Tag Archives: gym

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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