I was in the office sitting at my desk the other morning waiting for Sandy Glisan to arrive. She’s what I like to call a “boot woman,” that is, inclined to wear boots. I was looking forward to the sexual charge – and the emotional stability – her bootedness would give me that day.

Sandy has one pair of boots, your classic `60s style simple black leather kneehigh boots with inside zippers and a chunky heel. They remind me of the boots the girls wore in my high school.

I love the way Sandy’s boots sound when she arrives, squeaking against each other, heels pounding against the linoleum as she rushes from the elevator, always late. I was especially eager to see Sandy, because she hadn’t worn them for several days (opting instead for a pair of black shoes with thin ankle straps – sexy, but not boots), and this morning the weather proved to be especially boot-friendly, cold and wet, when women innocently don boots, not thinking of all the perverts out there.

My desk faces the entrance, so I see women come and go. I have about five seconds of ogling time before they vanish into the landscape of desks and computer screens. Consequently, I have the boots of all the office girls on my floor memorized. There’s the regal Sandy Klickitat, who has a pair of black women’s fashion boots that she wears with stockings and a short skirt. There’s the athletic, perky Sandy Brazee, who has two pair of boots, a pair of old scraped Frye boots she wears with tight jeans, and some high, jet black cowboy boots. And then there’s Sandy Burnside. She has the most exotic boots. They are thigh high lace-up jobs she bought in San Francisco (of course). She wears them only every couple of months, and usually with an ankle length skirt with a slit up the side, the high boots peeking out flirtatiously with her every step.

I used to be a cop, so I’m good at observing. Good at keeping my distance, too. I talk to these co-workers, but I never ask them out. Most of them have boyfriends, and I assume the single ones would turn me down. Anyway, most people are conventional, and I don’t expect women to understand my boot fetish. So I live a kind of lonely life, and their boots, which I worship in my own quiet way, provide one of the perks of the job.

We all have these things. For most men it’s breasts or rears or legs. For some women, it’s hairy forearms, or broad shoulders or tight butts. But many, many people, without ever admitting it, have some odd and frustrating sexual obsession that gets them through the day.

Well, Sandy Glisan finally arrived, in a hurry as usual, but it was a non-boot day. She was still wearing her shoes. Disappointed, I took a tour of the building in the course of the day, lingering in places where I thought boot women would be. No dice. It was a Friday, so I knew I would have to wait until Monday to see if Sandy got back on boot schedule. Over the weekend, I would masturbate to thoughts, to memories, of her in boots, and then come Monday morning, see what she wears.

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This is reprinted from Exotic Magazine © 1996 X Publishing