Tuesday, June 27, 2006

ass kickers

My best friend gave me a pair of 3 inch soled combat boots for my 22nd birthday. They’re made of black leather and go all the way up to my knee. Twelve holes ran up the front of the boot like pairs of black snake eyes, followed by 15 pairs of eyehooks. The things take 10 minutes to get on, but I learned a trick from a boy I once knew, that if you hold the laces together and moves them left and right, they come undone quite quickly. I had hoped he would apply the same technique to my underpants but I had to fire him before we ever went there.

People didn’t fuck with me when I wore these shoes, something about them was empowering, I was instantly transformed into a force to be reckoned with, a 6 foot amazon ready to shove my steel toe up your ass less you even attempt to speak to me. It was as though in wearing these shoes I had gained a sort of power lent only to those strong enough to enforce menace with heavy fists.

Recently while getting ready to go see the sisters of mercy, I pulled down the AKB’s from the top of my closet. I dusted the leather off, the black not seeming as shiny as it once did. Putting them on, I didn’t feel the transformation I once did, but instead I felt absolutely ridiculous. Walking into the show, I saw groups of people milling about, all dressed in black, their pale faces smudged with garish colors, corsets squeezing the once thin torsos like pilsbury doughboys. It was a sad sight. A time has definitely come to an end, for the ass kickers, for a scene. I guess we all wear things for different reasons, to identify, to feel better, to feel empowered. Sometimes I wish I could wear my ass kickers into a meeting or a debate with the better half. Life was magical when it just took a pair of boots to make your night.



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