Heels And Lipstick Quotes

Women are raising children, picking up socks, and making sure you feel like a man by supporting you when you need it and looking sexy (but not trying too hard, because that would be pathetic). We're being independent and bad bitches while wearing fucking lipstick and heels so as not to offend your delicate aesthetic sensibility, yet even just the word "feminist" pisses you off. How dare we.

Ladies, if you truly want your man to be successful, never ever underestimate the power of a lipstick, sexy lingerie, and high heels.

I grazed her from head to toe: black high heels, dark red lipstick, sleek brown pony and those tyrannical yellow-green eyes, burning holes into the glass. I was sharing an elevator with a tempestuous, electric storm that I refused to calm. I always wished to be swept into madness, if only for a moment, to truncate the mundane, ordinary moments of my existence.

Being a goddess is a divine calling for women of substance.

Women are raising children, picking up socks, and making sure you feel like a man by supporting you when you need it and looking sexy (but not trying too hard, because that would be pathetic). We are being independent and bad bitches while wearing fucking lipstick and heels so as not to offend your delicate aesthetic sensibility, yet even just the word 'feminist' pisses you off. How dare we. Still, no name for the men who kill women because we have the audacity not to do what we are supposed to do: fuck you, accept you, want you, let you hurt us, be blank slates for your desires. You are entitled to us but we are not even allowed to call you what you are.

And I’ve already spent too much time Doing things I didn’t want to So if I want to drink alone dressed like a pirate Or look like a dyke Or wear high heels and lipstick Or hide in a convent Or try to be mayor Or marry a writer Smoke crack and slash tires Make jokes you don’t like Or paint ducks and retire You can bet your black ass that I’m going to. —from An Evening With Neil Gaiman & Amanda Palmer, 2013

I put on lipstick and high heels and walk down the street arm in arm with you, Jess. This is my life, and I'm damn brave to love who I love. Don't try to take who I am away from me." My chin trembled, "Well, what do you think's being taken away from me? What the fuck am I going to do, Theresa? Tell me, what can I do? ...I don't want to die and I don't know how to live. I'm really afraid.

Make up, lipstick, nail polish, high heels, sexy lingerie are all some of the tools that can help keep the portal of sensual into your relationship opened.

That’s what makes us special,” she continues. “This isn’t just a courtship of boy meets girl. They fall in love, yadda, yadda. This is a lifelong commitment to men who aren’t satisfied living ordinary lives. It sometimes seems more of an obsession than a mission. One that can test a woman to her absolute limits.” She grins over at me, “But for him, for that man, I’ll do it. I’ll be there when he fucks up so badly he can’t celebrate how good he is or what he’s done. I’ll be there whenever he doubts himself and our relationship suffers because of those doubts. I’ll be there with my hair done, and my lipstick on, in my best heels, with my head held high on his darkest days, because that’s what he needs. And I don’t want him changing. I don’t want him to stop being who he is, not ever, not for me, and not for any baby we make.” She turns her gaze to me. “But I will use the tips of these heels to pierce and pin his brass balls down if he ever stops giving me what I need.

Instead of asking about high heels and lipstick, the pressing questions we have always needed to ask are: Can you be a feminist and be anti-choice? Can you be a feminist and be wilfully ignorant on racism?

Jay just blinked at me. “Let me get this straight. You were talking to a gorgeous blonde woman in a tight red skirt and heels, with a chest that has Playboy ringing her once a month for an interview, who was smiling and flirting with you like crazy and all you noticed was that she looked cold and her lipstick was bright?” Oh. Whoops. We were talking about breasts. Straight men usually notice breasts, don’t they? Shit!

I have chosen to no longer be apologetic for my femininity. And I want to be respected in all my femaleness. Because I deserve to be. I like politics and history and am happiest when having a good argument about ideas. I am girly. I am happily girly. I like high heels and trying on lipsticks. It’s nice to be complimented by both men and women (although I have to be honest and say that I prefer the compliments of stylish women), but I often wear clothes that men don’t like or don’t ‘understand’. I wear them because I like them and because I feel good in them. The ‘male gaze’, as a shaper of my life’s choices, is largely incidental.

