On buying a corset
Hanging at the back of the little shop where I’d bought pretty presents for my sister was a plain black corset in heavy cotton. No nasty nylon lace that would set the style police on alert. And dangling from it was the added allure of a little red label with the magic word, ‘Sale’. At that price I couldn’t even buy a bra and knickers from M&S, and the only corset I currently have is the almost comical vintage wedding one that I first wore to see Bauhaus back in my teens when I was sufficiently naïve not to know that Goth was black. Even though it was winter and I was well wrapped up, I was tempted enough to try it, and what seemed like one hundred hook and eyes later I was in it.
‘Oooh, I like it,’ I squealed, twisting to see how it showed off my shoulders, ‘but I’m not sure I’m quite built to fill it at the front,’ I added, peering down at the slight gape that could give sight to far more than I might be intending to show.
The sales assistant nipped behind me to tug on laces, leaving my nipples slightly safer, but killing any curves that might have been. ‘There are always chicken fillets,’ she suggested, as though this was something a girl like me should know about.
I looked at her quizzically, and from a discrete drawer she carefully pulled out a little black box containing two fleshy, pink, jelly, ‘chicken fillets’ that had a cold, moist and tacky feel to the finger. Realising where they were meant to be positioned, I recoiled and responded that I’d rather have tiny tits than wander round with those stuffed down my top. Despite the obvious inadequacy of my figure to fill out the corset, I still rather liked it and could imagine it might one day have uses. It’s looking like next Saturday night might be one such occasion, as friends are celebrating many years of marriage with a Burlesque party (she’s the woman in gold at the end of this series).
What I really want to wear is a little brown leather lone ranger mask, Pastie Girl’s special leather ‘ eyes’ with the startling blue jewels, brown leather hotpants with matching eyes on their rear, a low slung gun holster, and my take-no-prisoners boots; but I’m a middle-aged women and that would just be silly I’ve spent too much of the last few months sitting in front of a computer and I don’t even have a slight tan to take off the iridescent edge to my untoned body. Also, I don’t have time to sort out such attire: that’s one I’ll hold in my head for another occasion.
Meantime, tonight I am home, because I need to be. Coffee seeps through my system, because I trust my self to nothing stronger. Tomorrow I fear I might end up affirming why young boys are useless to a woman such as me; but I’m open to being dissuaded.