The Heel Bar Ch. 01

Ch. 1 (of 3): Carl's fitting comeuppance.

Most of the women who enjoyed a post-work drink or two at the Heel Bar on Tockenham Coat Road before heading for the tube station and home were regulars, I had come to find, long before the final Friday of my four-week Monday to Friday 40-hour Job Centre sanction there serving from 5 p.m. - 7 p.m. as Barstool Footboy 9.

Yet another Female-Friendly Facility brainchild of the Authoritarian Female Party Prime Minister, Caroline Flynt, open 5 p.m. - 2 a.m. the Heel Bar on Tockenham Coat Road was one of a UK-wide roll-out of immensely popular ladies-only 'Theme' bars where up to 50 barstool-perching footboy-occupying imbibers and the booth-seated in-waiting ladies enjoyed AFP-subsidised drinks.

During my regular 5 p.m. - 7 p.m. early shift stints, I had soon come to find also that many of the younger Heel Bar frequenters – office girls, mostly, going by their black or dark-blue skirts, dark pantyhose, and black leather low- to medium-heeled pumps – liked to occupy a particular perch ... or to sit above the same footboy.

I didn't get to see their faces, and their skirts, dark nylons and black shoes were of a type.

Nonetheless, I soon learned to recognise the otherwise anonymous mystery-girl frequenter-occupants of my barstool.

Not only by their voices when they ordered drinks or chatted with bar staff and office colleagues at the bar, but by the identifying individualities of their ensuing alcohol-influenced sedentary shoe-playing characteristics as they 'loosened up', and by the uniqueness of the size, shape, and smells of the soles of their inches-away in-my-face feet.

Of all of these regular barstool-perching footboy-occupying post-work tipplers, though, there was one frequenter-occupant voice I'd been familiar with already.

And there was no mystery there.

***

Miss Pamela Pettiford, my eighteen-year-old school leaver's Career Assessment Interviewer at Tockenham Job Centre and now my Case Worker until I found employment, had a smile on her face when she told me I needed to be brought to heel and that she knew just the place where quite literally I could undergo such a fitting comeuppance.

My sanction-worthy misdemeanour had been to sit down at our alternate-Monday employment progress review meeting without waiting for Miss Pettiford's permission granting me to do so, an egregious breach of Prime Minister Caroline Flynt's Authoritarian Female Party government's Female-Friendly Code protocols.

Hence the four-week Placement penalty Miss Pettiford had decreed. To begin from the evening of that same Monday, and to be served Monday-Fridays in 20 two-hour segments.

Spurs were at home to Arsenal that night, the fixture of the season, and I'd asked Miss Pettiford if she could possibly see her way to let me begin my Placement on Tuesday instead.

Miss Pettiford said that her decision was final and that if she heard one more word of complaint from me she would increase her sanction to ten weeks.

*

Two weeks later at Tockenham Job Centre on the Monday of our next scheduled employment progress review meeting, Miss Pamela Pettiford had a smile on her face again, when she asked how I was finding my Placement.

***

When at 4:30 p.m. on the final Friday of my four-week Placement I arrived at the Heel Bar on Tockenham Coat Road, the two black-suited bouncers on the door were waving the first of the footboys in – the proprietress, Ms Andrea Leasome, required us to be in place before the Heel Bar's doors opened to female patrons at 5 p.m. prompt.

I got in line, and within moments I was presenting my laminated Male Citizen Identity Card to one of the doormen, who checked my name on his clipboard.

The doorman nodded and said: "Carl Carson: Five p.m. to seven p.m. – Barstool Nine."

From talking to the other 5 p.m.-start footboys, I knew that many of them put in longer stints than me.

Some of them, having incurred more sanctions and so accruing extra, add-on Placement hours, were needing to put in 'Reducers': week-long stretches, Barstool Footboy-serving Monday to Sunday from 5 p.m. right through to 2 a.m. to placate their Case Workers at the Job Centre.

I entered the spacious and comfortable environs of the Heel Bar and, about twenty paces in, ahead and just off to the right, with its number affixed to the backrest was Barstool 9.

The bar itself was rectangular, and the four rows of barstools were arranged along its sides: Barstools 1 -10 at the front; 11 - 25 on the right-hand side; 26 - 35 at the far end; and 36 - 50 along the left-hand side of the bar.

The four sides of the Heel Bar were faced with floor-to-ceiling plate-glass windows, which, uncurtained, looked out onto the busy pedestrian thoroughfares and allowed passers-by to gaze at the scenes within.

In front of these windows were the sumptuous dark-red-leather faced and crimson-velvet-covered cushioned booths.

