What Is Sexy?

So, after the success of our leg shaving posts Fiesty, Silk, Sadie and myself decided to make every other Tuesday girly day in the blogosphere. We're calling it "Demystifying Divas." We've picked a topic for today, which will make itself known very shortly. You have to suffer through it. Enjoy!

Way back in the day, when I was in college, the gents that surrounded me (Iowa State had a 3-1 male/female ratio) would live for the day when the Victoria's Secret catalogs were delivered. I didn't get it. To me the catalog was full of a bunch of chicks with come-hither stares who not only needed to put some clothes on, but who also needed cheescake, STAT! But for the guys, well, it was heaven. Yet they would never explain to me what, precisely, was so sexy about a bunch of chicks modeling bras and panties when they were of the age that they could buy a Playboy at QuikTrip and not have to worry about their mothers finding it when they looked for laundry.

It made no sense. If you're at McDonalds and the full meal deal is available, and you're hungry, well, go for it. Don't restrict yourself to the salad because you think your diet counselor might be looking. But, like I said, they never explained it. They just smiled and walked away quickly.

I had to wait until I hooked up with the husband to get any sort of rational explanation as to why the Victoria's Secret catalog held any appeal other than that it was free. There is a reason it's known as The Poor Man's Playboy, after all. And he explained. It was about the mystery that lingerie presented. Imagination was needed, he said. Bras have hooks. What's the quickest way to get those undone? What's the skin feel like under the lace? etc. Playboy, said he, left very little to the imagination. The Victoria's Secret catalog, however, was all about mystery. You can imagine taking the underthings off, he said, whereas with a centerfold, well, the work's already been done. The whistle's been blown. It's quittin' time.

Hmmmm.

"So," I said, "it's all about the mystery?"
"Yep. That and the thought that someone would wear that for us," he replied.

AHA! The light dawned. And the heavenly hosts sang "Alleluia!"

Which is why, to this very day, I say it's pure and utter horseshit whenever a woman says she wears lingerie for herself. Pffft. I think not. You're wearing it for the person who gets to see you in your underpants and that, my friend, is that.

I'm sure some women will object to this. That's fine. If you enjoy wearing uncomfortable underwear that you alone will see, that's your business, but don't try to tell me the reason you're wearing it is for you, because it makes you feel sexy. It's not. If you're single, you're wearing it in the hopes that you'll hook up and you don't want to be caught wearing the comfy, white cotton, granny panties with the hole in the backside in case you do. If you're partnered up, it's obvious that you're trying to keep your mate happy. Any other reasoning is pure and utter denial of the truth of the situation, which is, no woman would voluntarily wear lingerie because it's goddamned uncomfortable!

Lace itches like a bad case of poison ivy. Merry Widows suck all the life out of you---literally. Not to mention how hard they are to put on, with their myriad hooks. Garters are a pain in the ass because they keep getting all twisted up, never mind how hard it is to find stockings that actually work with the stupid things. Spaghetti straps on "neato" nightgowns have a way of getting twisted up to the point where, when you awake in the morning, you very well might be able to amputate an arm if you pull really hard. Thongs, are, well, thongs. And if you want comfort silk teddies are nice, but they don't provide much support if you've got more going on in the breast region than just an 'A' cup. Same goes for camisoles. I'm not going to touch on the topic of tap pants and what that means for when it's that time of the month. {Insert the sound of men screaming as they click away from the page here} Lingerie is a pain. Why anyone would voluntarily choose to put themselves through that pain for themselves is, quite honestly, beyond me. If I was the only one who had to look at myself in my underwear, well, it'd be holy panties and bras all the way.

But I'm not the only one who has to look at me in my underwear.

I'm married. And he likes this sort of thing. So, I have nice girly jammies. I have nice bras and even a few pairs of patterned panties, even though it's against my religion to wear such things. There's even a g-string or two in my underwear lineup. (And actually, these aren't that bad, on the whole, but that's another story for another day) But I draw the line at Merry Widows, bustiers (even if they do lift and separate), lace panties and all that other crap that Victoria's Secret sells. I've found my comfort zone and there isn't a Merry Widow to be found anywhere in the vicinity. It must be simple, unadorned and lace free. I'm not selling anyone short with these requirements.

There is, indeed, mystery to be found in cotton.

So, I still wear this stuff for him, and he lives with my choices, because I can go back to holy cotton panties and live more easily with the repercussions---if you get my meaning---than he could.

UPDATE: The other Divas bent on Demystifying posted while I was sleeping. You can find what my partners in crime had to say on the topic here here and here. Hmmm. They seem to disagree with my premise. Hmmmm.

Posted by Kathy at February 22, 2005 02:12 AM