He had seen the announcement for the new shoe store in the fall-out ads of the Sunday morning edition. “All Shapes And Sizes,” the ad promised. “New Spring Line of Strappy Heels For Sunny Days,” it tantalized. He couldn’t resist.

The next evening, after work, he found himself gazing into the store window at the little display shoes, standing pertly on their clear plastic shelves. His stomach lurched with anticipation. He sidled up to the door that commanded him to “Pull.” Obediently, he pulled the metal bar and was assaulted by the sensuous smell of shoe leather. He stepped inside tentatively; must not seem too eager.

The twenty-ish girl behind the counter looked up from her Vogue and smiled dutifully. “Welcome to Sherry’s. If there is anything I can help you find, please let me know,” she recited, and without waiting for an answer, turned her attention back to her magazine. Good, he thought, no one to look over my shoulder.

He muttered a perfunctory thank you, and wandered nonchalantly to the closest aisle, checking the placard above the row, which declared “Ladies 11.” Without pausing, he headed toward the opposite end of the store. His quarry within sniffing distance, he felt that light-headed rush that signaled the beginning of his arousal.

Carefully keeping his back toward the oblivious salesgirl, he sped up a bit, arriving at the far aisle.