not only were you attracted to me, but I was attracted to both of you,” Maria said. “All these intellectuals on campus, and none of them understand what I am about. But the two of you did. Even if you could not verbalize it, you understood.”

Maria turned to Dan and said, “Looks like you achieved your goal after all, didn’t you?”

“Yes,” Dan replied, while starting to blush. “I did.”

*** *** ***

Cost accounting was a royal pain, Maria thought. Problem Number 6 in her latest assignment was giving her a bad case of heartburn. “I give up,” she finally said. “Dan, did you get Number 6?”

Laurie quickly added, “That one is giving me nightmares, too.”

Dan looked at both of them. “Don’t feel bad. It’s tricky. It took me a couple of go-arounds before I finally got it. Here is what you do.” He methodically stepped them through the problem.

“Maria,” Laurie asked. “Do you mind if I get a glass of water?”

“Of course, you can. The glasses are in the cupboard next to the refrigerator,” Maria said.

The three of them were sitting at Maria’s kitchen table, which was covered with papers, textbooks, pens, pencils, erasers and calculators. Laurie got up and carefully made her away across the kitchen. She walked very tentatively, and at one point almost fell as she struggled to maintain her balance while wearing her new 4-inch stiletto heels.

Maria kept a watchful eye on her, and said, “You are leaning a little too much from side to side, and it is throwing off your balance. Posture is not that important when you are barefoot or wearing flats, but it is crucial when you are wearing heels, especially stilettos. Be sure to stand up straight.”

“I don’t see how women like you can walk so elegantly in heels,” Laurie replied. “It’s like they limit your movements, rather than enhance them.”

Maria got up walked over to Laurie, swinging her hips from side to side in an exaggerated manner to make a point while strutting in her 5-inch stilettos. “It is like learning to ride a bicycle. At first, it seems impossible, almost as if you are violating the laws of nature. But once you learn, it becomes the most natural thing in the world. And so much fun, you don’t want to stop.” She took a packet of popcorn from the cupboard, and put it in the microwave. When it was cooked, she brought it back to the table, and the three of them munched on popcorn while sipping on soda.

They studied for almost another hour, until Maria looked at her watch. “It’s almost 11 p.m., and I think I am reaching my limit. I’ll be back in a few minutes.” She left the room. When she returned, she was no longer wearing a pair of jeans and 5-inch heels. She had changed into a black leather skirt that wrapped tightly around her hips and thighs, before ending just above her knees. And on her feet were the precious 6-inch stiletto pumps that she saved for special occasions.

“OK, you two,” she said. “Study time is over. Now we’re going to party.” She turned to look down the hallway and asked Steve to come join them.

“Oh, Maria, what incredible shoes!” Laurie said.

“Don’t try this at home, kids. This is for experienced professionals only,” Maria said. She stepped from the kitchen into the living room, demonstrating her best one-two-one-two flirtatious walk, which, following hours of practice, she could now ably carry out in 6-inch heels. She went to the stereo and popped a CD of old Rolling Stones hits into the CD player. She walked back up to Dan, and said, “You’re being quiet, aren’t you?”

“I, I’m sorry.” Dan stammered. “It’s j-just that I never knew shoes like that even existed.”

“You need to spend more time on the Internet,” Maria replied. “Remind me to get you a list of Web sites that you should visit.”

Steve walked into the room. Maria said to Dan, “Steve saw me putting on my 6-inch heels earlier, and he just lay there in bed, watching TV. But now he hears the Rolling Stones on the stereo, and he comes out here like Pavlov’s Dog. Don’t ever let yourself wind up like him.”

“Character assassination will get you nowhere,” Steve said. “Let’s dance!”

They turned up the volume to play “Brown Sugar”. Laurie barely made it through the song trying to dance in her 4-inch heels, and she was relieved when Maria suggested that she change back into the 3-inch heels she had worn on the way over. It was important to practice, but it was also important to have fun, too.

The rock tunes continued one after the other: “Start Me Up,” “Satisfaction,” “Jumping Jack Flash,” “19th Nervous Breakdown” and “Under My Thumb.” While she took pains to explain that she was not a good dancer, Maria nevertheless gave an exhibition of dance moves that were possible in 6-inch heels, to the delight of the others. The next song, the slow-moving “Wild Horses,” provided a needed change of pace. Dan and Laurie slow-danced tightly, kissing each other with all the passion of first-time lovers. Maria and Steve watched the other two and did their fair share of kissing themselves.

Before the song ended, Steve turned away from Dan and Laurie and said softly to Maria, “Looks like we may have a fourth couple some day to add to our little social network. When do you think we should introduce them to Ana, Bob, Sharon and Jack?”

Maria giggled and replied, “Everything in its own time, Steve. We still have a lot left to teach them.”

Next: Another prequel: Young Maria’s outing with her grandmother

Stu

Prequel: Maria and Her Grandmother
Written in the first person by Maria, with assistance from Steve

The closet. One of the fondest memories of my childhood was my grandmother’s closet. Grandmother, who was a widow, lived with my aunt and uncle in a house about a 20-minute walk from our home in San Salvador, the capital of tiny El Salvador in Central America. Whenever we would visit, I loved to sneak away from everyone else, go into Grandmother’s bedroom, and look inside her closet. There were dozens of pairs of high-heeled shoes, in every color and style imaginable, and with heels of varying heights and thicknesses. To this day, I am not sure why children are fascinated with high-heel shoes, but leave a young child alone in a room with various kinds of shoes, and he or she (yes, even boys) will go right for the high heels. I used to take out the different shoes, run my fingers along the heels and soles, and of course I would try them on. Almost any child would do that. And, like any parent or grandparent, Grandmother would hear the noise and would come in and smile at the sight of a young girl clacking around the room in a pair of shoes made exclusively for full-grown women.

My clearest memory, however, was the time that Grandmother saw me walking in her high heels, and did not smile.

