Man she loved those shoes, shoes that lengthened her legs , that added to the gorgeous curve of her calf. Her shoes that kept men dreaming of tying her ankles, separately, apart as they stared at the sadomasochistic straps that she pulled around her beautifully formed ankles. She new it drove them wild.
The way she felt when she put them on in the morning, yes these were her tools. They had helped her to get the job, the boss, the new promotion and now more shoes. It made her wet just thinking about her success. And when she walked, her shoes with the stiletto heels were extensions of her as she swayed her value through the office into honest men's ambitions where later when they were pumping their responsibilities, they could recall her advances, her teasing and bring some pleasure and surprise to the dead meat that lay below them.
Sometimes as the waves of relief hit them as they rid themselves of their failures, their unachieved aspirations through the relief of that incredible small death that they just had to have, they would uncontrollably shout her name. But the meat didn't say anything, didn't want to lose the Porsche, the clothes and style of food she loved, this was better, anyway no one knew.
Across the city where every evening men once used to pray to their gods, now could be heard the sound of these men as they shouted her name. Screamed their intention, their hope as they dreamt they were the ones she wanted to remove her shoes.
Next to the rooms of these the reborn, lay their daughters young, beautiful, innocent but already dreaming of shoes.
In the background Jesus sang, "Gomorrah is a nursery rhyme you won't find in a book, it's written on your silly face just stop and take a look", and his dulcet tones wafted over the city that eventually lay still in the sweat, fear and guilt of its returned reality.