The Jimmy Choo Blues. by Jesse Rawlins

My Swiss Gucci watch read midnight—

I felt just like a pumpkin. My body round-n-plump. My insides wet and squishy. The parted-smile I’d worn all night—splitting my frozen face in two—like a hellish dose of Botox.

The DJ hopped. The music popped: and dazzling colored lights pulsed across the floor.

I leaned my virgin ass against a beastly throbbing Yamaha that had to weigh eighty-pounds. The innervating reverb made me feel more wanton, as I downed my dozenth Cosmo.

But like every other night in lusty Santa Monica … all the guys ignored me: even though I wore my spankin’ deep-blue Jimmy Choos. Those sleek thousand-dollar booties—which sport the ultra-modest four-inch fuck-me heels. And the studded ankle-collars: designed to coyly prolong foreplay (assuming the shoes come off).

Tossing appearances to the wind, I crunched a cheek ballooned with ice … a pathetic attempt to cool my multiple frustrations. When the remnants easily slid down my moist-and-willing throat, I knew I lacked the energy to play this burdensome game till closing.

And rather than call a cab—

I flipped caution a middle finger.

***

Five blocks from my place—you stepped out of that alley ….

I suspect you’d ducked inside to have yourself a pee. But unlike the way I would’ve you didn’t look self-conscious. And instead of staying put, you followed me down the street.

When I crossed over you did likewise. Each time I stopped … then so did you—

I crossed over once again … and again … you next crossed, too.

Tingles climbed my spine. Regardless of your intentions, the imagined thrill of being wanted was almost more than I could bear.

I paused outside my door … feeling almost breathless. I could tell you’d closed the distance—

But suddenly you halted.

I almost screamed in anguish. And let myself inside.

***

I planted those Choos behind a window—

And yanked aside the curtains.

Basking beneath a streetlight you boldly stared at me.

And much to my surprise … I boldly stared right back.

Neither of us tired—

So after fifteen comfortable minutes … I opened the door—

And called you in.

***

Ten years melted like milk chocolate left in the summer sun.

Until that wretched winter day ….

I denied what I had witnessed—

At what I’d seen with mortified eyes ….

And to erase that gruesome horror, I tried drinking myself blind.

Of course that didn’t work. Now I’m totally fucking angry—you stupid bloody turd.

For ten contented years you happily shared my bed. So each time I tried to sleep, your constant memory plagued me—like an unholy horde of bed bugs. To dispel those creepy-crawlies I had to buy a new one.

Headboard. Mattress. Foundation. Footboard. They all had to go.

Still that wasn’t enough to negate your wicked curse.

Sheets. Comforters. Pillows. Shams.

I burnt ALL in our backyard—trying to repel the dastardly devils—you likely left behind on purpose.

You cold selfish prick.

***

This morning I held your funeral.

Now in case you haven’t noticed ….

My virgin ass and I are braving rabid torrential rain—

Easily ruining these old-blue yet sadly-sexy Jimmy Choos.

I’m not mad at you anymore. I’m totally depressed.

But I’m not the only crying person in this regal cemetery. The sobbing girl three headstones down … has also lost her cat—

Under the uncaring thumping tires of a violently screeching car.

Elizabeth Kubler-Ross claims I’ve got one stage left in this god-damned grieving process ….

This story first appeared at avant-garde Red Fez in Issue 104. Unlike Douglas Cronk, Jesse has no Super Powers. But nine of her tawdry tales have kindly been given homes in some loving rowdy pubs—like The Rye Whiskey Review—in just eleven months. She also interviews and tortures writers for southern crime mag Story and Grit.

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