It was 1979, and I was an innocent 10-year-old girl. My uncle, aunt and cousins had taken a trip to visit cousins in another city, and my parents thought it would be good for me to spend the day with Grandmother. On most days, Grandmother was constantly dividing her attention between her children and grandchildren, but on that day I had Grandmother all to myself. My parents left me with Grandmother early in the morning. After making me breakfast, Grandmother went to put the food away and was the dishes, and I snuck away to play with her high heels. She entered the room and saw me, and I waited for her smile. But this time, it did not come.

“Maria, you are 10 years old, correct?” she asked me. Yes, I replied. She then said, “It is time you learn what high heels are really about.”

Grandmother was a tough, serious woman, mainly because she lived a tough, serious life. One does not live to be a grandparent in El Salvador without learning to be tough. El Salvador is the epitome of the small, struggling third world country: poor, overcrowded, underdeveloped and violent. As in many such countries, there is a small class of wealthy people that dominates the country’s economy and society. At the other extreme, there are the poor, who comprise most of the country’ population but own virtually nothing. The poor resent the rich, and the rich hold the poor in contempt. The poor periodically form revolutionary groups to take back by force what they believe the rich have stolen from them. The rich do whatever it takes to hold onto what they have, and that usually means paying for armies to put down the periodic rebellions with bloody force. In between the rich and the poor is the working class and a small middle class, of which my family was a part. The working class often allies itself with the poor, while the middle class sees things both ways: They resent the greediness of the rich, but they also fear the wrath of the poor. Unable to defend itself from either, the middle class leads a nervous, tenuous existence, treading on tiptoes to avoid offending anyone.

The harshness of life in El Salvador scarred Grandmother at an early age. Her father (my great-grandfather), a trade unionist, was killed during the repression that ended the violent uprisings of 1932, when Grandmother was only 11 years old. My great-grandmother somehow managed to keep the family intact, but they slid further and further into poverty. It was at the end of her teenage years that Grandmother discovered she had a gift that may well have saved her and her descendants from lives of poverty and misery.

“Watch carefully,” Grandmother told me. She took off the bathrobe she had been wearing during breakfast, and hung it in the closet. She put on a short-sleeve green dress that flattered her in all the right places. She looked through her collection of heels and settled on a pair of 4-inch black pumps, with a heel that was a little wider and sturdier than a stiletto, but still fashionably narrow. “Observe closely,” she said to me.

Grandmother stepped into the shoes one foot at a time, and I witnessed the most wonderful transformation. Standing barefoot, she looked like a woman whose best years were well behind her. But once she stepped into the heels, everything changed – she stood up tall and straight, her figure became curvier and more sensuous, and she began to exude the femininity that everyone around her knew so well. Grandmother at that time was 58 years old, but she had the figure of a woman half her age, and she could turn the heads of men young enough to be her son. She went into the bathroom to brush her thick black hair (modest use of hair coloring to cover up a sprinkling of gray was the only artificial aid she ever used), and to apply her makeup. She studied herself carefully in the mirror, making sure everything was just the way she wanted it.

“Grandmother, you are so pretty,” I said. “When I grow up, I hope I am as pretty as you.”

“I believe you will grow up to be a beautiful woman,” Grandmother said with a serious tone in her voice. “But there is much that you must learn about beauty. Come. Today will be your first lesson.”

We left the house, which was very small and modest by North American standards. We walked several blocks, boarded a bus, and then transferred to another bus. We ended up 45 minutes later in one of the many shantytowns that are scattered around San Salvador. It was hard to believe that entire families were living in the cheap, claptrap houses. The people in the neighborhoods were rough and scruffy looking, even by Salvadoran standards. Stray dogs were running in the street. Grandmother looked so out of place in her green dress and high heels, but she was totally at ease. I, on the other hand, was starting to feel scared.

“Grandmother, why have you taken me to this place?” I asked.

“This is the neighborhood where I grew up,” she said. “The houses were perhaps a little nicer 50 years ago, but not much different than they are now.” She explained to me that she was born into the working class, and her father barely made enough money to keep the family fed by working in a small textile factory. He joined the trade union movement and was killed in the 1932 uprisings, after which her mother provided for Grandmother and her three siblings by doing all kinds of odd jobs. There was a grimness to the neighborhood. Alcoholism was rampant and gun violence was common, but there were also good people who looked out for each other’s families.

By the time Grandmother was 16 years old, she knew she had the gift of beauty, as the young men of the neighborhood were constantly ogling her and asking her out on dates. But she did not know exactly what to do with it. She explained to me that she took a job as a domestic servant in a middle-class neighborhood of San Salvador, working 60-hour weeks during which she cleaned the house, cooked meals and helped supervise the young children of her employers. Because of the long hours, she often spent the night at the house. One evening, as she was finishing up her final chores for the evening, the woman of the house and her 15-year-old daughter told Grandmother how attractive she was.

“I wonder how you would look in nice clothes. Come here,” the woman told Grandmother. They went into the woman’s room. By happy coincidence, the two women were roughly the same size. The woman of the house took out one of her black dresses and asked Grandmother to try it on. She then took out a pair of her high heels, and asked her to try them on.

Grandmother told me she was a little scared. She had never worn high heels. “I don’t think I can. They are your shoes. I cannot wear them,” Grandmother said. But the woman insisted, and Grandmother finally tried them on. They were a modest pair of 3-inch block heels, but Grandmother nevertheless had to steady herself in them. They then applied some lipstick and eye shadow to Grandmother.

“How beautiful, no?” the woman of the house said to Grandmother. Her daughter added, “I could have spent a full day trying on dresses and shoes, and I could not look as good as you. I am happy for you, but I am also very jealous!”

