Why Women Love Lingerie

Men? Not So Much

Lingerie at any age

My first significant lingerie experience occurred in Paris when I was twenty. I was in a communal women’s dressing room at a clothing shop, and the woman next to me, who was at least fifty, pulled off her shirt to reveal an exquisite brassiere, beautifully molded to her body. It was gray satin, trimmed with pink lace, and a rosette was perched on each strap. I was deeply impressed. Surely this was someone who held herself in high esteem, a woman who valued her sensual nature!

Or was it a French thing? In any event, my future seemed brighter. I saw that no matter how old I got, I could always wear great lingerie!

Lingerie is “underwear, sleepwear, and other items of intimate apparel worn by women.” Jackie Kennedy was once accused of spending $10,000 ($100,000 in today’s dollars) a year on lingerie. She defended herself memorably, saying she couldn’t possibly spend that much money, even she bought mink-trimmed panties. I often tried to picture those panties. Where would the fur be?

“Intimate apparel,” that wonderful phrase, need not be elaborate. One might prefer a cotton knit nightgown instead of one in silk and lace.  For many years now, women have been sleeping in T-shirts instead of nightgowns.  

A woman cannot buy a bra online: she needs to try it on, preferably in consultation with an experienced saleswoman who can advise her on style and fit. She should select it for beauty then try it on for comfort. With bras as with shoes, fit is paramount. Does it give her just the right lift? Does it lift her aesthetically, too? Does the bra look as good under clothes as it does on its own?

With panties, too, comfort and fit come first, and, yes, a woman needs to try on panties (over her own) before buying them. Does it create a panty-line under her dress—and does she care?  (“I’ve always found panty-lines sexy,” says my ex.)  If the fit is fine, almost anything goes: a provocative frill, a tiny bow, a leopard-skin print. Why not? It’s a secret thrill for a woman to know that underneath her utilitarian garb she is wearing black lace or white satin.

Even if, especially if, she’s the only one who ever sees it, lingerie is a gift to her erotic self. Noted psychologist Esther Perel explains a woman’s psyche.  “What turns her on is to be turned on. That is the secret of female sexuality. It is massively narcissistic.” Indulging in lingerie is all about a woman pleasing herself—and, perhaps, other women. Her best friends may admire her charming new scanties, and so might the ladies at her gym.  

But isn’t lingerie about seducing men? In my experience—almost never! Only one man I’ve known had any interest at all in traditional lingerie, and he was too interested in it: He asked me to wear a garter belt and stockings, which he then declined to remove. I’ve heard of only one other man who made a special underwear request: my friend’s husband prefers that she wears white cotton underpants up to the waist. Go figure!  

Most men regard undergarments of any sort as mere impediments to desire, items to be quickly removed to expose the flesh beneath.  They don’t care if the bra comes from Walmart or Berdorf Goodman—they just hope they can get it off easily. When it comes to lingerie, most men don’t really care.

But I do. When I was in the mediaeval town of Murten last month, I noticed a lingerie shop across from our hotel. They were having a sale. Leaving my husband in a cafe, I went to investigate. A multilingual young woman guessed my European size and showed me various undergarments, which I tried on. A white lace bra and three pairs of silky panties (white, green, lavender) are now my favorite souvenirs from Switzerland.

Did my husband ask to see me model my souvenirs? He did not.

Last year I went to an orthopedist to get a shot of cortisone for my shoulder. The doctor and his assistant, a young woman, were getting me ready, and, hesitantly, she asked if I wanted to get into a paper gown. It did seem silly and unnecessary--extra garbage. “It’s OK,” I said, hiking my long-sleeved sweater up over my head. Underneath, I was wearing a white mesh bra with roses embroidered on the cups. The doctor didn’t notice, just applied the needle. But above her mask, the assistant’s eyes widened with appreciation.  

This article first appeared this February, in somewhat different form, in The Girlfriend, http://bit.ly/3XFUN2Q

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