Hollywood Hooker Haberdashery
Hollywood in the summer means tourists, at least that was what it meant on Saturday when I escorted a bunch of kinky ladies around the Strip's stripper stores. The group was Fetlife's Kinky Women Who Like Women and the event was Hollywood Hooker Haberdashery, an alliterative title of my own ideation that I repeat here due to o'erweening pride.
C gifted me with co-mod status a few months back. There are four mods including myself although she's still really the heart and soul of the group. Through our various events I've been meeting so many interesting ladies who identify as bi / pan / fluid / curious or even other designations; it's hard to keep track of them all. Don't think I've met any strict lesbians through this group yet, although given the groups other predilections, that adjective would take on a different meaning anyway.
The women are twenty through sixty-somethings. They're all fun to talk to. They have varied careers, varied interests. I can honestly say there's not a single one of them that rubs me the wrong way. Given how prickly I can be, this is a step.
I didn't buy anything in the stripper stores. Everything was either too small, too tight, too expensive, or just too hootchie-kootchie. I'm still in decent shape. I am also, however, becoming more sensitive about my abs. Too, I think that there's a certain level of decorum that should be observed if I'm going to be topping people. Subs can wear whatever. Doms should show less. This may well be old-fashioned, but it's how I feel.
So I was on my way back to the car, when I came across a little head shop right on Hollywood Boulevard. Okay, it wasn't strictly a head shop, since they had a lot more music t-shirts and clothes and a lot less paraphernalia. But the floor plan was long and narrow, with glass counters full of silver jewelry and fancy lighters. Maybe more of a biker shop. Anyway, they had this amazing selection of Lip Service clothes in the back. More than I've seen in a lot bigger places. The proprietors seriously made every square foot of vertical space work for them. The clerk was also really nice -- attentive but not up my butt. I must've spent a good hour in there trying on everything that looked even vaguely nice. Alas, nothing fit except a pair of size ten (ten? what the eff, people?) transformers from Demonia. For those who are unfamiliar with such footwear, I give you:
Neither of these people are me, by the way. They are Pauley Perette and Robert Wagner. Note the forced perspective. She is actually taller in those boots than he is.
So yes, Transformers are our homegrown version of the Pennangalan Transmuters that don't really exist on this side of the Atlantic, unless they were purchased in the UK. And since Transmuters have their own sizing system I was always leery about buying a pair. But I was able to try them on. And hot damn do I look tall and evil in those things.
My transformers come with three sets of panels -- plain vinyl, red flame, and vinyl with rubber spikes. They attach and detatch via velcro for the tongues and several sets of Philips head screws for the panels on the platforms. I will do some serious ass-kicking in these boots. When the zombie apocalypse comes I shall don them and rule from my dark throne in my fort-slash-library and NONE SHALL PASS, you tiny-booted mofos. Tremble in fear!
Despite my joy-in-footwear, I didn't wear the stompy boots of doom to Bordello of Decadence that night. I just wore my trusty San Francisco boots because they went with the pink python corset, black, silver-studded bra, and pinstriped skater skirt I had going on.
There are no pictures, but trust me, everything worked. And I topped everyone. Stay tuned, I will brag about it soon.