The woman called her husband and her sons, and asked them to look at Grandmother. They agreed she was lovely. The attention scared Grandmother, as it was unusual for a working-class woman to draw so much attention from a middle-class family. Later on, the woman told Grandmother to keep the dress and the shoes as her gift. “If you use your beauty wisely, you can find a good man who will give you a much more comfortable life than you have known so far,” the woman said.
Grandmother took the woman’s statement very seriously. Over the next several months, she practiced walking in high heels, and made the effort to learn the fine points of hair styling and make-up. She set aside a portion of her meager income for fashion magazines. Poring through the magazines as if they were textbooks, she learned much about style and taste, and how she wanted to present herself. She finally bought herself a nicer pair of shoes and a dress that fit her as if it was made for her. By this time, she was fully aware of her gift, but she did not waste it on the ill-mannered boys of her own neighborhood. On her days off, she would put on her one nice dress and pair of heels, and spend the day in some of the nicer shopping districts in the city. She discovered that, if she dressed nicely, she could pass as a member of the middle class. She would draw the eye of boys who were students, rather than factory workers, and she welcomed the attention.

To be continued.

Stu

On one of her days off, Grandmother entered a small market to get something to drink. The teenage boy working in the store started talking to her, and before long, she had accepted a date from him. She thought for certain that the boy would no longer want to see her once he saw the neighborhood where he lived, but the boy remained as interested in her as ever. That boy was my grandfather. By age 19, the two were married, and Grandmother had moved up to the lower middle-class. It was not a comfortable, secure life, but it was a miraculous leap beyond anything she had known up to that point.

“I learned many things during that period, and they are things that you must learn,” Grandmother told me as we caught a bus that took us out of that awful neighborhood. “There is much ugliness in this world. Poverty, violence, the desperate struggles of so many people. In such a world, there is a hunger for beauty. A beautiful woman, well-dressed and graceful, is a ray of warm sunshine in the coldness and darkness of people’s lives. Beautiful women lift the souls of both men and women. They instill hope that there is goodness and decency in the world. There are good reasons why beautiful women have been prized throughout history. But I learned that beauty is more than just a pretty face and a nice figure. A beautiful woman must know how to dress, how to walk, how to look people in the eye and make them feel they are the most important people in the world. A beautiful woman must know how to distinguish between good and bad men. Upon picking a good man, a beautiful woman must know how to love and be faithful to the man, to inspire him and lift him up. She must make him appear to be an accomplished, enviable man in the eyes of others. All these things you must learn.”

We transferred to yet another bus, which took us to an unfamiliar part of the city. We got off the bus and stood on the side of the road, looking down into a large gulch that was full of people. There were small huts, literally made out of mud and sticks, where the people lived. Many of the men and women were barefoot. Naked children played in the dirt. Large hogs (the most important economic asset for many of these people) ambled through the area, eating the garbage strewn through the little community. My parents up to that point had sheltered me from that aspect of El Salvador. But Grandmother wanted me to see it.

“Isn’t there anything anyone can do to help these people?” I asked, with tears welling up in my eyes.

“The poor have lived like this for centuries, and they will undoubtedly live this way for centuries into the future,” Grandmother said. “The rich perhaps could help them, but they do not. We do not have enough to help them. All we can do is help ourselves. Look at them closely. They have the same color skin as us. They have the same color hair. If we were to go down there and change into their clothes, we could be one of them.” She pointed to a teenage girl who was not far from us. “That girl is as attractive as you will be in just a few years. But she will not have the opportunity to become as beautiful as you will be. She will never wear a nice dress. She will never wear high heels. She will only know the cheapest, most basic clothing. She will only know poverty her entire life.”

Grandmother turned me away from the gulch, and said, “Now you understand the reason why I wear nice dresses and high heels every day. They are a sign to everyone that I am not poor. I am not the working class. I can afford to buy nice dresses and high heels, and I know how to wear them. I may have been born in the working class, but I combined my gift of beauty with my knowledge of style, grace, and culture, and I advanced myself. I married your grandfather and made a better life for myself. And for you. If I had not understood how to use my beauty, you would be living today in the neighborhoods I have shown you.”

We caught another bus. The bus began to climb into the higher areas overlooking San Salvador. We got off in one of the nicer areas of the city, next to a modern shopping center. Most of the men were dressed in fancy shirts and pants, and most of the women wore colorful dresses and high heels.

Grandmother said, “This is where the upper middle-class go to shop. These people have more than we do. Our family owns one food store, while they own several businesses. But we are every bit as good as them. When you are older, many boys from this neighborhood will want to date you. If you pick the right one, you can have a good life here. I wanted your mother to marry a boy from this neighborhood, but she ended up staying in the neighborhood where I raised her. You will do better.”

“Why do you think that?”

“I taught your mother and her older sister everything I knew about beauty. They tried, but they did not inherit my gift. I remember when your mother was 20 years old. We would walk down the street together, and boys her age would look at me, not her. It was the same with your aunt. Both women married good men, but they were men of the lower middle-class. I am proud of my daughters. They did well. But you will do better. I can see already, Maria, that you have the gift of beauty. As you grow older, I will teach you what you need to use your gift well. And you will have one advantage I did not have, in that you will, at a minimum, attend high school. A woman becomes even more beautiful when she is educated. ”

Grandmother took me to lunch at a café in this neighborhood. As we ate, I looked at the women walking by. I tried to imagine myself with curves like theirs, and wearing nice dresses and high heels. I saw one particularly beautiful woman wearing a tight dress and what I realize, in retrospect, must have been 5-inch stiletto heels. “I want to be like her!” I told Grandmother.

“No doubt you will, Maria. No doubt you will.” For the first time that day, Grandmother smiled.