Georgette was a hip queer. She (he) didn't try to disguise or conceal it with marriage and mans talk, satisfying her homosexuality with the keeping of a secret scrapbook of pictures of favorite male actors or athletes or by supervising activities of young boys or visiting turkish baths or mens locker rooms, leering sidely while seeking protection behind a carefully guarded guise of virility (fearing that moment at a cocktail party or in a bar when this front may start crumbling from alcohol and be completely disintegrated with an attempted kiss or groping of an attractive young man and being repelled with a punch and - rotten fairy - followed with hysteria and incoherent apologies and excuses and running from the room) but, took a pride in being a homosexual by feeling intellectually and esthetically superior to those (especially women) who weren't gay (look at all the great artists who were fairies!); and with the wearing of womens panties, lipstick, eye makeup (this including occasionally gold and silver - stardust - on the lids),long marcelled hair, manicured and polished fingernails, the wearing of womens clothes complete with a padded bra, high heels and wig (one of her biggest thrills was going to BOP CITY dressed as a tall stately blond ( she was 6'4 in heels) in the company of a negro (he was a big beautiful black bastard and when he floated in all the cats in the place jumped and the squares bugged. We were at crazy pad before going and were blasting like crazy, and were up so high that I just didnt give ashit for anyone honey, let me tell you!); and the occasional wearing of menstrual napkin.

It's such a hopeful, almost utopian word, that word "phase." As if any minute, "we" would suffer some sort of Joad overload, come to "our" senses, and for heaven's sake, do something about our godforsaken shoes. But the book phase never ended. The book phase would bloom and grow into a whole series of seasonal affiliations including our communist phase, our beatnik phase, our vegetarian phase, and the three-year period known as Please Don't Talk to Me. Now that we are finishing up the third decade of the book phase, we ask ourselves if we have changed. Sure, we still dress in the bruise palette of gray, black, and blue, and we still haven't gotten around to piercing our ears. But we wear lipstick now, we own high-heeled shoes. Concessions have been made.

The key to fighting germs and parasites seems to be sex. At one level, this may bring you down. All the lipstick, high heels, hair products, salary seeking, sports cars, and weightlifting seem to be a result of germs. But then, so are art, and music, and good cooking. By having sex, organisms like dandelions, sea jellies, perch, parakeets, and termites can stay ahead in the game of life just enough to have offspring that succeed in producing more offspring in a subsequent season.

One of many beautiful young girls in traditional hijab came up to me to have her photo signed. Her green eyes glistened as she looked at me directly and asked, “Can you put ‘Women can be heroes, too’?” I met everyday heroines on this trip–ladies with a glow and a sparkle, a determination and a strength in the face of adversity. We did have tremendous fun in the making of Agent Carter, but the positive effect–particularly on young women–is what I hold closest to my heart. I met a girl named Nada at the convention. She said, “Most people think my name means ‘Nothing,’ but in fact it means ‘dewdrop’ and ‘honesty’ in my culture.” Whatever happens in the future for Peggy, and the show, Season One and its small impact on young girls are a drop of positivity in our world. Peggy is an honest girl following her own moral compass in the face of adversity. She makes us strive to be better than we want to be. Thank you, Marvel, for letting me step into her high heels, apply her lipstick, and fight the good fight. For all you little Peggys out there, you are not alone. Go forth and kick ass.

Girls who can run in high heels should be feared.

Ignite the spirit of excellence in your man through your sensuality.

I’m suggesting you put on some give-me-dick lipstick, fuck-me heels and a dress that’s nothing like the prudish shit you wear out in public. Then, go to the party with a damn grin on your face, and leave them guessing if you’re into kink

I have chosen to no longer be apologetic for my femininity. And I want to be respected in all my femaleness. Because I deserve to be. I like politics and history and am happiest when having a good argument about ideas. I am girly. I am happily girly. I like high heels and trying on lipsticks.

We were The Hottentot Venus Draped in our mothers' dresses, Wearing rouge & lipstick, Pillows tucked under floral & print cloth, the first day of spring, As we balanced on high heels. Women sat in a circle talking About men; the girls off Somewhere else, in other houses. We felt the last kisses Our mothers would give us On the mouth.

