Tag Archives: lingerie

Ms. Lingerie Goddess

Some of you may recall my thoughts about the Parisian lingerie scene, and you may remember that I observed that Parisian women seem to universally embrace the matching set on a daily basis. I was skeptical.  I didn’t want to admit that these ladies knew something that I didn’t.  However, since then, I’ve decided to give in to peer pressure, and I resolved to try to blend in with the locals.

This is not as easy as you would think.  Here are the obstacles that I foresaw:

  • Affordable lingerie is NOT easy to find in Paris.
  • I have never owned a matching set in my life.  I understand the idea, I understand the appeal, but I’ve always been pragmatic, and it would take a monumental effort to force myself to give in to a little lacy frivolity.
  • It’s winter, and trying on lingerie would necessitate removing all kinds of layers each time.  Highly inconvenient.
  • The chances that any given parisian man would have the opportunity to see and appreciate my scanty underthings?  Answer: slim to none.

But I recently had an a crystallizing moment that changed the whole way that I approached the concept of underwear.

This moment changed my life.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Kate Moss in Agent Provocateur : How can you NOT feel sexy in stuff like this?

I was on my way to the bank when I passed by a shop window that displayed an impressive selection of lacy and satiny underwear.  It was a tiny place, but it exuded a certain old Hollywood glamour.  The furniture was lux, there were huge, gilded mirrors scattered around the one-room shop, and there were flimsy underthings and overthings draped over everything — seemingly haphazardly, yet actually strategically.

I was in a saucy mood that day, so I said to myself, “Why not?”

When I walked in, the salesgirl asked me what I was looking for.  I replied that I was in search of more adventurous and sexier sets in saucy colors.

She looked me up and down.

I froze in terror, expecting her to assess me as a fat non-parisian cow and hand me something eight sizes too big.

But, surprise!  She pegged me straightaway as a 90A and medium on the bottom.  She went on to say, “Don’t worry, I have exactly what you’re looking for.”

She then pulled all  sorts of fantastical things from the racks and hustled me off to the fitting area, which consisted of little more than a corner, a transparent lacy curtain, and an antique mirror.

She insisted that I try everything on, including whatever accoutrements that came with each set.  Lacy fingerless gloves!  Sky-high heels!  Garters!  She was fascinated by my body, commenting on the curvature of my butt and insisting that it should only be clothed in thongs and g-strings in order to show it off to its best advantage.  (Incidentally, she also taught me to avoid balconet bras.)  She made me strut around the entire shop (wearing almost nothing, mind you!) so that I could “get the full effect” in the larger antique mirrors that she had placed around the shop floor.

Christies. I dare any woman to try on stuff like this and not to feel like a salacious goddess.

Let me tell you, dear readers, that I felt TRANSFORMED.  Gone was the awkward nerdy chick, the goddess of man-shopping disaster.

Enter the sex pot.  The slinky, lacy, satiny and barely-clad queen of awesome.  I really was wearing nothing except a few bits of strategically placed, slightly pigmented air.  But these exquisite luxury sets made me feel like something else.

Even my normally insecure, self-conscious self had no problem sashaying around this shop — wearing next to nothing — in full view of anyone who passed by the shop window!

So now I understand.  I understand why parisian women always wear matching sets.

It.

Is.

GLORIOUS.

It’s really too bad that I couldn’t afford to spend 400 euros on lingerie.

That would have been my total for only TWO sets.

On sale.

Le sigh.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

I learned quite a bit of new vocabulary on this lingerie adventure, for those of you who are curious.  This may prove useful for some, as Valentine’s Day is coming up!

  • balconnet : balconet bra
  • bas [m.] : stockings
  • body [m.] : bodysuit
  • bonnet [m.] : cup
  • bretelles [f.] : straps
  • bustier [m.] : bustier
  • corbeille : underwire bra
  • culotte [f.] : panties/knickers (handy wikipedia chart)
  • déshabillé [m.] : negligee
  • guêpière [f.] : bustier with attached garters
  • jarretière [f.] : garter
  • nuisette [m.] : baby doll
  • peignoir [m.] : peignoir, dressing gown, robe
  • porte-jarretelles [m.] : garter belt
  • push-up : push-up bra
  • sans bretelles : strapless bra
  • shorty [m.]: boyshort
  • slip [m.] : briefs
  • soutien-gorge [m.] : bra
  • string [m.] : thong
  • tanga [m.] : g-string

 

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Ms. Lap Sitter

It’s that time of year again.  The Christmas season.  Time to go sit on some pervy Santa’s lap and ask him for random stuff.

Like the rest of the masses, I figured that I should take the time to put in my order with Papa Christmas.

Papa Christmas.  Is it just me, or does that sound dirty?

Ah, who the hell cares?  I’m already sitting on his lap at this point.  No turning back now.

So, Santa, let me get all nestled in here.  Why is it so comfy?  This is more than a little disturbing.