*** *** ***
Over the next three years, Grandmother spent a lot of time with me. She taught me about different styles of dresses and high-heel shoes. She taught me how to apply cosmetics, how to style my hair, and how to choose the best color combinations. She demonstrated how to walk in the highest heels, and she promised she would teach me personally when the time came. But that never happened. When I was 13, Grandmother died after a short illness. I was devastated, but I promised myself I would follow her example and make her proud as she looked down on me from Heaven. The following year, a second major upheaval tore at our family. The Salvadoran civil war of the early 1980s had gotten so bad that our family could no longer make a living operating our modest grocery store, and we moved to the United States. We planned to open a grocery store there, but because one already existed in the neighborhood where we moved, my family opened up a Salvadoran restaurant instead.

I started wearing high heels when I was 15, and as Grandmother predicted, I became popular with boys. I first dated the Salvadoran boys in my neighborhood, and then moved on to the Mexican boys in my high school. I came very close to being date-raped when I was 16. Afterwards, I remembered what Grandmother told me about the importance of differentiating between good and bad men. I became far more discriminating as to who I dated, and as my standards for men rose, so did the height of my heels. By the time I was 20, I was a regular 5-inch heel wearer.

I still think about Grandmother often. I have already achieved the two major goals she had for me. By marrying Steve, I moved “up” into the U.S. middle class, and I am also the first member of my family to graduate from a university. Wherever she is, Grandmother must be very proud of me for those two things. At the same time, Grandmother must have mixed feelings about other aspects of my life. As Steve has documented in his earlier stories, I was initially reluctant to experiment with 6-inch heels, as I knew Grandmother viewed them as extreme and improper for a truly beautiful woman. If she is indeed looking down on me, she may be disappointed by some of the choices I have made in that regard. However, I would impress upon her that the United States of the 1990s and early-21st century is a very different place than El Salvador of the mid-20th century. Perhaps more importantly, I am continuing to use my feminine gifts and skills to bring pleasure to myself, my husband and my close friends, just as Grandmother taught me. If I could explain it to her in that way, I am confident she would understand.

Next: Sharon tries a new nursing technique.

Stu

Sharon’s Nursing Experiment
Written in the third person by Steve, based on interviews with the principal individuals in the story.

Like most other working people, Sharon had a routine that she followed every morning. She got up, showered, ate breakfast, and put on her nurse’s uniform. For many years, she would put on her flat, rubber-soled nursing shoes along with her uniform. One day, she decided to change things. Instead of the nursing shoes, she put on a pair of white, 5-inch stiletto pumps.

“Very nice,” Jack said as he sat up in bed and took notice of Sharon’s change in footwear. “You’ll be the sensation of the hospital.”

Sharon laughed. Obviously, she would bring her nursing shoes along in the car and change into them once she got to the hospital.

“I am glad you approve,” she told her husband. “Do you think I am crazy?”

“Why do you ask?” Jack said, side-stepping the question.

Sharon walked over to the mirror and took a quick look at herself in her nursing uniform and stilettos before turning back towards Jack. “I can’t stand the thought of leaving home in those flat nursing shoes. It no longer feels right. I want to wear my high heels until the last possible minute, and then change back into them the minute I get off my shift.”

“You value your style. Nothing wrong with that.”

Sharon lay down on the bed next to Jack, while keeping her shoes on. “I feel like Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. I think now there are really two Sharons. There is Old Sharon, the nurse, who is devoted to nurturing the sick back to health. And then there is New Sharon, the sexy high-heel wearer who is constantly turning heads. I always have to choose between one and the other. But I can never be both at the same time. It is so unfair. Ana wears high heels to work, and Maria wears heels to school. They can be one person all the time. But I have to live this double life.”

“Lots of people live double lives, Sharon. They dress and act one way at work, and then are completely different at home.”

“But I do not want that. I would like to find some way to merge my two passions, nursing and provocative femininity, into something entirely new. I don’t see how such a thing can be possible, but I would still like to try.”

“The bottom line is that you can’t wear high heels at the hospital. I don’t know how you get around that,” Jack said.

“I don’t know, either,” Sharon replied. She looked at her watch and said, “I need to go. Bye, love.”

Jack watched her leave the bedroom. In their house, at least, a nursing uniform and 5-inch stilettos were a welcome combination.

*** *** ***
Sharon watched the hospital crew wheel a new patient into one of the hospital rooms. She looked at his chart: Warren, age 48, had spent the last two days in intensive care following a heart attack. He was about 30 pounds overweight, had high blood pressure, high cholesterol, and was a heavy smoker. He had everything he needed to fit the profile of a heart attack victim.

Warren was pretty woozy for a few hours after arriving in the room. After that, he woke up fully and became alert. “Good morning,” Sharon said to him when she entered the room. “We are so glad that you are still with us in the world of the living. You had quite a close call.”

“To be honest, I was a little disappointed to wake up and still find myself here,” Warren said. “I think it would have been better if my heart had remained stopped.”

“Oh, my. You aren’t serious,” Sharon said. But he was. She had not planned to remain in the room long, but she asked some questions to gauge the state of Warren’s depression. Warren was talkative, and by the time he finished, Sharon was a little depressed. Warren was a supervisor in a local county office. He had been married for 12 years, but his wife, who was a legal secretary, left him for an attorney in the law firm where she worked. The divorce had been nasty, with the wife gaining custody of their two children and extracting most of the assets they had built up during their marriage. They had been divorced for two years, and his ex-wife now jetted around the world with the kids and her wealthy attorney-husband.

“What the hell,” he said. “I’m not the world’s smartest or most ambitious guy. But I valued our marriage and I took my responsibilities as a father seriously. And then my wife leaves me for this rich SOB lawyer, and I wind up with nothing. What do I do, start all over again?”

“I am so sorry,” Sharon said. “You have a right to be angry. But you have to get beyond it at some point. You still can have many good years left if you take care of yourself. And there are women out there who would appreciate someone like you.”

