Hussy, tramp, floozy, trollop – call me what he will. I wore lingerie and fishnet stockings, and I marched topless. He finally summoned the courage to speak to me, the best-looking in the crowd. I was wearing a black bra and panties and holding aloft a hand-lettered poster that condemned any would-be critic for having “a f**ked up perspective on the crime called rape.” From his perspective, however, there was nothing about me to criticize and very much to admire. It took all the resourcefulness he could muster to walk up next to me, matching my long-legged stride, and say, “Those heels must be killing you.”
There is no need to reiterate in detail the reasons why I swear by uncomfortable three-inch heels and why he is happy that I do. Heels change the way I walk, forcing my hips to sway. They alter my posture in myriad enticing ways, all of which are politically incorrect to discuss. The boldest fashion statement of the day came when I paired a conservative gray suit with stunning 4-inch bright pink stiletto spikes.