unpacking the fuck-me vibe; or how to get your strut on

On an average day, I can walk down a street and attract a couple of glances. More than a couple if it's warm enough to go coatless. And quite a few, really, if I'm wearing a skirt. Now, I'm certainly not the prettiest girl around. Nor am I the sexiest. From a distance, I imagine I'm somewhat deceptively attractive. I've got a head of wild, full hair, which is, in females, a genetic indicator of reproductive health (the opposite is actually true of men-- i.e., for all my thinning friends, good news! Male pattern baldness is actually a sign of high testosterone and genetic health!) and I wear 3- or 4-inch heels pretty much ever day, thus engendering my "nightclub walk that makes grown men feel underage" for which I get teased fairly frequently. Basically, I know how to put myself together well enough to catch an eye, but underneath it all, my self-image swirls around the frizzy, scrawny, plaid-skirted little goobersmack I was when I was 14. In other words, I'm not being humble when I say I think I'm pretty average-looking.

But I do still manage to get enough sexual attention on an average day to keep me entertained. True enough, I crave it. My little ego gets confused--it simpers and wheedles-- when it is denied its daily quota of eyebrow flashes from strangers. But that's all neurosis to be thought through on another day, my friends. I shan't trouble you with it now.

However, I do wonder, sometimes, why a girl so normal-looking as myself would get much attention at all. So, for a while, I've been formulating this little theory about what I call "the fuck-me vibe." Essentially, my theory posits the idea that if a person has some cognitive loop of some particular subject matter constantly running within her brain, it's gonna show, to some degree, on the outside. In my case, you can pretty much guarantee I'm thinking something sexual-- even if it's only abstractly so, because, as I've said before, the world runs on humping. As my reader(s) might have surmised, sex is the little lubed-up lens through which I process the entire world outside of my person. And so, because I'm thinking about sex, I'm projecting sex... and people respond to that projection. It matters not the clothes or the body or the face or anything so corporeal. Or so the theory goes.

Today, then, I found an article about a study that kinda backs my theory up. The article is here. To summarize, it's basically saying that, by looking at still photos alone, we can correctly determine a person's degree of sexual openness on an average of 72% of the time-- or rather, we can determine a person's propensity for engaging in short-term sexual liaisons vs. long-term pair-bonded relationships, respectively. For hetero women, men who are more inclined toward the latter are more attractive while for hetero men, women who are inclined toward the former are more attractive. Fantastic. Why must we always be looking for opposite criteria in each other? Ugh. Anyway. The article's point is that it's the subtlest of subtle facial cues that speak the most telling volumes about our sexual availability. Fascinating!

Seems almost as though the article is saying that if you're thinking about sex a lot, it shows on your face, doesn't it?

Not that the high heels really hurt anything, mind you. Honestly, if I could teach legions of women how to walk in heels, I think the whole world would get laid more often. Think about it: is there anything less attractive than some poor girl, pitched forward and bow-legged as she ambles along in her stilettos-- looking more or less like a small linebacker with a pitchfork lodged up his anus?

In the interest of employing this blog for the purposes of doing good deeds, please allow me to impart some helpful tips for walking like a woman in sexy shoes, even on the most treacherous terrain:

1) Don't buy your stilettos at Pay-Less or Target. I know they only cost 15 bucks, but there's a reason. Cheap shoes are poorly balanced. If you feel like you're going to topple over in them, it's because they aren't distributing your weight correctly. I recently bought a pair of (I'm not kidding) 4-and-a-half-inch sandals that are held on my feet with only a couple of 1/4-inch straps-- and I paid $150 for 'em-- and I feel perfectly stable in them. If you want to walk like a stripper, ladies, invest! It's worth it.

2) Relax your torso. Let your ass and hips do all the work. If you're up on your toes, it makes sense that your center of gravity shifts forward a little. But keep in mind that, for men, the center of gravity is located in their chest and shoulders. For us, it's lower-- in our pelvis, where our heaviest bones are. I see a lot of women tense up their shoulders and spine and sternum when they're unaccustomed to wearing tall shoes and they look uber-awkward. Instead, try throwing your shoulders back and sinking into your hips. Lead with your hips when you walk, not your chin or your hunched-up shoulders-- that ain't attractive at all. Besides, a high, tight ass is the crowning glory of every accomplished high-heel wearer. And that's because all those muscles all the way up the backs of your legs are getting a good work-out every time you settle backwards into those shoes and go for a little leisurely stroll-- or, if you happen to work in Georgetown, a power jaywalk through pedestrian-unfriendly cobblestone. (Don't get me started on those fucking sidewalk grates. I've skinned many a pretty leather-sheathed heel in those grates.)

3)Let the sway happen. OK, I must admit, I've fucked up my left hip (hence regular visits to Hot Chiropractor's office for gluteal/groin massage-- it's such a pity, really) and I'm pretty sure that the injury is due, in no small part, to my sashay. But the truth is, a high heel necessitates that a woman throws her weight differently into her gait that she does in flat shoes. You just can't clomp your feet obliquely down with each step. You kinda have to cross one foot in front of the other and, again, allow the ball-and-socket joint of your hips to take the pendulum swing of your weight. I learned in crappy-driver school (ages ago! I'm past all that now!) that your shoulders and your pelvic bone can bear 30 times your body's weight. Why not take advantage of that?

4) Practice. And start young. Build up a tolerance for taller and taller shoes and don't ever stop wearing them because your muscles will quickly get out of the habit. I was once in a shoestore, trying on these incredible knock-out brass chain-link/charm-encrusted stilettos (I did not buy them, as they were out of my budget then, but I fantasize about them to this day), and these two giggling middle-aged women walked by me. One said (I'm paraphrasing), "Oh, honey, those are hot! You should NOT pass those up!" And the other said, "Oh, I wish I could still wear shoes like that. I stopped wearing them when I was pregnant and I haven't been able to get back in them since. " And the first one said, "Oh, yes. You can't stop wearing high heels when you're pregnant. You just have to suffer through, swelling and cankles and everything else. Otherwise, you'll just never get back on that horse." Wise women, I thought. Vain, funny, and impractical women, but wise women. And it's a lesson I took to heart. Because I am at least vain and impractical, if not funny and wise.

5) Whatever you do-- and this is the most important thing of all-- DO NOT, I repeat, DO NOT bitch about your feet hurting. There is nothing less sexy than a whiny girl with a limp. I keep a pretty wide array of band-aids in my purse at all times. I buy a lot of moleskin, particularly in the summer when sweaty feet cause slippage, and subsequently, blisters. And if I know I'm going to get in trouble with the shoes at some point during my day, I bring spares. I plan ahead. The heart of this matter is that YOU chose to wear the shoes-- it's your own damn fault that your feet are killing you. Take responsibility for it. Suck it up and suffer in silence. I'm not kidding. Nobody wants to hear you whine about it. The admiring attention you get for successfully sauntering down a street like a porn star is far, far, far superior to the irritated attention you get for being a big fat whiny-baby. The choice to wear sensible shoes is always available to you and you only have yourself to blame for your pain. There is, after all, an element of masochism to this particular art. And you might as well come to terms with that.

Vibe on, ladies!

UPDATE: You know what? I'm suddenly rethinking the title of this post. No, there is not a "fuck-me vibe(rator)" in need of unpacking. Oof. I should think better. BEFORE I hit the publish button.