“You don’t understand,” Warren said. “My friends have tried to set me up on dates. But I don’t feel anything for women anymore. I am dead emotionally. The only place I want to see women is in men’s magazines. I have nothing left in my heart for a real woman. Even my kids don’t need me, as their rich stepfather can provide them with anything they want. I’ll just work until I die, which hopefully will be sooner rather than later.”

Warren’s words stayed with Sharon as she drove home that night. When she got home, she had a strange idea. She rejected it as being too crazy, and then reconsidered it. It would depend how on she felt the following day.

She arrived at the hospital in the morning, checked on her patients, and took care of her morning tasks. She then checked on Warren.

“And how are we doing this morning?” Sharon asked cheerfully.

“I am still here, which is not necessarily a good thing,” Warren said. They chatted for a few minutes, and it was clear that Warren’s mood was not any better than it had been the day before.

Sharon briefly left Warren’s room to pick up her purse, and then returned and closed the door to Warren’s room behind her. She took out a photo that she had put in her purse the night before. It was a copy of a photograph that a nightclub photographer had taken of her two years earlier when she had won a popularity-beauty contest on the club’s opening night. In the photo, she was wearing an extremely short yellow mini-dress and matching, 5-1/2 inch yellow stiletto sandals. She handed the photo to Warren.

“I want you to look at this photograph and tell me what you think,” Sharon said to Warren.

Warren’s eyes opened wide as he looked at the picture. “Wow,” he said. “Who’s the babe?”

Sharon put her hands on her hips and, somewhat annoyed, asked, “Who do you think?”

Warren looked at Sharon, then at the photo, and then at Sharon again. “Gosh, that’s you,” he said. “You’re pretty hot.”

“Well, thank you!” Sharon said, irritated that it had taken him so long to recognize her in the photo.

“Why are you showing me this?” Warren asked her.

“You’ve had it bad, Warren, but you are not the only one,” Sharon replied. “I went through a lot of different relationships. I was engaged to marry a doctor at one point, and he called it off just days before the wedding. I was so crushed that I quit my job and moved to this city. I lost interest in men. I met up with a couple of women who were into high heels and sexy clothing. I had never worn that kind of stuff, but I thought the change – any change – would be good for me. It didn’t take me very long to get the hang of it, as you can see by the photo. Now I am married to a doctor who works at this hospital. And, outside of work, I wear high heels and short skirts and dresses all the time.”

“Congratulations,” Warren said. “Should I start wearing short skirts, too?”

“No. But you can rebuild your life. Of course, you have to want to rebuild your life, and the first step is to regain your health. You will have to lose weight, eat right, take medication, and eventually start exercising. And I can help you. You say the only women who mean anything to you are the ones in men’s magazines? Fine. I can be like them. If that is what motivates you, I can give you the motivation you need to regain your health.” She then explained to him what she had in mind.

“Lady, you are absolutely nuts,” Warren said when Sharon finished her explanation.

“Maybe so. If you feel that way, we can forget we ever had this conversation.” She took her photograph from Warren’s hand and put it back in her purse.

“No,” Warren replied. “I am willing to give it a try.”

To be continued.

Stu

Warren was discharged after three more days in the hospital. He left with medications for his blood pressure and high cholesterol, and with doctors’ orders to lose 30 pounds and follow a strict low-fat diet. On the first Saturday morning following his discharge, Sharon drove to Warren’s condominium, following the directions Warren had given her when he left the hospital. The condominium was located in a decent part of town, but it was very small and basic. Warren had not been exaggerating when he said the divorce settlement and child-care payments took much of his paycheck.

“Come in,” Warren said after Sharon had knocked on the door.

Sharon was wearing a green sweater and an ankle-length black skirt, both of them a little snug but not particularly tight by her standards. She also wore light-brown boots with 3-inch block heel.

“You look nice,” Warren said. “Not like in your photograph, but nicer than you looked in the hospital with your uniform.”

“Thank you,” Sharon said in a businesslike manner. She had a large bag in which she took out a bathroom scale and a notebook. “First things first, let’s weigh you,” she said. He stepped on the scale, and Sharon jotted down his weight in her notebook. “You are 210 pounds. You need to lose 30 pounds, according to your doctor.”

She then took a portable blood-pressure monitor out of the bag and strapped the device around Warren’s arm. She measured Warren’s blood pressure, which was almost normal. “You are taking the blood-pressure medication. That is good.”

“And the cholesterol medication, too,” Warren said.

“Let’s go into the kitchen,” Sharon said. She opened the refrigerator and some of the cupboards. She winced.

“The doughnuts have to go. A lot of empty calories and artery-clogging fat. The cookies, too. I see you have a lot of red meat. You can have some, but not this much. Buy low-fat hamburger. Next week, I want to see more fish in the refrigerator. More fresh fruits and vegetables. And oatmeal. I want you eating oatmeal for breakfast seven days a week. No more whole milk, by the way. Use fat-free skim milk.”

“Hold on,” Warren protested. “I know you told me you were going to do this. You want to be my dietitian, that’s fine. But where are the high heels and the fancy clothes that you were supposed to wear? I thought that was how you were going to inspire me.”

“I told you how this will work,” Sharon said. “I will visit you every Saturday, and I am starting off by dressing conservatively. As you make progress in losing weight and improving your diet, I’ll start wearing high heels and short skirts. It is really up to you: the lower your weight and blood pressure, the higher my heels and hemlines. If it is clear that you no longer are interested in making progress, I will stop coming entirely. When you reach all your goals, I will take you out to lunch dressed the way I was in the photograph. Any questions? And I am serious about your kitchen. I want to see healthier food here next week.”

“Yeah, yeah. It will be better. Sharon, why are you doing this?”