Women are raising children, picking up socks, and making sure you feel like a man by supporting you when you need it and looking sexy (but not trying too hard, because that would be pathetic). We’re being independent and bad bitches while wearing fucking lipstick and heels so as not to offend your delicate aesthetic sensibility, yet even just the word “feminist” pisses you off. How dare we.

One of the reasons men love stockings, heels, lipstick, eyeshadow, long silky hair, and hairless legs is because it is entirely the opposite of them. They also love curves and the waist to hip ratio since it’s something they don’t have. Women tend to like square jaws, muscly arms and chests, and deep voices as this is something they don’t have. Keep these opposites active and obvious in your sex life.

I headed to the church at five-thirty, wearing jeans, flip-flops, and brick red lipstick. My mom, calm and cool as a mountain lake, carried my white dress--plain and romantic, with a bodice that laced up corset-style in the back and delicate sheer sleeves. I carted in my shoes…my earrings…my makeup…and my exfoliating scrub, in case my face decided to pull a last-minute sloughing. I wasn’t about to roll over and take a last-minute sloughing without a fight. Not on my wedding day.

One of the biggest battles that second-wave feminists of the seventies had with third wave feminists of the nineties was over the place of sex and beauty in feminism. Second wavers critiqued high heels and lipstick as oppressive expectations of the patriarchy. Third-wave white girls brought heels and fly red lips back into the mix. Black feminists gave the side eye to white girls and their feminist waves, because looking fierce and fly has always been a part of the Black-girl credo. (And also because Black feminism didn’t fit neatly within the historical trajectory of waves.) Our embrace of femininity was its own armor in a world where white women said that Black women should never be called ladies. If I have to pick a side, I’d say I’m third wave enough to affirm that beauty and the desire to be wanted still matter. When you go for months or years without a dude (or any love interest) ever noticing you, you can begin to feel invisible. And feminist principles about how the patriarchy has made us beholden to beauty culture do nothing to assuage the desire we all have to be seen and affirmed.

Checking out shoes when looking for Lesbians is an elimination device, a negative marker. Lesbians wear sensible shoes whenever possible. Irene and I have learned to pass right by a woman who looks like a Lesbian from head to ankle, but wears flimsy shoes with pointed toes and heels. She is sure to mention a husband by her second sentence. So, what does a Lesbian look like? Well, we saw two old women drive into a campground in a large motorhome. One dog and no men accompanied them. These are Lesbian-positive clues. We seldom see old women in campgrounds unless they are accompanied by old men. They walked the dog, each wearing a long “ladies” winter coat and lipstick. We casually intercepted them. “Nice dog,” says Irene. The dog growled. We mentioned the movie about nuclear war on TV the night before. “They should go to Russia. Show it to the Communists,” they angrily replied. We walked on. If they were Lesbians, I did not want to know. “Not Lesbians,” pronounced my expert. “There are Lesbians who wear ‘ladies’ coats and Lesbians who wear lipstick. There are even Lesbians who prefer nuclear war to “Godless Communism”; but Lesbians would not let their dog growl at a woman without correcting it.

But Hillgarth had already come across him in a very different guise. In October 1941, he had bailed Dudley Clarke out of a Spanish jail. There was nothing so odd in that. Hillgarth was often bailing people out of jail. What made the occasion special, and acutely embarrassing, was Colonel Clarke’s outfit: he was dressed as a woman. A Spanish police photograph shows this master of deception in high heels, lipstick, pearls, and a chic cloche hat, his hands, in long opera gloves, demurely folded in his lap. He was not even supposed to be in Spain, but in Egypt. In spite of the colonel’s predicament, in the photo he seems thoroughly comfortable, even insouciant.

I admitted it to myself. I had all kinds of dreams. I wanted to go skiing again and get fast and good. I wanted to go to London too someday. I wanted to fall in love.i wanted to own a bookstore or a restraunt and have people come in and say, "Hi, Cedar," and I wanted from ride a bike down the streets in a little town in a country where people spoke a different language. Maybe my bike would a basket and maybe the basket would have flowers in it. I wanted to live in a big city and wear lipstick and my hair in bun and buy groceries and carry them home in a paper bag. My high heels would click when I climbed the stairs to my apartment. I wanted to stand at the edge of a lake and listen.

