Because I am a coward, I begin with the disclaimer that I do not speak (or write) for womankind - the preferences and experiences I am about to describe are highly subjective. Don’t get your knickers in a twist.
It’s frillies season. On Sunday, ladies across the country will be ripping open beribboned packages from their paramours. They might luck out with La Perla or make do with M and S - but chances are, the contents will be pants.
If you’re lucky, your partner will purchase something perfect for V Day - but for every girl who murmurs “you read my mind” when they open their prezzie, I can show you nine or so who feel like shouting “do you even know me at all?” I’ve been there, man.
Because I’m a total exhibitionist, I’ve no qualms about revealing my lingerie likes. Ruffles and bows, silk and lace, spots and stripes, big french knickers, anything that makes me feel like a Vargas girl. To this day, I’m not entirely sure why a former boyfriend thought I might like a black nylon balconette - and - matching - thong set (with a charming pink heart motif), from BH fucking S. Were his fantasies more suburban than I thought?
My friend D has an even sadder tale. Her ex bought her an upsettingly shiny nightie, which, luckily, didn’t fit properly. When she returned to the shop to swap it for something that was a better match for her, the replacement cost an extra tenner. Which the ex refused to pay. Charming. I ain’t saying she’s a golddigger, but surely this was bad form on his part?
On the subject of cheapness, a friend of a friend was a bit thrown when her boy presented her with a Valentine’s pearl thong. Not the Myla original, but a £1 Primark knock off.
Faced with such frightening facts, it’s tempting to demand that something MUST be done. Maybe Mister Brown (or Gordy, as I call him in my head) can claw back a few votes with a Bra Bill? Perhaps we can persuade the glamour models of the world to stop working until the readers of FHM have signed a petition against man made fibres touching intimate areas? Alternatively, we could all lock our lovers out to think about what they did, and tell them not to return until they’ve been to Agent Provocateur.
Here’s why that would be a bad idea:
For most men, shopping for woman pants is absolutely terrifying. You may have seen them. As soon as they see a salesperson they rush over and shout “I need a bra! For my girlfriend!” They don’t really want any help, but they want to advertise the fact that they are not a pervert. In fact, if you have a willy and you’re looking relaxed and confident as you trawl the Lingerie department, you’re probably a perv. (If you find yourself stroking gussets and grunting, that’s another big clue.)
The lads that love us are putting themselves through a nasty ordeal because they have it in their heads that it’s what good boyfriends do. If they make it to the cash desk, they’ve won a bronze for their gender. If they manage to make it home with something matching, they’re nothing short of Herculean. Knowing all that, when you’re tearing off red wrapping paper next Sunday, it’s only appropriate to plaster a big smile on your face and say “darling, they’re beautiful.”