Sharon dropped her businesslike demeanor for the first time that morning and instead became somewhat thoughtful. “I have been asking myself the same question,” she said. “Think of it this way. Men often like to fantasize about nurses. For whatever reason, the male psyche tends to have this deep-seated need to link nursing and sex. The idea of linking them in real life is taboo, of course, but that is unfortunate. If we really could find a way to link nursing with sex, or at least with sex appeal, we might come up with a pretty powerful new tool for improving the health of men. So I am willing to experiment. And I have unique qualifications to conduct this experiment, because I am devoted to both nursing and sexy expression.”

Warren laughed. “Ooooh, you are so politically incorrect, it’s hard to believe,” he said.

“I was politically correct for many years, and it got me very little in terms of personal happiness. My life only started taking off when I became politically incorrect.” Sharon said, as she packed her bags. “I mean it, that kitchen had better be overhauled when I return next week.”

It was. When Sharon returned the following week, the junk food was gone. There was a big fruit bowl full of apples and bananas. The vegetable container in the refrigerator was full, and fish and chicken had replaced the red meat. Warren had lost two pounds, and his blood pressure also was down.

“I went through all that work, just so I could see your calves,” a disappointed Warren told Sharon, who was attired in a red blouse and a long gray skirt that ended about halfway between her knees and ankles. She was also wearing a pair of black, 3-1/2 inch block heels.

“There is no instant gratification when it comes to regaining your health. It is hard work, and the rewards are usually delayed,” Sharon replied. “But think of it this way,” she added, pointing to her shoes, “Most women would consider these to be high heels. I am just starting. As long as you make progress, you ain’t seen nothin’ yet.”

Warren continued to make impressive progress, losing about two pounds a week, and keeping his blood pressure down. For her part, Sharon found it harder than she had initially realized to dress appropriately to recognize Warren’s gradual progress. She did not have a big collection of long skirts. And, if she increased her heel height by a half inch each week, she would have gotten to her maximum heel height far too soon. She stayed steady at 4 inches for several weeks, but moved gradually from the thicker heels (most of which she had bought when she was learning to wear heels) to the thinner stilettos.

By the eighth week, Warren had progressed to the point where Sharon arrived in a short orange dress that barely reached halfway down to her knees, and 4-inch strappy stiletto sandals. Warren was down to 194 pounds (a total loss of 16 pounds), and had been cleared by his doctor to begin moderate exercise.

“I have two requests of you,” he said to Sharon. Last week, he said, he had gotten a horrible case of “the munchees,” and it took all the discipline he could muster not to break his diet. “If I could take a picture of you and put it on the refrigerator, it would be a big help,” he said. Sharon was glad to consent. Warren took out his camera, and Sharon struck a feminine pose as he took her picture.

The second request, he said, was for her to join him on his daily one-mile walk that his doctor had recommended. “I’ll understand if you can’t walk a mile in those heels,” he said, but Sharon laughed. “Let’s go,” she said.

To be continued.

Stu

They began walking through the neighborhood and entered the campus of the local high school. “I usually walk two laps around the running track,” Warren said. Eight other people were jogging around the track as Warren and Sharon walked it. The joggers all turned their heads in Sharon’s direction as they passed her.

“Hey, Sharon, I have a question for you,” Warren said. “Do you like me?”

“Well, um, of course, I like you,” Sharon said. “Why do you ask?”

“Your weekly visits are part of your experiment. You are really helping me, but it is simply part of your experiment. When you suggested your experiment, it was because you felt I would be a suitable candidate for you to test your theories of nursing and sex appeal. It was not because you took a personal liking and wanted to help me personally. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not criticizing you. I appreciate everything you are doing for me. I just want to know the truth.”

“Well,” Sharon said, trying to find the right words. “You are right, to some extent. I did see an opportunity to play with some of my ideas and expand my own experiences. But I have taken a liking to you. You have made the effort to restore your health, and I admire you for that. I am also pleased that, well, you have some of the same offbeat tastes in high heels and short skirts that I do. So how can I not like you?”

“OK, well, thanks, Sharon. I appreciate that,” Warren said, somewhat awkwardly.

“In fact, you know what I really like about you?” Sharon continued. “You were devious enough to suggest I come walking with you, when you knew I would be wearing high heels and a mini-dress, and you knew we would be walking on a track with people running. That’s brilliant, Warren. This really appeals to you, doesn’t it? Walking on a track with me while people run past us and look at us? Well, it appeals to me, too. So we have a few things in common.” She waved to a couple of men who ran past her on the track.

The following week, Warren’s weight dropped below 190 pounds, and to mark the occasion, Sharon wore 4-1/2 inch heels for the first time during her weekly visits. Three weeks after that, Sharon moved up to 5-inch heels and donned a little white mini-skirt when Warren dropped below 185 pounds, which was within 5 pounds of his goal. To Warren’s amazement, Sharon was still willing to go on the one-mile walk, even in such high heels. She was quite a sight now on the running track, and her wiggling was significantly more pronounced than before.

As they walked, Warren asked Sharon if she would consider visiting him on a regular basis even after he attained his goal of 180 pounds, which now seemed more certain than ever. “Everyone says keeping the weight off is harder than losing it. I am going to need the assistance. You won’t have to dress up like you do now, if you don’t want to,” he said.

“The experiment will end when you reach 180 pounds,” Sharon replied. “I will need to move on to other things. You will need to get a girlfriend of your own to help you keep the weight off.”

“I don’t know about that,” Warren said.

“Oh, I do. Just the fact that you asked me to keep seeing you tells me another aspect of my experiment was a success. The part I did not tell you about.”

“And what part was that?”

“At this stage of the experiment, I am dressing more like the girls in those magazines you like to read. But I am not just a page in a magazine. I am a living, breathing woman. The prospect of seeing me in high heels and short skirts got you to agree to my experiment, but you have really grown to value my companionship, and so you want my visits to continue. That is going to give you the desire to go out and find a woman of your own.”

“Maybe, maybe not. Your unusual style and attitudes have made an impression on me. I do not think my feelings about ordinary women have changed.”