Owen felt his mouth curve into a grin as he heard the familiar clap, clap, clap behind him. That was one of his favorite sounds—high heels on the wooden dock of the Boys of the Bayou swamp boat tour company. He took his time turning and once he did, he started at the shoes. They were black and showed off bright red toenails. The straps wrapped sexily around trim ankles and led the eye right up to smooth, toned calves. The heels matched the black polka dots on the white skirt that thankfully didn’t start until mid-thigh, and showed off more tanned skin. He straightened from his kneeling position in one of the boats as his eyes kept moving up past the skirt to the bright red belt that accentuated a narrow waist and then to the silky black tank that molded to a pair of perfect breasts. He was fully anticipating her lips being bright red to go with that belt and her toenail polish. God, he loved red lipstick. And high heels. In any color. But before he could get to those lips, she used them, to say, “Oh, dammit, it’s you.” Owen’s gaze bypassed her mouth to fly to her eyes. Because he’d know that voice anywhere. Madison Allain was home. A day early. Not that an extra day would have helped him prepare. He’d been thinking about her visit for a week and was still as wound tight about it as he’d been when Sawyer, his business partner and cousin, had told him that she was coming home. For a month. Owen stood just watching her, fighting back all of the first words that he was tempted to say. Like, “Damn, you’re even more gorgeous than the last time I saw you.” Or, “I haven’t put anyone in the hospital lately.” Or, “I’ve missed you so fucking much.” Just for instance.

Where the hell were the sales ladies? The ones every store had to help relieve customers of guys with panic stricken eyes and the sudden need to drink away the pain of the credit card swipe. Ah! Nice. A female employee turned towards us and started walking. Thank god someone finally recognized the look of horror. She paused in front of us. "Do you need help?" "Yes!" I damn near shouted in the poor thing's face. She was only around five foot and that was with the tallest red heels I'd ever seen. Her face was clean of makeup except for bright red lipstick. She looked like she knew what she was doing. So I did what any sane man would do. I pushed Amy towards her and said, "Can you dress her?" The ladies eyes narrowed. "That came out wrong." I grumbled. "Can you help her find some clothes? She needs a whole new wardrobe. Shoes, under things." I coughed into my hand and looked away. Bar. Bar. Where was a freaking bar?

When a brilliant critic and a beautiful woman (that’s my order of priorities, not necessarily those of the men who teach her) puts on black suede spike heels and a ruby mouth before asking an influential professor to be her thesis advisor, is she a slut? Or is she doing her duty to herself, in a clear-eyed appraisal of a hostile or indifferent milieu, by taking care to nourish her real gift under the protection of her incidental one? Does her hand shape the lipstick into a cupid’s bow in a gesture of free will? She doesn’t have to do it. That is the response the beauty myth would like a woman to have, because then the Other Woman is the enemy. Does she in fact have to do it? The aspiring woman does not have to do it if she has a choice. She will have a choice when a plethora of faculties in her field, headed by women and endowed by generations of female magnates and robber baronesses, open their gates to her; when multinational corporations led by women clamor for the skills of young female graduates; when there are other universities, with bronze busts of the heroines of half a millennium’s classical learning; when there are other research-funding boards maintained by the deep coffers provided by the revenues of female inventors, where half the chairs are held by women scientists. She’ll have a choice when her application is evaluated blind. Women will have the choice never to stoop, and will deserve the full censure for stooping, to consider what the demands on their “beauty” of a board of power might be, the minute they know they can count on their fair share: that 52 percent of the seats of the highest achievement are open to them. They will deserve the blame that they now get anyway only when they know that the best dream of their one life will not be forcibly compressed into an inverted pyramid, slammed up against a glass ceiling, shunted off into a stifling pink-collar ghetto, shoved back dead down a dead-end street.

