Friday, October 21, 2011

Booty Parlour

Hey, did you know Frederick's of Hollywood is still open? Yea, me neither. I thought the hierarchy went Target, Victoria's Secret, La Perla. I read about a French woman once who had a collection of bras lined with marabou feathers. And that is something I've never forgotten. I don't know if I can swing with the Frenchwomen, but I could learn a thing or two. I had a French acquaintance one time and she used to laugh and say, "Oh, you are so MOderne, hahaha..." and by that I think she meant, John Wayne-ish.

So when I heard someone mention Frederick's I had to get online and see what's going on over there. After I ordered three pair of winter fleece slippers. You know, the bootie, the mock and the ones that you can walk to the chicken coop in. Yea, so MOderne...Tres chic.

Okay so the last time I ordered something from Freddy's it was 1989, and it scarred me for an entire lifetime of lingerie. I bought a 'teddy'. A satin one. A pink satin one. Some strapless Playboy bunny number with matching cuffs. And a neck tie. I remember not filling in the top with all it's push up boning in the front and finding the satin to be unforgiving and tap dance class like on the leg. And there were snaps in the crotch! What sort of contortionist can work that? Out I could manage, it was the retread that was beyond awkward. I think I even got fishnets to go with it. Apparently everything I learned about lingerie came from a burlesque magazine from the 1920s. My mom wore the kind of steel belted garb that was just supposed to make you look good in your clothes, so, in a word, girdles. So where else to turn? Fredericks.

And so how to execute my entrance in pink satin? I was an overly dramatic fussy pretty 22 year old. Well that's redundant. I was a 22 year old. And the poor boyfriend at the time, was 25. And knowing now what I do about 25 year old boys, well, I expected a lot out of that poor guy. So lay there on the bed I did. Leg pulled up just so. No the other one. Face down. Face up? Sitting? Put it under clothes? A trench coat! Oh never mind. He came home to find me standing in this silly thing like a pony in a jock strap and he burst out laughing, WHAT are you doing?? he wailed. This was before things like Victoria's Secret runway shows and TV commercials, and this poor kid from Pittsburgh was probably at a loss. What did I want him to say anyway? Hubba hubba? Gross.

My sense of humor was deeply shrouded in angst and instead of ripping that thing off like stripper pants and saying, I have NO idea, I cried. Christ.

So that's my lingerie story. And after that I went commando and had flings with accessories to the Me So Sexy Collection. Body butters, chocolate scented slippery things that got hot (!) on contact and something called Love Dust that I put on my sheets with a feather duster, which post slippery stuff, proved to make PlayDoh. And nothing is hotter than that.

So here I am rolling around in my 40s and I'm wondering again about the Feminine Wiles. Or Whiles. Whatever. I've spent the last 15 years being MOderne and watching men cultivate their own feminine side. And I've been there renovating the house, mixing the concrete, peeling limestone off my feet and picking paint off my hands. This followed the incredibly sexy decade of restaurant cheffery, which was the most asexual period of my life. Wardrobe speaking anyway. Is there anything more pathetic than  chef pants? No. Except sometimes I'd mix it up with doctor scrubs. Hold me back. So you'd think on days off this woman Clark Kent would want to put on a cape and fritter around.

Hell, no. I was tired. Like jammies and feet wrapped in bags of marshmallows for entire days tired. And gettin' all sexed up is a lot of work. So, no.

But now, I've slowed down the work thing a little, I try to do gross things like chicken slaughter and roof tarring in the same week. So maybe a little Fredericks? Can I pull it off at this stage? My mind could. I don't know if the body is ready for the pinching, twisting and hoisting, but who knows. Horses who are used to bareback don't appreciate the sudden addition of the saddle.

Going through the online catalog for Frederick's I am pleased to see that their too thin models at least have hips. Victoria's Secret got weird at some point with this pencil shaped women with huge breast implants. And apparently Fred's demo is young Latina women. Hence the backsides. Not a wasp in the book. No one over 19. They also have something called The Booty Parlor. I thought it would be for butt implants, since there were plenty of fake booby implants to stick in your bra. But these girls don't need the JLo pads. They ARE the JLo pads. How do the silicone boob inserts work anyway? One pair at a staggering $259 left me wondering how you get out of those when you get home. Why are they better than the $12 ones? Do they not fall on the floor? Is peeling them off part of foreplay?

Anyway, the Booty Parlour is where you can buy all those creams and dusty things I used to get. I check it out. Flirty Little Secret is something that is called Firming Cream with Pheromones which they claim..."will make you feel irresistible ..." ah, I miss my copywriting job. Never mind that pheromones are supposed to make the suitor attracted to you. These will make me feel like sleeping with me. I find some body powder with twinklies and something called Aphrodisiac Breath Spray which I suppose will make you want to kiss yourself, and with all the coffee we drink in this country someone's gonna need somethin'. It has Gingko in it. Gingko is also in my "transitional herbal women's vitamins". For peri menopausal forgetting face.

They had me for a minute, I was thinking I needed some crotchless panties or a cupless bra, or a sheer  wispy thing with ties...wait. For what? The houseboy? I have enough trouble getting away from that one as it is. And boys like naked girls. I understand the appeal of the peek of the lace, the push up of the flesh, and I'll even admit to digging some of my old fashioned lacy boy shorts. But I can't be that French. Unless you can find me one of those marabou lined bras, then we're talking.