“I don’t know what you mean by ‘ordinary women’. But there are plenty of women in this world who wear high heels and value their femininity. If you care about things like that, you can find a woman who likes 3-inch heels. Remember, just like our experiment, there is no instant gratification, and things will take time. But if the woman feels loved and appreciated – in other words, if you are committed to the relationship – she will start wearing higher heels and shorter skirts, if she knows that is what you want. Trust me.”

“It is going to take me a long time to trust anyone. But I’ll think about it,” Warren said. He looked up and saw a man jogging past them who turned to Sharon and said, “Nice workout uniform.” Sharon shouted a quick “thank you” to the jogger.

*** *** ***

The final dinner was six weeks later. Warren was 178 pounds, his blood pressure and cholesterol had dropped to normal levels, and he felt healthier than he had in a long time. He had agreed to meet Sharon for dinner at a restaurant that specialized in chicken, fish and pasta – all good, heart-healthy dishes. Warren waited at the front entrance and swallowed hard when he saw Sharon walking across the parking lot toward him. She was dressed as she had been in the photograph she had showed him – a daringly short yellow minidress, and matching 5-1/2-inch yellow stiletto sandals. He was not the only one looking at Sharon as she approached the restaurant entrance, but he was the only one who would be having dinner with her. His heart started beating faster, which in recent months had tended to make him nervous. For this occasion, he was too busy enjoying himself to worry about it.

“Congratulations,” Sharon said flirtatiously. “You reached all your goals, and you are a healthy man once again. As promised, I am taking you out to dinner. And, personally, I am very proud of you.”

“I can see why you won that contest in that outfit,” Warren said. “You are one unusual lady.”

They both ordered pasta and wine, and enjoyed a leisurely dinner. And Warren had some news for Sharon.

“I actually have a date for tomorrow,” he told her. “A woman who works at my agency, although she is in another division and I don’t know her that well. She was divorced about six months ago, she is friendly, and she has been complimenting me all these months on my weight loss. And, for what it’s worth, she wears conservative, business heels to work.”

“That is wonderful news, Warren! I am so proud of you.”

“I am just taking it one day at a time, Sharon. It is just a date, and I go into this with no preconceived ideas of what may eventually happen.”

“Of course, Warren. Optimistic but realistic is a good approach to take.”

“You know, Sharon, I hope we can still be friends after tonight. I would like to meet your husband. If I do get a steady woman in my life, it might be nice for the four of us to get together.”

“Absolutely. And if there were an appropriate way for me to help or encourage this future lady friend of yours to be more proficient in high heels, I will be glad to help.”

Warren laughed at Sharon’s offer. He then said, “And are you going to write a report on the success of your experiment? Maybe you can get it published in a scientific journal.”

“Yeah, right. I would probably lose my job if the hospital knew what I have been doing. But I feel good about it. I wanted to prove to myself that there was a way I could combine serious nursing with my taste in clothes and shoes, and I did it.”

“There probably is a bigger market for your style of nursing than anyone would think. But, OK, it will be our little secret.”

“Yes, indeed,” Sharon said, as she took a sip of wine.

They finished dinner, and Warren insisted on paying the bill, even though the plan originally had been for Sharon to pick up the tab as a way of congratulating Warren on his accomplishments. They stood awkwardly at the entrance, knowing it was time to say goodbye. But Warren said, “Look, the experiment is now officially ended. So I am going to ask you as a friend…the club next door to here has some live music. Maybe we can go and listen to some music for half an hour? I know you need to get back to your husband, but it would mean so much to me.”

“Of course,” Sharon said.

They walked into the club, ordered some wine, and started dancing to the soft music. Sharon was drawing her usual assortment of looks and gawks from others in the club, but Warren was only thinking about the fact that he was dancing with the woman who had done so much for him.

“I feel a little guilty that I am here with you while your husband is home alone,” Warren said.

“Don’t. This makes up for all the nights I have spent alone while he has been working or traveling.”

“OK,” Warren said. “All I ask is 30 minutes with you.” Sharon agreed. But they stayed at the club for two hours.

Next: The three couples get together for a quiet Sunday afternoon.

Stu

A Quiet Sunday Afternoon
Written in the first person by Steve.

Even when you and your buddies are married to the most fabulous women in the world, there are times when you just want to spend an afternoon with the guys.

Bob, Jack and I made plans to gather at Jack’s house on Sunday to watch the big game on TV involving our local professional football team. Our team was doing well and would take hold of first place if they won the game. The three of us had been following the team’s fortunes for the entire season and would not have missed the game for anything. So we planned to spend Sunday afternoon engaging in the great American male ritual of autumn: Watching football on TV while drinking beer and munching on junk food.

I guess it was Sharon who invited Maria and Ana over to join her while we watched the game. Maria was with me in the car as we drove over to Jack’s house. I did not think of asking her what the three of them planned to do; I just assumed they would sit around and gossip, as women tend to do when their husbands are watching football. To underscore that this was not intended to be a day for the six of us, Maria was wearing a plain pair of jeans and 3-inch wedge sandals, which was about as conservative as she ever got. She did have a shopping bag with her, but I never thought of asking her what it contained. I was too busy thinking about the game.

Driving over to Jack’s house always made me feel rich and poor at the same time. I somehow felt privileged to drive up his long driveway, park and enter his virtual mansion. Having such a wealthy friend made me feel as if somehow I was a member of the elite. On the other hand, when I thought about what Jack must be worth, I would feel suddenly poor. Jack greeted us, and while Maria went off to another part of the house to socialize with Sharon and Ana, I joined Jack and Bob in the living room to watch the game on his fancy big-screen TV with stereo sound. The beer was cold, the chips were crispy, and hot dogs were grilling on the barbecue outside. Like I said, a great American afternoon.

