I'm in your head and everybody knows, i'm supergirl

My Black Boots and the Jerks who loved them

I have a theory that the heels on my feet attract a particular species of “man-heel” unofficially know as Jerkus Maximus. A brief history:

Jeff, thirty-six, drawn to my black calf-length boots like a moth to a bonfire. We meet at a trendy San Francisco bar and he immediately compliments my “sexy” shoes (hello red flag). He’s cute, except he’s never without a lint brush or a nail file, and he shaves his entire body. I know this because he tells me on our first date. When he starts asking wildly inappropriate questions about my preferred positions (not the political kind, mind you), I vow to never answer his calls again.

Chad, twenty-seven, drawn to my four-inch DKNY cork wedges. On our third date, he declares every one of his former girlfriends jealous psychos. I invite him to a party and he shows up with a black eye and swings the host’s kids around by their arms until they scream for mercy. In the days to follow, irrational fights seem to descend on me out of nowhere—usually about the high heels I choose to wear for a night on the town without him.

Matt, twenty-nine, drawn to my sparkly gold Stuart Weitzman stilettos. He refers to his countless other women as “paperwork,” as in, “I can’t see you tonight, I have some [dramatic pause] paperwork to do.” On weekends, he makes midnight runs to the convenience store to buy Snickers, Ding-Dongs, and beer which he likes to consume in one sitting. Fifteen extra pounds into our relationship, I can suddenly out-run him when I’m not wearing the stilettos and choose to do so when I discover he’s still “in touch” (quite literally) with his ex-girlfriend.

Jake, twenty-nine, drawn to those trouble-making calf-length boots of mine. He’s an athlete (the San Francisco equivalent of The New Yankee, and every bit as handsome). He chats me up at a fundraising fête—commenting on the boots—and, shockingly, contacts me the next day. Although he seems perfectly normal on the phone at first, he starts texting, “What are you wearing?” at all hours, and like so many women before me, I foolishly play along and describe something sexy from head to toe (even though I’m likely in jeans and tennis shoes). In person one night, he’s disappointed it was all a very convincing act put on by a very timid good girl. I learn a valuable lesson about professional players and, over the course of several weeks, find out he has slept with nearly every woman living within a twenty-mile radius, including three of my somewhat-close friends.

Silly me. I used to think men don’t notice women’s shoes, but I hear that’s a whole lot of bunk.

When shoes scream “sex!” (unknowingly, in my case), fellas listen, and inevitably want to rip them off—or, in some cases, leave them on.