A Rather Lackluster Tale About Red Pumps

This marked the first time he had worn a suit in years. He found it uncomfortable and unflattering, somewhat like his relationship with his father. He found the comparison to be particularly fitting when considering that he was only wearing the "polyester identity repressor" at his father's request.
He walked down the hallway, obvious discomfort marring what otherwise might have been a dapper outfit and handsome face, and tried to enjoy the rather distinct clack of his shoes on the hardwood. (It was a lovely sound that reminded him of enthusiastic lip-syncing, red pumps, and companionable silences.)
He reached the door to his father study, cursed whatever stork misread the address given to him as a babe- a quiet ritual that preceded every entry into this office- and crossed the threshold. His father sat in a leather chair, reading the paper, and smoking a cigar. (Having come from a middle-class family, his father's only understanding of how properly to convey innate pretentiousness came from films- please forgive the cliched choice of snob expression on his part. He has yet to finish watching them all.)
His father chose not look away from the paper and assess the outfit when his son approached, choosing instead to compliment the sound of his entrance.
"Now that is the way a true gentleman sounds as he enters a room. Clear, strong footsteps."
The young disgruntled son smiled at the comment for he sounded just a strong and clear when he wore pumps and a well-trimmed dress. Knowing that vocalizing such an observation would in no way be welcome, he kept his silence. (His father had gotten far enough in his cinematic studies to know cross-dressing was a no-no in terms of acceptable upper class behavior.)
The boy sighed, stared down at the brown dress shoes, willing them to the reds pumps awaiting his return at his closet door.