E: You coming?
A: Why’ve you gone to bed so early? Don’t you feel well?
E: Well, I thought…
A: Are you really tired too?
E: Come on in. I’ve undressed completely.
A: Yes, it’s hot in here.
E: I did promise you I would do something.
E: Something. Sexy.
E: What do you mean?
A: What are you going to do?
E: Am I supposed to start twerking? Pole dancing or something?
I thought the warm, naked body of your girlfriend under the sheets, as a surprise that’s unfortunately now no longer a surprise, might already count as sexy?
A: It smells really odd here? Of candyfloss. Or … has something gone off?
E: I rubbed hibiscus oil all over myself after my bath… You should feel how soft it is.
E: It also stops cholesterol and the arteries clogging up.
Come over here!
A: I’m not tired!
E: Aren’t I sexy enough for you?
A: Why do you never really wear high heels?
E: Why do you never wear high heels?
A: Ha ha.
A: But it looks so attractive. And… sexy.
E: Shoes on in bed?
E: What’s so sexy about high heels?
A: The… promise of a leg. No, the promise of a woman. I can already see the curves of her body in the shape of that high heel lifting up her foot, elongating her leg, raising her bum. I can already see her bum bobbing up and down before me. On the way to —.
E: — her bum?
A: The woman’s.
E: What woman?
E: Who are you talking about? Is there someone else? Just tell me. Get it off your chest.
A: I just thought…
E: Aren’t I sexy enough, is that it?
A: Yes. No. I. I just find women in high heels… erotic. They turn me on.
E: The heels or the women? Can you even tell the difference? Do you care?
A: The women!
E: Women! How many should I be thinking of? Dozens? Hundreds?
A: Women in general. The female sex.
E: Have you ever wondered why something so banal turns you on? How you’re pre-programmed by all those images that have been forced down your throat over the years?
A: I don’t watch porn any more. Well, not so often.
E: You don’t have to watch porn for that. Everything’s sold with sex. Or what you call ‘the promise of a woman’. Every car has one draped over it waiting to be fucked. Every red carpet has an actress parading along who’s promoting herself as well as the film.
A: What do you mean?
E: Ever seen a man standing half-naked on a red carpet? Why do women put on make-up? Why are they supposed to have long hair hanging loose over their shoulders as if they’re already lying in bed waiting? And why, WHY are they supposed to wear high heels that are impossible to walk in and are no good to ANYBODY except some guy who’s wearing trainers and can now cop a feel more easily. She’s trapped! Preferably in a tight pencil skirt so she can’t run, even if she does slip off her high heels for a quick getaway or to smash him over the head with the sharp tip of her stiletto heel.
Anyway, what are you doing with me if you’re yearning for women in general? You should get a doll, a life-sized beauty like the one in The Broom of the System.
She’ll come with you to dinners, sit up straight nicely and never contradict her guy, she’ll always look great and always be willing to do anything her pre-programmed guy wants. The ideal woman. I’m sure she’ll want to wear high heels.
A: But surely you can try it. You might like it. I know plenty of women who like wearing high heels.
E: Because they’re pleasers! They’ve been made that way by men!
A: And what’s wrong with that? I like pleasing you, don’t I?
E: Don’t smirk like that.
A: I’ll do anything for you, baby.
E: I can’t even wear high heels. I can just about balance on them and turn around with my toes atrophying like I’m in skates several sizes too small and — to kill time — think of a cloudy sky with the sun breaking through so that something resembling a smile appears on my face, but I feel the pain of all the women who, throughout history down to this very day, have put themselves through agony in order to turn men on. The pain of all those bound feet, organ-benumbing corsets, impossible hairstyles, frustrated ambitions. I feel their confined lives withering away. They sing a slow lament. Their voices, deeply pained, are like waves on a lake. There’s a storm but nowhere for the water to go. Singing in voices high and low, but there’s nowhere for them to go.
E: Or did you think women would still have mauled themselves if they’d had a choice?
Can you hear them? Can you hear them singing? Sometimes the voices are so loud, so nearby that they make me drop whatever’s in my hands. It pierces me to the core.
A: What’s bothering you?
A: You know I love you, don’t you?
E: What do you mean?
A: You’re beautiful just as you are. In flip-flops, slippers, even barefoot. Talking about bare…
E: I’m not beautiful.
A: I think you’re beautiful.
E: Don’t you dare touch me.
E: Where are you going?
E: Does she wear high heels?