Anyway, listen up, Père Noël.  Here is what I want — nay, NEED — this Christmas:

  • MATCHING UNDERWEAR SETS.  As racy and frilly as they come.  Why?  A girl’s got to be able to compete on this lacy Parisian scene.  Besides, Santa, I know that you enjoy picking out lingerie, you pervy cad, you.  (Ms. Victoria’s Secret Angel)
  • MORE PANTS.  I tend to lose them when I drink.  And not in a good way.  (Ms. One Night Stand)
  • And last, but not least, please send me JUSTIN LONG for Christmas.  Please wrap him up in a snuggly sweater.  No need to tie him up with ribbon.  I’ve got plenty of ribbon and accoutrements at my place.

Please deliver all gifts to the family compound in California, and I will arrange for transport back to Paris.  My stocking is the one with the obese snowman on.  Do NOT, under any circumstances, give Justin Long to either of my sisters.  As God is my witness, I will hunt you down and beat you with a stocking full of fruitcake-shaped rocks.

That is all.

Joyeux Noël.

Wait, why am I still on your lap?

 

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Ms. Victoria’s Secret Angel

Before you get your lacy panties in a twist, let me clarify that this post is not about my future career as a lingerie model.  (Try to contain your disappointment.)  This is about how, according to my (surprisingly extensive) first-hand experience with half-naked Parisian women, many of them seem to have secret lives as a lingerie model underneath their potato sack dresses, baggy tunic tops, and generally conservative over-garments.

For quite some time now, after clocking overtime hours at the gym, I’ve gained some first-hand insight into how Parisian women dress themselves.  And what I find baffling is that they all wear matching lingerie sets.

ALL THE TIME.

I admire their ambition and their meticulous attention to detail.  But come on!  As an American pragmatist, how in bloody hell do they pull this off?

They can’t all have the disposable income to own that many expensive-looking lacy concoctions that they can wear every day.  And they certainly can’t all have the disposable income to replace them all the time, since this is what they wear to the gym.  (I mean, that must chafe, right?) Furthermore, how can they possibly have the dedication to match their undergarments every day when it’s all I can do to match my socks every morning?

I suppose HOW they can afford such a lingerie collection isn’t too difficult to figure out.  Going on observational data alone, I’d venture to guess that they just forgo other frivolous expenses like — well — food, for instance.

Dear readers, please don’t misunderstand.  It’s not like I wear granny panties all the time.  On the contrary, I am morally opposed to evil panty lines showing through clothing, and I make it a point to always sport appropriately skimpy knickers so that nothing interrupts the curve of my bum.  I am religious about this kind of thing, and I make no secret of it.  Tenacious Ken over at Lustmongers, a fellow ass enthusiast, will back me up on this.

And we all know that cute underwear ensures that we have enough confidence to strut our stuff much more effectively in everyday life.  I consider sexy underwear to be a service to mankind as well as a service to womankind.

But that doesn’t mean that a lady needs to match her bra with her panties every day.  That is just absurd and impractical.  As long as my undies fit me beautifully and deliver just enough visual stimulation via lace and/or color to make me feel like a foxy minx on the prowl, then my mission is accomplished.

However, the Parisian panty scene is just… baffling!  But I have a few theories about this ubiquitous need to wear matching underwear sets:

  1. The pressure to find a man must be so overwhelming that a Parisian lady must be ready pounce and lock that shit down at any moment.
  2. They are all in relationships and so terrified of their men’s infidelity that they invest in frilly underwear in the hopes that the sheer (I mean this both figuratively AND literally) enticing nature of their lingerie will be enough to prevent cheating.
  3. This must be the absurd parisian female equivalent of the old adage that implores us to wear clean underwear at all times in order to avoid the humiliation of being taken to hospital in unsavory skivvies — the equivalent being that a lady must always wear ridiculously embellished matching lingerie sets at all times in the off-chance that she needs to have a sexy soap-opera scene with a hunky doctor upon her arrival in the emergency room.
  4. Lingerie ONLY comes in sets in Paris.
  5. Every woman at the gym is a high-end “escort.”

Obviously, the last two theories are the least likely to be correct.  And, after some heated discussion with my homegirl, Julie the Irish Parisienne, and after her thoroughly disturbing anecdote about a Parisian colleague who bought FORTY matching sets of underwear in ONE sitting, we determined that 1, 2, and 3 must be the winning tickets.

However, I can’t figure out a way to prove that conclusively.  I’ve tried asking strangers in the locker room about the rationale behind their underwear choices… but without success.

Please don’t follow my example, people.  The poor girls just looked askance at me and backed away as if I was a creepy perv that was about to roofie them.

So alas, I still have no insight into the lingerie question.

But don’t worry, I am on the job.  I will find out.  Knowledge of all things lacy constitutes essential background research on the man-shopping scene in Paris, so I will not let you down, dear readers.  I will just need to take some time to perfect my methodology here…

But in the meantime, to my female French readers, I implore you to comment here or email me.  Help us to understand!

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