All fetishes are tenable,
if cultivated under a waning moon
So… lust with care,

Baby oil, lots of it, works best—
Massage her feet, then her shoes,
Something flashy, faux leather,
pastel coloured clear heels.

If possible, always buy new shoes.
She'll resist the first time,
but eventually, she'll give in,
and when she does, let her help you—
let her use her high heels to build
the pedestal of your fantasy.

The first time, it will be like making
love to each other's shadows.
like having sex with an idea—

She'll never look at you the same way,
Or herself…
like fish in aquariums,
You'll study your refracted reflections,
And just wink
Knowing you're already laced in— trapped.

The next time
She will still protest
but she'll turn off the lights.

It won't matter
the best sun shines in the shadows,
and your spirits
now red in loin and claw
will coil around her oiled feet
an offering to her slippery embrace.

In the paleness of the next day's dawn,
when she scrapes the paint off your back, and
wipes the lipstick off the shoes,
and sees the insides of those shoes
shine like celestial tears against her flashlight bulb

when they question the lightness of her step,
and why her feet shine so?
She will say,
My boyfriend makes love to my shoes.