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Staggering down Eighth Avenue, I feigned a sultry strut while wrapped from boobs to boots in 500 feet of black-and-yellow tape.

“Oh my god, I have that same outfit,” a man yelled out at me.

A few blocks later an elderly woman pushing a shopping cart cheered: “You better work it, girl.” A construction worker almost dropped his phone to exclaim “That’s f–king hot.” 

As I teetered toward the subway, I finally encountered a man who understood my inspiration.

Last Sunday at Paris fashion week, Kim Kardashian wowed in a not-yet-on-the-market (and not-yet-priced) Balenciaga bodysuit made out of crime scene tape.

I re-created the designer look by heading to Home Depot and purchasing three rolls of caution tape for a mere $25.97. 

But unlike the “Keeping Up With the Kardashians” voluptuary — who blasted viral snaps of herself being draped in tape by no less than five assistants — I DIY’ed my eye-catching look all myself. It was no cinch.

First, I put on a pair of black biker shorts and a sports bra, then I began winding caution tape, which unfortunately has no self-adhesive properties, around my left ankle. I sealed the wrap with a slice of Gorilla Tape and reworked that pattern all the way up to my hip. I repeated the task on my right leg, then strapped down my torso, chest and arms. 

Two hours later, I finally was ready to hit the streets at last — sort of.

While my look didn’t have the designer pedigree that Kim’s did, it presented similar mobility issues. Kardashian was snapped waddling around and struggling to sit due to the constricting limitations of being locked in a cocoon of plastic. Similarly, I found it almost impossible to walk in my getup. Oh, and caution tape isn’t exactly a breathable fabric.

It felt like wearing a sauna, though my body heat and sweat did help the tape stay in place. I could barely move; my gait was a wobble. Each short, clumsy step was accompanied by a crinkling racket of plastic rubbing against more plastic.

I hopped on the A train, which was mostly empty, but I was too constricted to take a seat. I felt miserable, save for the parade of flattery my handmade togs elicited.

“Can you make me [a caution tape outfit] so we can match on our date?” asked a cheeky drifter near Madison Square Garden. “Can I be your Kanye, Ms. Kim?” joked another. 

But I couldn’t take it any longer. I got off the train, found the nearest bathroom and eagerly cut myself free with a large pair of scissors. I changed into a pair of beloved sweats and UGGs and relished in being able to move freely again. Comfortable once again, I exclaimed to a friend, “I never thought bending my knees would feel better than sex.”