I first noticed the phenomenon of Bare Feet when I glanced over at H. during a lap dance. I thought she looked shorter, and sure enough, down at the bottom of her legs were not her usual seven-inch Lucite platforms, but just…her feet.

It was jarring. Tall and slim with long, wavy black hair, H. was a straight vixen on the stage. But once she got her prey into the VIP room, off came the stilettos, and down she came from her pedestal.

I wondered briefly if I could do it. It sure would be a lot more comfortable. But I thought about it, and I realized - as a stripper, I am incomplete without my shoes.

My shoes are like my armor. Without them I’m my normal height (short), with my normal proportions (normal…nothing to write home about), just dolled up in a glorified bathing suit. But with them on, I’m a glamazon, a fantasy both to my customers and to myself.

I admire those girls who take the damn things off, cause let’s be real - they hurt by the end of the night. However, just like my life story, I want the bastards to know as little about me as possible, including what I look like when I’m talking to people I know and like.