Helene was a person who had never been able to ask for help, and she couldn't ask for help now. She turned north and started walking toward her home, many miles away in San Rafael. It took her almost eight hours to reach there. After a short time her feet began to hurt, so she took off the heels and throw them away. As she walked on, her nylons tore and her feet began to bleed. She passed buildings that had collapsed, stumbled over rubble, waded through streets filled with filthy water from the fire-fighting efforts. Dirty, sweaty, and disheveled, she walked down the Marina to the Golden Gate Bridge and crossed it into the next county. She reached her home sometime after midnight and knocked on her own front door. It was opened by her fiance, who had never before seen her with her hair uncombed. Without a word, he took her into his arms, kicked the door closed, covered her dirty, tearstained face with kisses, and made love to her right there on the floor. Helene is a very intelligent person but she could not understand why she had never met this ardent lover before. When she asked him, he said simply, 'I was always afraid of smearing your lipstick.' She tells me that now when she begins to relapse into her former perfectionism, she remembers the look of love in her fiance's eyes when he opened the door. She had been looked at by men all of her life but she had never seen that expression in a man's eyes before. At the heart of any real intimacy is a certain vulnerability. It is hard to trust someone with your vulnerability unless you can see in them a matching vulnerability and know that you will not be judged. In some basic way it is our imperfections and even our pain that draws others close to us.

And there they were, the Foreign Returnees, in wash'n'wear suits and rainbow sunglasses. With an end to grinding poverty in their Aristocrat suitcases. With cement roofs for their thatched houses, and geysers for their parents' bathrooms. With sewage systems and septic tanks. Maxis and high heels. Puff sleeves and lipstick. Mixy-grinders and automatic flashes for their cameras. With keys to count, and cupboards to lock. With a hunger for kappa and meen vevichathu that they hadn’t eaten for so long. With love and a lick of shame that their families who had come to meet them were so... so... gawkish. Look at the way they dressed! Surely they had more suitable airport wear! Why did Malayalees have such awful teeth? (134)

lipstick and high heels.

Mary agreed with Harry. She had grown fond of Auburn and progressed in school, from second to eleventh grade within four years. Just as important, women in America—with their flapper dresses, lipstick, rouge, and perms—were kicking up their heels, far more liberated than their geta-clopping counterparts in Japan. Having won suffrage in 1920, American women voiced their opinions. Japanese women may have been wearing bolder kimonos, but they were still denied the vote and prevented from living full lives.

Beth changed her ensemble five times that morning, switching out her shoes, her necklaces, her earrings. I understood. Had I owned more than one suit, I would have done the same thing. As it was, I just sat in a battered old chair in our bedroom and watched her. She was beautiful to me. I could see that she had shaved her legs, supple and taut above the easy grip of her heels. She mussed her hair and pursed her lips at the mirror. “What do you think?” she said finally, turning to me. I stood and went to her, understanding right then that we were already growing older, that we would grow old together. “I think you’re beautiful,” I said. I kissed her. “Hey—watch the lipstick,” she said, swatting me away playfully before pulling me in close again. She set her chin on my shoulder and we slow danced that way, there in our bedroom, the worn carpeting beneath our best scuffed shoes. “I love you,” she said, “even if you’re not a rock star.” “I love you,” I said, “even though you’re not a movie star.” We kissed again and held hands as we walked downstairs, our garments good enough. The

Once I was back in the office, I stopped by Mags’s cubicle and rested my arms on the top of one of the walls of her cubby. She was in red today. Red-red. Scarlet Letter red. Lipstick, sweater, four-inch heels. Red. God, I envied her … balls.

If I could see into the future, Rennie said to one of them (a man, who kept suggesting that they should have drinks sometime soon), do you think I’d waste my time on this sort of thing? The colour of women’s lipstick, the length of their skirts, the height of their heels, what bits of plastic or gilt junk they chose to stick on themselves? I see into the present, that’s all. Surfaces. There’s not a whole lot to it.

It’s telling that TV, film, and news producers tend not to be satisfied with merely showing trans women wearing feminine clothes and makeup. Rather, it is their intent to capture trans women in the act of putting on lipstick, dresses, and high heels, thereby giving the audience the impression that the trans woman’s femaleness is an artificial mask or costume.

