Working Dessous
Negligee. Garter. Thong. Brassiere. Bloomers. Corset. Stockings. Dessous. Panties. Underwear…
So many names for such charged, little objects. What is the function of lingerie? In my first day at the dungeon, I was unequivocally commanded with what I MUST have; stockings, garter belt, high heels. Our version of army fatigues delegated during basic training, with some variation. Whatever one could afford initially from a sale basket at Victoria’s Secret, later upgraded to higher end boutiques and department store sales. If one was very curious & resourceful (as I was) EBAY had secret vaults of untouched vintage stockings, intact with all original packaging. Opening their delicate packaging was equivalent to tearing the gold foiling from an exotic, European chocolate bar. They would never fold as neatly and perfectly into their containers again. Virgin stockings, preserved like relics in time. It felt almost guilt inducing to ‘use’ them. It made me think of collectors who held their esteemed action figures and dolls inside the plastic boxes, lining them up on shelves for their eyes only, never to be touched. The difference between a new piece of lingerie and a used one is monumental. For it touches the most intimate parts of the body, forever imprinted with fluid and memory.
I had one pair of pantyhose I bought in Paris seventeen years ago, the same time I buy a black silky dress that the store clerk tells me is ‘only for the night’. That dress has large cutouts in the waist, exposing my ribs and lower back, barely covers my breasts and ties behind the neck with a single ribbon. I have worn it no less than a thousand times since leaving Paris. I still wear it today, but ‘only for the night’. It is a power object. Those Parisian pantyhose are denser, thicker, sturdier than any I have ever seen. With very little stretch, they go on like athletic gear, taking muscle and precision to lay onto the legs, ass and waist just right. Once they are on, they stay fit for the duration. Removing them is an equally arduous task. They are made for high performance and I put them through the ringer, attempting aerial moves and acrobatics of the sexual variety. They stay loyal, not ripping, snagging or stretching. They are dutiful. They serve me for decades to come, never faltering in their role. I’ve never met a pair of pantyhose like that again.
Fickle, one time pieces of dessous are no less important. They are like peonies or desert cactus blooms in their rapidly accelerating beauty lasting one night only. Ethereal, ephemeral articles that create a barely perceptible veil between His eye and my naked body. I remember the first time I tied a man up as a teenager, a family friend named Boris with a sad, familiar face of a Jewish intellectual. He took me to a one woman show by Charlayne Woodard which blew my mind and then I brought him back to an abandoned loft I had procured keys to. I used a belt and a bed post with amateur dexterity to restrain him. I was wearing a pair of blue cotton panties that started to feel fussy. I will never forget the look on his face when I finally removed them. ‘But now you’re just…naked.’ He stammered with obvious disappointment.
Lingerie is a symbolic act. It is a last bastion of psychological boundary, demarcating the visible and invisible, what is available and what you never will access. It simultaneously addresses and redresses what is desired. The history of these precious, decadent items is rich and complex, but for those of us enmeshed in the psychosexual landscape, it remains true that ‘lingerie is a MUST.’
Working Dessous
Negligee. Garter. Thong. Brassiere. Bloomers. Corset. Stockings. Dessous. Panties. Underwear…
So many names for such charged, little objects. What is the function of lingerie? In my first day at the dungeon, I was unequivocally commanded with what I MUST have; stockings, garter belt, high heels. Our version of army fatigues delegated during basic training, with some variation. Whatever one could afford initially from a sale basket at Victoria’s Secret, later upgraded to higher end boutiques and department store sales. If one was very curious & resourceful (as I was) EBAY had secret vaults of untouched vintage stockings, intact with all original packaging. Opening their delicate packaging was equivalent to tearing the gold foiling from an exotic, European chocolate bar. They would never fold as neatly and perfectly into their containers again. Virgin stockings, preserved like relics in time. It felt almost guilt inducing to ‘use’ them. It made me think of collectors who held their esteemed action figures and dolls inside the plastic boxes, lining them up on shelves for their eyes only, never to be touched. The difference between a new piece of lingerie and a used one is monumental. For it touches the most intimate parts of the body, forever imprinted with fluid and memory.
I had one pair of pantyhose I bought in Paris seventeen years ago, the same time I buy a black silky dress that the store clerk tells me is ‘only for the night’. That dress has large cutouts in the waist, exposing my ribs and lower back, barely covers my breasts and ties behind the neck with a single ribbon. I have worn it no less than a thousand times since leaving Paris. I still wear it today, but ‘only for the night’. It is a power object. Those Parisian pantyhose are denser, thicker, sturdier than any I have ever seen. With very little stretch, they go on like athletic gear, taking muscle and precision to lay onto the legs, ass and waist just right. Once they are on, they stay fit for the duration. Removing them is an equally arduous task. They are made for high performance and I put them through the ringer, attempting aerial moves and acrobatics of the sexual variety. They stay loyal, not ripping, snagging or stretching. They are dutiful. They serve me for decades to come, never faltering in their role. I’ve never met a pair of pantyhose like that again.
Fickle, one time pieces of dessous are no less important. They are like peonies or desert cactus blooms in their rapidly accelerating beauty lasting one night only. Ethereal, ephemeral articles that create a barely perceptible veil between His eye and my naked body. I remember the first time I tied a man up as a teenager, a family friend named Boris with a sad, familiar face of a Jewish intellectual. He took me to a one woman show by Charlayne Woodard which blew my mind and then I brought him back to an abandoned loft I had procured keys to. I used a belt and a bed post with amateur dexterity to restrain him. I was wearing a pair of blue cotton panties that started to feel fussy. I will never forget the look on his face when I finally removed them. ‘But now you’re just…naked.’ He stammered with obvious disappointment.
Lingerie is a symbolic act. It is a last bastion of psychological boundary, demarcating the visible and invisible, what is available and what you never will access. It simultaneously addresses and redresses what is desired. The history of these precious, decadent items is rich and complex, but for those of us enmeshed in the psychosexual landscape, it remains true that ‘lingerie is a MUST.’
EPB
EPB is a writer, visual artist, performer & researcher who plays in the space between theory and practice. In her writing, she parallels her observations of the art world with academic discourse and the politics of sex work.