Back in the early 2010s, Christian Louboutins weren’t shoes. They were a weapon. A pair of red soles hit the floor and the whole vibe of a room bent like gravity just got remixed. Your girl walked in wearing Pigalles, and suddenly every other couple looked like extras in your movie. You weren’t just a man; you were Daddy Warbucks with the muthafuckin’ juice.

Those shoes were sex on stilts. The arch was a math problem nobody could solve, the heel a punishment disguised as glamour. Pain became power. That’s what made them intoxicating: they flirted with kink, with bondage, with a whole theater of “this might hurt but you’re gonna thank me later.”

Louboutins were a cheat code. They turned bottle service girls into goddesses and girlfriends into dominatrices. They hit like a Metro Boomin beat, dark and undeniable, with a drop that could stop a room cold. Not everyone could carry them, and if you stepped out in them you had to be fully in pocket. You didn’t buy Louboutins to be classy; you bought them to make people nervous.

And then it all fell apart.

At first the red sole was an insider handshake. A little wink to those who knew. Spotting them across a club felt like headlights in the dark, oh shit, she’s dangerous. 

Then the culture snorted a fat line of Louboutin and overdosed. 

Every reality star, every rap lyric, every Instagram thirst trap screamed red bottoms, red bottoms, red bottoms. It was the hottest thing alive and then you couldn’t get away from it. It went from sexy to oversaturated harder than Drake eating a Popeye’s Chicken Sandwich. They went from the hottest thing ever to basically an obscure X-Men Dark Phoenix controversy. 

The Mystique died. 

Meanwhile, fashion moved on. Sexy stopped being “six inches taller and bleeding through your pedicure while my Herve Ledger punctures a rib” and morphed into Gucci sneakers, Valentino flats, and quiet luxury. Meanwhile, Loubs just…drifted. They started chasing the trends instead of setting them. 

And then one day I walked in, looked at the display and thought I was at Neiman Marcus. No danger and no edge, it was now safe for soccer moms to pop-in before brunch. Nobody should be going to Louboutin for their take on chunky Balenceiga’s. The sneakers suck as sneakers. And I’m just simply not buying low slingback tradwife shoes from them. On principle. 

Once upon a time, Louboutins filtered for the women who could actually pull them off. You needed to have ‘it’ in your veins to activate those shoes. You damn sure didn’t wear them if you and your big stompy feet didn’t know how to strut properly. 

Then the “I need something designer” crowd showed up. I don’t know if I was sadder when homely flyover state director-level professional types started popping up with them or when Instagram made my dick start associating them with too much lip filler. But I was sad. 

I get it. Sex appeal doesn’t survive translation into mass culture. You can’t mass-produce danger. When basics bought in, the current shut off. What was once a weapon became an accessory. The kink evaporated.

In their day, they were intoxicating. They were myth, magic, class and fly-playa-pimp-shit all lacquered on the bottom of a shoe. You couldn’t fake it. You either had it, or you didn’t.

Now? They’re props for YouTube hauls. A whole bunch of bridesmaids clomping around like horses. The red sole became wallpaper, domesticated, Instagrammed into oblivion. No danger, no discomfort, no juice. Just another box checked off the “starter kit for women who want to feel fancy.”

And that’s the tragedy: not that the shoes are ugly, not that the brand is broke, but that the kink is gone. The sex bled out. Without discomfort, without menace, without the charge of “too much,” Louboutins are just pumps with a paint job.