These plush seating areas accommodated the ladies awaiting their ticket number to be shown on the prominent digital readout displays by which members of bar staff would alert them to the number location of a newly vacated barstool.

As there was no time limit on Barstool Footboy-occupation, in-waiting ladies might have a long wait – and sometimes might luck out altogether, as many ladies made a visit to the Heel Bar their whole evening's entertainment.

But at least the luckless in-waiting ladies could sit and watch in great comfort, and enjoy a measure of vicarious pleasure as they sipped their AFP-subsidised drinks before perhaps admitting defeat and deciding to move on to another AFP-sponsored male-facilitated Theme Bar.

The Heel Bar barstools were of a design that suited their singular purpose.

Resting on weighted flat circular chrome bases, the barstool seats were high, accessed by three steps up to the raised platform running along the rectangular bar's four dark-red-leather faced frontages.

Designed with prolonged-occupation comfort in mind, the dark-red-leather faced barstools were well padded, and their high, 18-inch diameter chrome footrests were on a level with the raised access platform.

Chloe, one of the Heel Bar barmaids, was standing in front of the bar, between Barstool 5 and Barstool 6, giving the bar top a final wipe down before opening time.

As well as being adept at dispensing drinks, Ms Andrea Leasome's barmaids were big on social skills: at ease with colleagues and customers alike; able to hold their own in the usual conversational topic range, and happy to engage in a bit of banter with the tipsy barstool-perched footboy-occupying customers.

But there was something about Chloe that made her stand out.

I stood and watched, knowing, from four weeks of experience, just exactly what was going to happen.

The bar counter was a bit of a reach for Chloe and, standing up on her toes to wipe down the far side of the bar top, her bare heels popped free of her well-worn black leather flats; the grubby bottoms of her heels, an eye-catching contrast to the pale creaminess of her now also fully revealed arches.

"Male citizen Carl, how lovely it is to see you, all nice and early as usual," said the Heel Bar proprietress, Ms Andrea Leasome, a shrewd look in her eye as she tracked the direction of my gaze; as did Chloe now, too, looking back over her shoulder upon hearing her boss speak my name.

Chloe smiled at me, and I felt my face begin burning in acute embarrassment.

"Yes, isn't it, Ms Leasome," agreed Chloe. "It's a shame that today is his last day. In fact, anyone might think Carl has grown to enjoy coming to us here at the Heel Bar, to serve the terms of his four-week Placement handed down to him by my friend Pamela at the Job Centre who is a regular here."

I couldn't help but notice that in addressing me just now Chloe, unlike Ms Andrea Leasome, had eschewed the usual formal, protocol accordant 'male citizen' usage of AFP Female-Friendly Code female-citizen-Mistress/male-citizen-servant societal interactions.

"Oh – I hadn't realised, Chloe, that today was male citizen Carl's last day," replied Ms Leasome. "He's become such a fixture!"

"Yes, Ms Leasome, he has – and it would be a pity to lose him!"

Proprietress of the Heel Bar on Tockenham Coat Road, Ms Andrea Leasome was an attractive tall and slender woman in her mid- to late-forties who projected a charismatic presence to her customers and staff and exuded a forbidding air of authority to her footboys.

And what served to accentuate Ms Leasome's air of intimidation, was that she wore her blonde hair in the AFP adopted but severely adapted concave bob style. The somehow unsettling hairstyle, worn not only by the AFP's cane-wielding foot soldier female Community Service Officers (CSOs) and by staunch AFP apparatchiks, but becoming increasingly popular too as a political statement with Female-Friendly Code approving women who, while perhaps not card-carrying members, still wanted to wear their AFP-supportive heart on their sleeve.

Ms Andrea Leasome looked at me speculatively; her penetrating blue eyes, seeming to shine a bright light on the thoughts I was trying to hide.

"Yes, Chloe. You are right. It would indeed be a terrible pity to lose male citizen Carl."

I looked away, around me, at the other footboys who were just standing around and talking among themselves.

They had reported for duty in good time; they didn't want to incur the wrath of their Case Worker at the Job Centre who would hand down an extra sanction and award more add-on Placement hours for unpunctuality.

But, hell if they were going to assume their numbered barstool positions until they had to, right at the last moment, just before the two bouncers opened the doors of the Heel Bar to female patrons at 5 p.m. on the dot.

Unless that is, as had never happened to me on any of my nineteen previous two-hour stints, they happened to be the footboy singled out and 'requested' to do so by the Heel Bar proprietress Ms Andrea Leasome, to 'facilitate' her usual pre-opening tipple: her customary double-gin and tonic with a slice of lime and lots of ice.

