Lee Suckling: Diary of a man in heels

If I see you on the street in heels – particularly classic stilettos – forgive me if I applaud. Photo / Getty Images

Like you, I've been watching the new season of Queer Eye. I think it's safe to say we are all revelling in grooming expert Jonathan Van Ness slaying the show with his frequent high heel efforts. Especially during the episode where he teaches a late-40s woman how to walk in them for the first time.

There are a couple of humorous photos of me at 1-2 years old raiding my mum's closet, my tiny toddler feet in a pair of her 1980s polka-dot heels. More than thirty years later, I've never tried another pair on. Until last month.

Let me take you back. I'm at Sydney Mardi Gras in March; the biggest LGBT+ party on our side of the globe. 500,000 people will swarm Oxford Street, many in flamboyant costume, to celebrate pride and diversity.

It's the day of the parade and after two glasses of bubbles, I'm feeling very "festive". There are fabulous drag queens and extravagantly dressed tourists across Sydney. Think feather boas and headpieces as far as the eye can see. I'm not going all out on the costume front – I've opted for just a pair of short shorts – and then I have a lightbulb moment. In order to jazz up my look, I'm going to wear a pair of heels. If Jonathan Van Ness can do it, why can't I?

My friends and I head to House of Priscilla, a drag costume shop. It's teeming with people looking for last minute costumes. I go to the shoe section – a wall of heels that looks like they were stolen from Britney Spears' Las Vegas dressing room – where they stock up to size 16 in five-inch pumps, and even bigger sizes in the sparkly silver thigh-highs.

I choose a red pair in size 11 (which look exactly like the shoe emoji), make sure they fit, and walk out the door as the frumpy mid-60s shop attendant wearing a jumper with cats on it exclaims, "Happy Mardi Gras!"

Taking advice from RuPaul's Drag Race, Lee Suckling was ready to party at Sydney Mardi Gras. Photo / Supplied

Now for the practice walking back at the Airbnb. Making sure a pair of high heels are your foot size has no correlation to the comfort of walking in them. First lesson learnt. A pair of regular stilettos requires that you squeeze five toes into a space for two toes. That's tough enough on its own, but I am upright. I look and feel like newborn Bambi, but I can stand.

I've watched enough RuPaul's Drag Race to theoretically know how to walk in heels. Walk on the balls of your feet, not the heel. Small but powerful strides. Use your hips. Add a little criss-cross foot movement to your gait to exude that runway realness.

I then spend some time revelling in how tall I am in these things – six foot five! My entire perspective has changed. I go to the toilet to pee, and I'm so much farther from the bowl than usual. I have to be careful with doorways. Suddenly I know how many drag queens it takes to change a lightbulb (and she don't need no ladder, gurrrl).

I look in the mirror – holy crap my legs are long. It's calves for days. I am poised, I feel confident. I'm a dude in a pair of heels and I haven't even thought twice about how intact my masculinity is.

So far, so good. I can do it. My feet hurt a bit, but I can wear these. "Think you can manage all night?" a friend asks. "I'll have my beer blanket on, I'll be fine," I reply.

Oh, how wrong I was. Walking for five minutes in heels in your home is one thing. Navigating the outside world? That's something else altogether. Within minutes of pounding the Sydney pavements (poorly maintained, full of cracks and holes, varying gradients), I'm in extreme pain.

Every step onto the ball of each foot I can feel everything beneath me as my outer three toes begin to swell and rub. My calves ache. My butt remains clenched. I'm now starting to understand why women wear flat shoes most of the time these days. I try crossing a road at speed; I struggle to put one foot in front of the other now, let alone be graceful.

Fast forward less than an hour and I'm in an Uber on the way home; sad and defeated. I have become the person we judge for taking off their heels in public and going barefoot, or pulling a pair of ballet flats out of their purse. I officially can't handle the jandal.

The pain is unforgiving; like my feet have been permanently bound. I change into sneakers and return to party with much less vim and vigour; disappointed in myself all night.

To anyone out there who wears heels, I salute you. You deserve a medal for the pain of your beauty. I'm trying to teach myself to do better by walking in heels for 10 minutes at a time now. If I'm still game in another month, maybe I'll invest in some shoes with more of a platform sole, an open toe, or a block heel.

If I see you on the street in heels – particularly classic stilettos – forgive me if I applaud. If you ever see me in my five-inch red pumps in public, please help me up.