But that’s what makes us special,” she continues. “This isn’t just a courtship of boy meets girl. They fall in love, yadda, yadda. This is a lifelong commitment to men who aren’t satisfied living ordinary lives. It sometimes seems more of an obsession than a mission. One that can test a woman to her absolute limits.” She grins over at me, “But for him, for that man, I’ll do it. I’ll be there when he fucks up so badly he can’t celebrate how good he is or what he’s done. I’ll be there whenever he doubts himself and our relationship suffers because of those doubts. I’ll be there with my hair done, and my lipstick on, in my best heels, with my head held high on his darkest days, because that’s what he needs. And I don’t want him changing. I don’t want him to stop being who he is, not ever, not for me, and not for any baby we make.” She turns her gaze to me. “But I will use the tips of these heels to pierce and pin his brass balls down if he ever stops giving me what I need.

Every one wanted to be her, to be ex-maybe-boyfriend's amazing championship mother, so they dispensed with the father, either pairing off themselves as two supremely costumed waltzing women, or else just pretending to have a male prop dancing partner, "for that way," explained wee sisters, "you get to dress up and be her every time." This explained the colour - for there had been an explosion of colour - plus fabric, accessories, make-up, feathers, plumes, tiaras, beads, sparkles, tassels, lace, ribbons, ruffles, layered petticoats, lipsticks, eyeshadows, even fur - I had glimpsed fringed fur - high heels too, which belonged to the little girls' big sisters and which didn't fit which was why periodically the little girls fell over, sustaining injuries. "But the thing is," reiterated wee sisters, "and you don't seem to be overjoyed by this, middle sister, you get to be her every time!

telling the truth.” “What did you say?” “That I’d seen you attacked by DAR agents. That you’d had plenty of opportunities to make sure I got arrested, and that you hadn’t.” She grinned. “Kobb stopped just short of advising Epstein to have us both arrested. I don’t think he enjoyed that meeting.” “I don’t get the feeling Kobb enjoys very much.” They strolled through the lobby, heels clicking on the polished floor. “He must be a kick in bed, huh?” She laughed. “Three to five minutes of church-approved fore-play, followed by restrained intercourse during which both partners think about baseball.” “Mr. Cappello?” He and Shannon spun, easy enough but both shifting weight, softening the knees, positioning themselves back-to-back. They’d grown used to each other already, knew which side to cover if something went wrong. Funny. The woman who had called his pseudonym wore too much lipstick and her hair in a tight bun. “Tom Cappello?” “Yes?” “Mr. Epstein asked me to give you this.” She held up a tan calfskin briefcase,

I lifted my foot and gently pushed the footstool sideways a few inches. The heels of the slippers moved reluctantly over the jacquard surface, not with it. The man was as stiff as a board. So I reached down and touched his ankle. Ice was never half as cold. On a table at his right elbow was half of a dead drink, an ashtray full of butts and ash. Three of the butts had lipstick on them. Bright Chinese red lipstick. What a blond would use. There was another ashtray beside another chair. Matches in it and a lot of ash, but no stubs. On the air of the room a rather heavy perfume struggled with the smell of death, and lost. Although defeated, it was still there.

I did," Ace says. "I think Ms. Manning will be pleased to know that her daughter suffered before she died.” Corina steps out from behind him. My expression goes slack with shock. She's cleaned her face, removed all evidence of her earlier crocodile tears—if what my memory is telling me is true. She's redressed in a black pencil skirt and heels that flash red on the bottoms as she makes her way towards me. Her makeup is perfectly applied once more—black eyeliner and red lipstick to match the rest of her. Her hair has been pulled back into a high ponytail, and I suddenly have the urge to do to her what I did to Kate. No. I have the urge to do far worse than simply make her piss herself as I chop off her hair. I’d rather take a blade to her motherfucking throat and let her drown in her own blood.

The church is not perfect, but she is the bride of Christ, and I love her. I picture Christ at the wedding altar awaiting his bride, the elect of God. God the Father escorts her down the aisle, but her dress is stained with mustard and ruffles are torn. Her hair is disheveled, lipstick smeared, and flowers wilted. As she limps down the aisle with one broken heel, Jesus detects the smell of last night’s alcohol and vomit. Yet, Christ passionately says, “There’s my bride, and she is my beloved. I will receive her to make her holy. I will wash her with the water of the word. She will be my bride without spot or wrinkle” (see Song of Solomon 2:16; Ephesians 5:26–27).

