The tingling in my toes.

There is one thing I remember. The tingling in my toes. I’d call it a curious sensation given the context. My high heel shoes were normally comfortable and fancy enough to give my body a slightly elongated shape that would flatter my butt. Pointed. Stiletto’s. Black daim. They match my black bodycon dress.

I also remember hesitating for a long time before I put them on. What were I aware of?

I left home in a hurry with the unease of missing my flight. It wouldn’t have been such a terrible thing but I somehow felt unsettled with not being in control of things. I only had hand luggage. A short flight. A 3 day turnover. Nothing extraordinary.

Once behind the boarding card automatic desks, I fluff a kiss from my fingers to the gorgeous man who brought me to the airport, I turn on my heels and… I’m gone.

It’s like a whole world opens up when you stay in line for security check at airport. So many people, so many thoughts and feelings and emotions. Such rush and excitement and adrenaline pumping. So much pretence ‘of, oh yeah, this is normal. I fly every week’. Most of these people have been saving money to go on their dream holiday for a whole year.

You can tell by the way they walk if they are stressed out or excited. Yes, and their heads. Some look around nervously, some walk stifly with the anticipation of the bag control, some pretend they are not even there. Or… are they truly there?

I’m following the line, holding my coat on one arm and my boarding card in the other one. “I am organized, efficient and slient” – like a good girl following the rules in school.

It’s my turn to put my stuff on the small tray conveyor.
“Liquids, laptop, tablet?” the deep voice brings me back into my shoes.

I lift my head, I smile and then I look at the person talking to me. A red-head woman, around her 30s was looking at me from behind her wide glasses.

With one hand she rearranges my stuff in the tray in front of her, while her other hand is resting on her hip.
I nodd. She keeps looking at me. She scans my outfit and asks me to take off my belt.
“We don’t want to get the machine crazy, right?”

I get my belt, fold it carefully and place it on top of my coat.
She was still holding on to my tray when she ordered:
“Take off your watch, please”.
Startled by the sound of her voice, and embarrassed by my sigh I hand her the watch. She grabs it with a sudden yet soft move. I’m ready to go through the metal detector portal.
“Your shoes?” she lifts her eyebrows and parts her lips in a slightly wicked smile.

Strangely enough…I am about to miss my plane, there’s plenty of people behind me queueing impatiently and I’m actually performing a strip-tease routine directed by this fucking phenomenal woman on the other side of the counter.
“Here you go” I chuckle surprised by my own deep voice.

My feet touch the cold ground which travels like lightning on my spine. My nipples harden, my back straightens, my lower abdomen warms up. I don’t think. I just observe my body.
On the other side of the portal, the red-headed awaits.
“You beeped. May I?” het tone of voice descended a few notes.
“Spread your arms and legs please!”
I feel so naked. So vulnerable and raw.
Her hands caress my body and my body is so wrongly enjoying it. I bite my lip. I smile. I mumble. I feel exposed.
“It’s all good. Have a nice flight”.

I recover my bag, my belt and my watch and holding my shoes in one hand I walk away from the checkpoint. I am fully aware of the tension in the air. The people who had just witnessed my strip show were somehow turned on.

I was turned on. Hot and in flames. I sat down on a chair willingly taking my time to put my shoes on.  A pair of deep green eyes were furtively watching me through wide dark framed glasses. Her perfume is still present in my nostrils. My mouth is wet and I am thirsty. I put my shoes back on with a groan… I know, I am watched from the distance.

Where have I learned that wrongness is declined at superlative when it comes to me and my body? Who or what had this point of view that I am the wrongest of all for having a sensationally sensatious body? For willing to be seen even when I’m hiding under oh, so many, fabricated opinions and thoughts about who I am supposed to be?

What if the wrongness I be is the brilliance and the gift this world requires of me? Where have I labelled the receiving of energies – especially those of arousal – as being wrong? Is a cat wrong for moving so sinuously that it makes you dizzy and spacey if you watched it for a longer time? Is a watermelon wrong for being round and juicy and sweet and filled with pleasure?

What if there were no right or wrong? What then?
Would you be willing, just for today, to be the sexualness on legs you truly are? With no point of view? I wonder what would that create…?

There is one thing I remember. The tingling in my toes. I’d call it a curious sensation given the context. My high heel shoes are normally comfortable and fancy enough to give my body a slightly elongated shape that would flatter my butt…

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