“The last time I wore high-heels”

 **Trigger Warning: rape**

 

I was 17 years old the last time I wore high-heels. I had gone out drinking and dancing with a friend and we had got too drunk to walk to the next club, so we got in the back of a black cab. We were kissing, and as we all well know, two women kissing is an obvious invitation for a man to join in, so our taxi-driver decided to kidnap us.

He drove the wrong way, out of town, giggling excitedly. We were screaming, we couldn’t get out of the car. He drove us up a small alley and climbed into the back of the car with us.

He took off my dress and raped me, at the same time asking my friend if she wanted a go.

So we took off our high-heels, and we beat the taxi-driver over the head with them until he collapsed and we could muster the strength to get away. 

 

Two women kissing in front of you does not equal consent.

Two women who don’t fit into your warped stereotype of a certain sexuality do not equal consent.

Two women who are so drunk they literally can’t muster the specific phrase, ‘I do not want to have sex with you’ do not equal consent.

 

And whilst they make useful weapons, they’re not very good getaway shoes, so I don’t wear high-heels anymore. 


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