You know what’s funny about these shoes? None of them are his size. He buys them a size bigger so he can add little heels in them that make him taller.

Go home, put on a pretty dress, some heels, and some lipstick, flirt with him, flatter him, and never forget how insecure men are. It's because they take themselves far too seriously.

If there was one thing her mother loved more than alcohol, it was appearances. In Andrea’s mind, the most important thing in the world was maintaining a certain level of respectability. She was never without makeup, false lashes, and heels. Even when she was shitfaced. At one time, Mack had thought her mother beautiful. But the ugly truth that no lipstick or pretty dress could conceal never stayed hidden for long. Mack disconnected, feeling the way she always did after a conversation with her mother: anxious, unsettled, and vaguely ill. She could use a strong hug and maybe a happy dog, she decided and picked up her keys.

...the fact remains that, from the time when I could first walk until I adopted high heels, lipstick, and a pretence of helplessness, a muscle in the forearm was worth far more to me than any amount of brains in the head.

Today she’d taken off for a hair appointment at 10:00 in the morning and hadn’t been home all day. We had Sloan and Brandon’s wedding invitation thing later tonight. It was boring without her here. She’d left Stuntman Mike, wearing his DOGFATHER shirt, and he’d become my work buddy. He mostly slept, but once in a while he’d jump up barking at phantom sounds. It kept things interesting. At 5:00, Kristen still wasn’t home when I got in the shower in the guest bathroom to start getting ready for the party. But when I came out, dressed and ready to go, my breath caught the second I rounded the corner. She sat at the kitchen counter, looking at her phone. She was a fucking knockout. She’d been pretty before, even under her baggy T-shirts and sweatpants. But now? Dressed up? My God, she was sexy as hell. She wore a black fitted cocktail dress and red heels. Her hair was down and curled and she had her makeup on. Bright-red lipstick. When she glanced up, I tried to act like I hadn’t been frozen in the doorway. “Oh, hey. Will you zip me up?” she asked, sliding off the stool still texting. She didn’t even give me a second look. I cleared my throat. “Uh, yeah. Sure.” She turned and gave me her back, still looking at her screen. The zipper to her dress was all the way down and the lacy top of a light-blue G-string peeked out. Her perfume reached my nose, and I could almost taste the tart apples on my tongue. Fuck. This is torture. I pulled the zipper up, my eyes trailing the line of her spine. No bra. She was small on top. Perky. She didn’t need one. I stopped to move her hair and my fingers touched her neck as I gathered it to one side. I had the most incredible urge to put my lips to the spot behind her ear, slip my hands into the sides of her dress, around her waist, peeling it off her. She has a boyfriend. She’s not interested. I finished the job, dragging the zipper to the top. She’d looked at her phone the whole time, totally unaffected. Kristen wasn’t shy or conservative. That much I’d seen over the last few weeks. She probably didn’t even think twice about any of this. But I practically panted. I was getting a hard-on just standing there. I hoped she didn’t look down.

Femininity in general is seen as frivolous. People often say feminine people are doing “the most,” meaning that to don a dress, heels, lipstick, and big hair is artifice, fake, and a distraction. But I knew even as a teenager that my femininity was more than just adornments; they were extensions of me, enabling me to express myself and my identity. My body, my clothes, and my makeup are on purpose, just as I am on purpose.

Before the world as they knew it ended, they stepped out in heels with straightening-comb burns on their ears, gartered stockings, and lipstick for the first time.

Together we ruled. Our realm unfurled, grassy campus and its tangle of parties. We marked the territory as our own, matchstick legs capped in sharp heels striking the ground, mouths witchy with lipstick and upturned with laughter. (...) When I did pick out a king, the crown was too heavy for his head.

