When I was first married, to please the new husband I ordered a sheer black nightie and negligee set at a clothes party I attended at a friend’s house. It wasn’t expensive, but it was totally awful, and the lace trim so hard, it actually cut into my skin which defeated the whole object of the exercise.
I recall some additional silliness in my late twenties trying to spice up the Love Life with Partner.
It’s difficult to feel attractive when you are constantly being put down and compared to slim and sexy models, TV personalities, or even stars of ‘those movies’ which I’m afraid left me cold and realising I was better educated than I thought.
In one of my fits of desperation, I ordered what I would term as ‘The Works’ from one of the Mail Order catalogues I ran, where I could try on specific lingerie in the comfort of my own bedroom .
Black was my preferred choice, and although I had never liked wearing stockings as I felt they were always falling down past my knees, I ordered some together with a black pair of 4″ heels.
The basque, though very pretty with pink ribbons and bows, was a swine to get into.
It had about twenty tiny hooks and eyes at the back, and as there was a
little lot more of me trying to escape through the bottom, well, Mrs Michelin was in full swing.
I struggled anyway, squishing and squeezing myself inside, and finally had the uplift in the right places and the overhang where hopefully it wouldn’t matter or notice.
Breathing and bending was difficult, the end result certainly not a vision of loveliness, and those little hooks and eyes would have massacred the moment, the garments likely to be torn to shreds in frustration and annoyance.
Though maybe that was the general idea? Hell, I didn’t know. I considered myself wanting and had been reading too much in trying to keep Your Man Happy and Interested.
In all honesty, I looked like a misshapen hot dog crossed with a ring doughnut.
Having some common sense and remnants of self-preservation, rather than present myself to the asshole I was living with knowing I would only be ridiculed and thus sink deeper into depression, I took the whole ensemble off, threw the stockings in the bin, and sent the basque back. It just wasn’t worth the effort, money, or backlash of his hilarity.
Therefore he never saw me in it, but I did get something out of the experience.
A month or so later, I ordered a red dress (style similar to this) to go with the shoes for a presentation night we were due to attend.
The dress had a basque top but flared skirt, and the shoes were surprisingly comfortable.
I felt absolutely fabulous in them, danced all night and not a blister or area of chaffed skin in sight. I had a wonderful time without him, as he spent most of his time at the bar.