Attention: this post is off limits to men. Tomorrow, guys!
Hello, ladies! Here’s how the story goes:
It happened not so long ago in NYC, on the icy streets of Soho. It felt so cold and I had this expresssion on my face that must have looked like Victoria Beckham’s, when right before my fossilized eyes, I saw the black and pink exterior of Agent Provocateur.
Oh, finally. I won’t lie to you. Here was the place where I could get myself WARM. Or so I thought.
When I stepped inside the shop, I knew right away this was a sign for me. Garance, it’s time for you to get rid of your flourescent (?) undies and lead a life like a proper woman should. Now’s the time to buy yourself undeniably real, honest-to-goodness, authentic lingerie.
So there I was, playing the part of a natural woman who wanted to buy a corset. It worked pretty well. Nina, the hostess, showed me the goods, a wide array of breathtakingly gorgeous lace in all forms—girdled, laced-up, frilly, woven… you name it, ladies… AP’s got the whole shebang. Then she guided me toward the fitting rooms flashing a big, theatrical smile. I entered the cubicle and… She went right in.
OUI. With me in the changing room. She, with an awfully huge grin that assured me how perfectly normal it was.
Fine, whatever. With an air of defiance, I stripped my clothes off.
I put on this exquisite body-enhancing undergarment with back lacing, then Nina told me, “It’s okay? Let’s go?” I agreed grudgingly and said, “Go.”
Without further delay, she went behind me, making adjustments from the bottom up, then she started to tighten this thing. Whoa, my friends. She started to tight… ight… ight…ight… ight… ght… ght… ght… ht… ht… en this thing.
Afterwards, I saw her smiling at me when I looked in the mirror and she said, “Still okay?”
“Yes.” I replied. “What do you think!”? She kept on tightening. And tightening. Until she told me, “Here. Now, take a look.”
I turned around and ta-daa! Girls, I swear to you that I became Angelina Jolie. Jolie-er. I lovelove what I was seeing—drop-dead gorgeous me. I was doing my quarter turns in the store when suddenly I was so humbled to be such a sex bomb angel who’d soon sashay down the Victoria’s Secret fashion show.
I was on top of the world with joy and shortly, I asked the cost of this va-va-voom thingy. She told me that, oh, whatchamacallit was a bit pricey—eight hundred sizzling hot dollars. Cha-ching!
Chplof! I was crushed. My dream came tumbling down.
Fine. Come to think of it, eight hundred bucks to turn me into a dangerously seductive woman isn’t all that expensive.
But wait, hope was still alive. I said I’d come back with my guy to show him, okay? I gave her a big wink. She winked a big one back at me.
I left the store and wasted no time spilling all the details to my honey. I told him the stuff about my Angelina Jolie temptress-like transformation and everything else. I said it was ABSOLUTELY necessary that I show it to him. He agreed it was ABSOLUTELY necessary to see me in it.
The following day, we were at Agent Provocateur.
Time for a repeat performance. Back in the changing room with Nina, back to tightening my visceral organs, back to my sex goddess-bombshell appeal. Good Lord, this thing really works!
Fearing that the sight of a femme fatale might give the mister a heart attack, I showed my risqué outfit with nary a fanfare.
He smiled. Voilà. He was distraught by my beauty. Or not. In fact, I had no clue. He behaved rather strangely. He smiled and said I was beautiful, blah-blah-blah… But I saw something—there was none of the awestruck wonder nor the stunned silence, the least that I expected from him.
We got out of the store, both of us feeling a little weird. And empty-handed.
Then I asked him, “So…?” He changed the subject.
Half an hour later, he looked at me and said, “It was very lovely.. You were very enticing. It’s just… not you. Just that you’re never as crazy-sexy-beautiful as when you put on your old white tee that slips past your shoulders.”
HA! Hey sisters, soul sisters, how would you react to this?
Translation : Magali Eva Suárez.