After too many incidents of flashing strangers and family members (”Me: “Oh my God” Dad: “What?” Me: “My strap not only slipped own but ended up beneath my arm” [and my breast was facing 9th Ave.] Dad: “Show me.” Me: “What? No!”) and on the advice of Alias Aila (”Have you never heard of strapless bras?”), I decided to invest in something that was not me at all but would eventually perhaps make me a better person.
Not wanting to put Frank through the ordeal of a bra department and not having the energy myself, I looked up underwire bra on Google and came to freshpair.com, which to my shock had as its tagline “Buy underwear in your underwear.” This was shocking because the company had stolen the line from a Duracell commercial, the very one Frank was in and that I vividly remembered without having seen for a decade. In it, he’s in his boxers in front of his computer on a white stage and declares, “Now you can buy your underwear in your underwear, at inyourunderwear.com” (while the Duracell bunny passes, rather puzzlingly).
Copyright infringement aside, I checked out their underwire bras and decided upon a Wacoal bra that had all the features I was hoping for. It was $50, but there were no shipping charges and I was doing this for my country (the economy and public decency), so it was the least I could do.
And now I understand why Wacoal is the best-selling bra-maker in the country (I think i read that somewhere): not only are they made with fantastic attention to quality, detail and style, but they boost your bra size half-a-cup above what you’d be in other companies. The old white-lie trick of the trade. Thankfully I ordered my aspirational size (being too big for a 32B but not always filling a 32C), the bra was a great boost to my fragile frame as it made me question if the 32D would have been a better fit. Now that gets women to buy your product!
I tried on various tops I couldn’t wear a bra with before and, well, I did look more decent. It doesn’t seem quite me yet (they make my breasts loftier while making them look smaller), but I’ll get over it. I’ve faced more self-effacing challenges before, right?
But while we’re on the topic of nipples (as I cling desperately to memories of my former inappropriately-clothed self), I reminded Frank of that ever-so-curious and unappealing conversation I’d had on a second date with a guy (ther were only two dates, just so you know). On the first date, we sat and spoke for some time on a bench outside my old dorm Hurlbut on a traffic island (or was it a roundabout) in crazily-constructed Cambridge.
I was wearing a brown paisley slip dress with a wrap front that I’d gotten from, J. Crew. The bust was much too generous, let’s say, and needed my mother’s nip-tuck treatment, but she hadn’t had a chance yet and, it occurred to me when I returned home that night, I’d been baring one of both nipples throughout the day. During class, during the date, during everything. Why hadn’t anyone told me? Did they think that was the look I was going for?
I remember the guy’s name–Giacomo–because I had no idea how to pronounce it and a horse of the same name won a big race the next year and I couldn’t believe that was actually how it was supposed to be said. Thankfully, I knew to avoid saying his name throughout both times we met.
The next time we met, we went to Sandrine’s, an Alsatian restaurant where I’d gone with one too many random guys (which would embarrass me now, but didn’t prevent me from returning in college). For some reason, we were discussing a conversation I’d had during an awkward double date with a former best friend and our respective dates in which I somehow thought it appropriate to ask each, if they wished to kill someone, how they would do so. My friend, to my horror, said she would stab the person, this being shocking because of a picture she’d wanted to give me the year before. In this expertly-crafted image inspired by her feelings for me, she wore an Eskimo coat with fur surrounding her head and was presenting the palm of one hand in which my name was written, surrounded by a heart. The other hand gripped a knife that–eeks!–pierced the heart and the hand on which it was drawn. I was too traumatized to accept the “gift,” but regret not having taken it now, as I know, how often will I inspire something so twisted yet stunning?
Back to the date with the guy of the racehorse’s name, he said –and this really disturbed me as well (was this his idea of a flirtatious joke?–in response to my story that he’d kill someone by twisting off their nipples and watching them bleed to death slowly. I swear to the non-god, that’s what he said.
Still, it’s being so early (we’d had brunch at Sandrine’s), we decided to go to a movie. I wanted to see ‘Sex y Lucia.” It was sold out when we got to the theater, so we ended up seeing a Margaret Cho comedy skit, whose name I have no interest in looking up now, but was also blatantly sexual. He didn’t try to kiss or touch me during the film, but he was so persistent in wanting to take me home, though I managed to convince him, really, really, I didn’t need his help and could go home alone. So that was the end of avoiding having to pronounce his name and of wondering if I was the person he wanted to watch bleed to death (how sweet!).
On another note, while I’m on the subject of what should or shouldn’t be seen, I realized (or remembered) I’d removed a photo I’d had up on another post when I was linking to it for someone to read. I knew why I’d removed the photo (because, despite what he saya about not wanting to censor me, Frank just wasn’t comfortable with the photo being up and even Jim, my most faithful reader, kept on remarking on how he wouldn’t want such a photo posted if I were his partner, and I got sick of their disapproving of it, so I removed it), but it made me sad because I didn’t understand why its being up made them so uncomfortable. The act depicted may have been graphic and not mainstream in terms of X-rated movies and pornographic magazines, but the act and the photo was consensual and legal and it was only on one post, so if a person wanted to avoid it, he or she easily could have. I debated whether to put the photo up again, but as I’d edited the ending of the post, it no longer seemed to fit in any way with the tone (it probably never did, for that matter, but I’d put it up on a whim in the first place). But it saddens me to think I caved to their disapproval.
Thankfully, there are always those who give voice to our most-inappropriate thoughts. Bless Ernie Anastos Keep fucking that chicken!
And since I removed it from the other post but it makes much more sense in this post on lack of decorum, I’ll put up the photo I’d removed, with adequate warning it’s not fit for Frank, Jim, minors, conservatives or the squeamish and not at all safe for work or most homes. Suffice it to say, I’m stubborn and refuse to be told anything legal doesn’t have a place on the web of all places. But I do now own and plan to wear the underwire bra, so I’m not beyond reform.
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