The women in my family are bitches. Cranky bitches. Stuck up bitches. Customer service turned sour bitches. Can I help you? bitches. Next in line bitches. I like this purse 'cause it makes me look mean bitches. Can you take a picture of my outfit full length, get the heels in bitches. I always wear heels to la fiesta I never take them off bitches. All men will kill you bitches. All men will leave you anyway, bitches. You better text me when you get home okay bitches. Pray before the baby comes bitches. Pray before the plane takes off bitches. She has my eyes, my big mouth and my fight, bitches. Sing to the scabs on her knees when she falls down bitches. It's okay not to be liked bitches. Give abuelita bendiciones bitches. The vengeful, violent, pissed, prissed, and polished. Lipstick stained on an envelope, I'll be damned if I'm compliant bitches. The what did you call to us? What did you say to us? What's that kind of love called again? Bitches.

Let me start by saying a true sensual woman is a tastemaker. What do I mean by that? I mean she sets the standard of what is pleasurable, desirable, sophisticated, refined, intoxicating, elegant, classy, sexy, healthy, delicious, saucy. Women naturally possess the power to create ANY taste. "There are not more than five cardinal tastes, yet combinations of them yield more flavours than can ever be tasted" (Sun Tzu). The sensually awakened ones are cognisant of this and use it to their advantage while those who are not awakened often see it as some form of "female oppression." They say, "You're putting women under pressure." But what about men, Lebo? Well, men are not tastemakers like women are. Why? Because, unlike women, MEN CAN'T AND ARE NOT ALLOWED TO PLAY WITH THEIR INNER CHARACTER TOO MUCH. For instance, a man is essentially restricted only to pants. A man can’t wear a dress, high heels, lipstick and the list goes on. This limits a man from becoming a significant contributor in the tastemaking process of life and love, except financially of course. But it doesn’t limit a woman in any way, shape or form. Women can wear dressess, even men's pants, etc.. They can put on ANYTHING actually and still be celebrated. Marilyn Monroe wore a potatoe sack. Lady Gaga wore an infamous dress made of raw beef. That's why I believe being a woman is the greatest privilege of all. Marilyn Monroe said, "One of the best things that ever happened to me is that I'm a woman." Marilyn understood that women are THE REAL TASTEMAKERS IN LIFE and relationships, not men. BEING A MAN DOESN'T REQUIRE AS MUCH AMBITION AS BEING A WOMAN. Women are relationship navigators because they are naturally more ambitious than men. That's why again, Marilyn said, "Women who seek to be equal with men lack ambition." Our ultimate quest as men, whether we realize it or not, is to live under a woman's spell. That makes us happy, and seem stupid at times. Sadly, most women are not sensually awakened enough to realize that. They don't know that the ultimate secret to keeping a man content with one woman lies in her sensuality.

I needed light. I needed vision. I needed something other than loss and heartbreak and late nights and your grandmother is in the hospital and you’re dehydrated and your cat isn’t coming home and your knees will never get better and he doesn’t want you and you need to work less and he doesn’t love you and you need to work harder and you this that and the other. I needed to wear heels. I needed to put on fuchsia lipstick and blow kisses at the mirror. I needed to eat something. I needed to get it the fuck together.

The majority of us perform every day, by applying makeup, wearing high heels or apologising! profusely! as a form of subservience. The performance exists on a sliding scale – from applying lipstick to injecting your lips, from dieting to achieve a smaller waist to undergoing intense plastic surgery to create an hourglass shape.

The sound of my heels clicking against the floorboards bolsters my spirits. Grandma Belle used to say that a woman wearing her best red heels and favorite red lipstick can accomplish anything. There is some truth to her words. When Grandma Belle donned her red pumps and a glossy coat of Dior Rouge, she fairly glowed with an inner confidence that reduced men to obedient puppies. While I do not possess the classic beauty of Grandma Belle, nor do I think Macon Saint will ever act anything close to an obedient puppy, I do admit to feeling a bit more powerful in my red suede Jimmy Choos and Ruby Woo lipstick.

Setting my shoulders back, I cross the room, aware of my clicking heels and swaying hips, aware of Macon watching me. I'm being overtly sexual, but there is power in that. A woman can choose to embrace it when it suits. And it definitely suits me now. If my lipstick is stating, "Fuck off," my body is saying, "This is what you missed out on, and you haven't cowed me one bit." Petty? Maybe. Enjoyable? Definitely.