As though sensing that moment was nigh, the standing around and talking footboys stopped talking now and condensed themselves into a big huddle, as though trying to make themselves less noticeable.

"Chloe, love, I'll have my usual now, please. Today, I think I'll use ... Barstool Nine."

"Absolutely, Ms Leasome – right away!" Chloe all but squealed, darting behind the bar to fix her boss's customary pre-opening 'usual'.

"Get to it, Carl – you heard Ms Leasome!" called Chloe bossily from over by the optics, where she was reaching up to pour a double-gin ... the grubby bottoms of her bare heels, free and clear of her well-worn black leather flats.

"Yes, Miss Chloe," I said respectfully, in obedient, AFP Female-Friendly Code female-citizen-Mistress/male-citizen-servant societal interaction compliance.

As now they separated again to give themselves some breathing space, if not audible, the collective sigh of relief was palpable from the onlooking footboys at not being singled out and 'requested' by Ms Andrea Leasome to 'facilitate' her usual pre-opening tipple.

Assuming my position as Barstool Footboy 9, I sat down on the barstool's flat circular base, inserted my head through the raised-platform level chrome ring of its 18-inch diameter footrest, stared ahead at the dark-red-leather faced bar frontage, and waited.

Seconds later, from the corner of my right eye, I watched Ms Leasome's long and shapely lightly tanned legs ascend the three steps to the raised platform between Barstool 9 and Barstool 10; and then, due to the elevated platform's narrowness, on her four-inch heeled bright-red leather pump shod feet she stepped sideways to her left to Barstool 9.

Mere inches in front of my chrome-footrest encircled face, Ms Leasome rested the newish-looking but scuffed and scratched leather sole of one, her left, four-inch heeled bright-red pump shod foot on the circular footrest, and hooked her right foot behind her left ankle; the shiny metal tip of the four-inch heel, barely two inches from my face.

"Here you go, Ms Leasome, your usual – enjoy!"

"Ah, thank you, Chloe, love," said Ms Leasome, at now being dispensed with her pre-opening pleasure: her double-gin and tonic with a slice of lime and lots of ice.

Above me, I heard the chinking of ice cubes as Ms Leasome picked up her glass from the bar top, raised it to her lips, and took her first sip.

"Oooh ... that's better," sighed Ms Leasome. "Do you know, Chloe, this is my favourite time of the day," said Ms Leasome, popping her bare heel from her right pump. "Before opening-time, and we have to get busy, working our tails off behind this bar."

I heard more tinkling of ice cubes. "Mmmm ... this really hits the spot, Chloe," said Ms Leasome, now hanging the four-inch heel of her right pump over the convenient ringed footrest and hooking her now unshod foot behind her left ankle. "There is nothing like that first, sharp taste of gin, complemented with the citrusy flavour of lime."

I stared at Ms Leasome's long and narrow, low-arched bare sole, her long slender pink-painted toes scrunching in pleasure as with each chink of ice cubes against her glass she raised her 'usual' to her lips.

"Come on, you lot – we'll be opening in a minute. It's time to assume your positions," ordered Camilla, one of the other barmaids.

"Thank you, Chloe. That was lovely, perfectly mixed, as usual," complimented Ms Leasome, slipping her right foot back into her conveniently hung pump, preparatory to getting to her feet to go and work her tail off behind the bar.

"Um, Ms Leasome ... why not have another?" suggested Chloe. "I mean, to enjoy male citizen Carl ... while it's his last day?"

Behind me, I heard the familiar eager excitable chattering of female voices, as now the two black-suited bouncers opened the doors to the Heel Bar at 5 p.m. prompt.

"Why not?" said Ms Leasome, now popping free her heel from her left four-inch heeled bright-red leather pump, and allowing her shoe to hang conveniently from the ringed chrome footrest as before.

"Do you know, I rather think I will," said Ms Leasome, hooking her now unshod left foot behind her right ankle. "Thank you, Chloe."

I stared at the now bare sole of Ms Leasome's left foot; her slender long pink-painted toes, already scrunching pleasurably in anticipation.

Ms Leasome must visit her pedicure salon on a regular basis: the skin on the bottoms of her heels and on the balls of her milky-coffee coloured lightly tanned soles surprised me with their smoothness.

My face, encircled and encaptured within the 18-inch diameter chrome footrest of Barstool 9, from mere inches away, her left foot hooked behind her right ankle, I stared at the close-up sight of Ms Leasome's in-my-face bare left sole.

"I'll have the same again, please, Chloe," said Ms Andrea Leasome, proprietress of the Heel Bar on Tockenham Coat Road.

The Heel Bar continues in Ch. 2 (of 3).