Yesterday I learned a lot about corsets, the most luxurious items of lingerie.
Women wear them to get that teeny looking very small waist.
Burlesque dancers wear them.
Transgender and cross-dressing men love to lace them up.
And there are men, ordinary men, who wear them under their suits. Apparently this is a big thing. It gives them a smooth line and emphasises their shoulders.
Would I find it sexy undressing a man to find he had a corset under his shirt? Maybe. Maybe it would be nice to slowly untie the knot, pull the laces, one by one and slip it off. Turn him around to face me.
I don’t know. No. That doesn’t work for me. He can take off his own corset.
I think I want to be the one in the corset. For me, it’s a girl thing.
I’ve made an appointment with a corsetière. I want a gorgeous soft luxurious indulgent handmade oh my god kind of corset. I want to choose the silk and the lace and the ribbons. I want to design a shape that will accentuate my curves, make me feel and look very sexy.
I want to have tons of fittings and watch in the mirror while I’m being fitted.
It makes me feel tingly thinking about it.
And then I want to take it home, unpack it from its tissue paper, put it on and lace it up. Add lipstick, perfume and stockings. Go out for dinner. To theatre. For a nightcap. And then home.
And I want him, him, to watch me as I get undressed.
I’ll turn the lighting low, breathe in because I’ll be nervous, sway my hips, just a little, and dance. Slowly, sexy, a little suggestively.
I’ll take off my shoes and then my stockings, dance a little more, sway a little more, and smile as he watches from the chair.
Then call him over.
To come and unbutton me, untie me and release me.
And then he can do whatever he wants to do with me. And I can do whatever I want with him.
As long as we don’t leave the corset lying in a heap on the floor.
Because they are very expensive. And it will be rare and beautiful. And I intend to wear it again.
And again. And again.