The two teams fought hard, and the game was tied late in the first half when our afternoon took an unexpected turn. Sharon, Ana and Maria entered the room wearing tight, black Spandex workout pants, t-shirts with the name and logo of our football team, and the new 6-inch stiletto sandals that they had recently purchased over the Internet. Now I knew what had been in Maria’s shopping bag.

“Hello, gentlemen. How is the game?” Sharon asked.

“To what do we owe the pleasure of your company?” Jack asked, while doing a good job of mostly keeping his eyes on the television.

“The three of us are a little bored. We think 90 minutes of being football widows is enough. We want a little attention,” Sharon replied.

The women sat down with us and watched the last two minutes of the first half. We had to explain each play to Ana, who, like many people born and raised outside the United States, had trouble grasping the idea that there are actually rules, strategies and objectives in football other than knocking the opposing team’s players unconscious.

“A few of the women at the bank are football fans,” Ana said. “But I don’t get it. At least with basketball and soccer, you can see the men, including their faces, and their general builds, and you can decide for yourself which ones are the cutest. But football players are all covered up, so you can’t see them. Why would any women care about this game?”

The first half ended. Jack reached under his chair and pulled out a football that he tended to keep there during the season. “We definitely need to educate you, Ana,” he said. “Here, catch.” And he gently tossed the football underhanded to Ana.

“AGHHH!!” Ana screamed, jumping out of the way of the football. It was impressive that she could move so quickly and stay on her feet, given that she was in 6-inch heels. The ball bounced to the far corner of the room.

“No need to be scared of it,” Bob said.

Sharon picked up the football and threw it pretty hard at Jack, who caught it.

“Wow. Where did you learn to throw like that?” I asked.

“Are you kidding, Steve?” Sharon replied. “Remember, I grew up with two older brothers and a father who believed sports was the salvation for all red-blooded American youth. How could I have not learned how to throw a football?”

“Or catch one?” Jack asked. He threw the ball hard at Sharon, who caught it without the slightest trace of difficulty.

“I think all six of us need to go outside and get our blood circulating,” Sharon said, pointing to the door to their large backyard patio. She stood up as erect as she could, and turned to the side to better highlight her shapely, high heel-enhanced profile. “Are you ready for some football?”

We walked outside into the enormous backyard. There was a swimming pool and a patio about the size of a basketball court, as well as a large lawn. Sharon tossed the football to Jack. “I am going to go out for a pass. Ana and Maria, observe closely,” she said.

Jack walked over and stood about five feet away from her. He leaned forward like a football quarterback, and yelled, “Hike!”

Normally, “going out for a pass” requires a person to run out about 10 or 20 meters, turn around and catch a thrown football. Remember, of course, that Sharon was wearing 6-inch stiletto heels. Instead of running, she strutted out in grand style, wiggling back and forth with an intensity that even Ana and Maria would find hard to duplicate. She walked out about 40 feet, and then turned to the side, displaying her high heel-enhanced profile. “OK, Jack. I am open!” she shouted.

Jack threw the football. Sharon had to reach a little to catch it, and I feared she would lose her balance and fall face first into the concrete. But somehow, Sharon caught the ball and remained upright. She turned her back to us, and strutted out another 25 feet or so, and then turned around and yelled, “Touchdown!”

We all applauded Sharon as she wiggled back to us. “Who goes next?” Sharon asked. “Ana or Maria?”

“I’m not ready to catch the ball,” Maria said. “But I can try a running play.”

“Very good,” Sharon said. “I will be the quarterback. Steve, why don’t you be center?”

Bob ran to the middle of the patio, followed by Jack. “We’ll be defense!” Bob shouted.

Sharon instructed Maria to stand about five feet behind her, and a little off to the right. She then asked me to squat down and hike the ball to her. I grabbed the football and bent down until the football touched the patio. Sharon stood behind me, and put her hands between my legs, as the quarterback is supposed to do. I felt the back of her hands softly rubbing against my crotch.

“That’s not exactly how it’s done,” I said softly to her.

“You got your style, Steve, and I got mine. Hike!”

Still bending over, I passed the ball through my legs to Sharon, just like a real football center. “Run up!” Sharon said to Maria, who walked forward. Sharon gave the ball to Maria as she passed her. Maria then broke out into one of her most powerfully sexy walks, gyrating her hips in a manner I had not seen in a long time. One-two-three-four, one-two-three-four. She walked up to Bob and Jack, suggestively said to them, “I hope this is only touch football,” and moved on past them. When she got to the end of the patio, she turned around and asked, “Is that a touchdown?”

“Eight points! Six points for the touchdown, and we’ll give you the two point conversion automatically!” Jack said.

Ana took her turn. I hiked the ball to Sharon, who handed if off to Ana. She walked straight ahead, demonstrating her raciest wiggle as she blew past Jack and Bob. All of our eyes, including Sharon’s and Maria’s, were focused on Ana’s posterior. “What do you call it? A touchdown?” Ana asked when she got to the end of the patio. “This is fun.”

To be continued.

Stu

Sharon insisted that Maria and Ana learn how to catch a thrown football. We took turns tossing the ball gently to our two Latin ladies for a few minutes until they became comfortable catching the ball. Sharon then suggested that they practice an official pass play. “We’ll start with the simplest pattern – a square-in,” she said.

After explaining the pattern to Maria and Ana, she had me squat down and snap the ball to her. Ana walked ahead for about 10 feet, and made a 90-degree turn toward the center of the patio. Her profile, so delightfully distorted by those 6-inch heels, was a beautiful sight to behold. She walked a couple of steps until Sharon said, “OK, Ana, here it comes!” She tossed the ball to Ana, who caught it.

Bob walked up to Ana and said, “Jack and I need to start playing defense.” He took Ana by the waist, gently pulled her against him, and kissed her somewhat forcefully on the lips. “That’s the rule,” Bob said. “We’re playing kiss football. The play doesn’t stop