There is a fabulous reason why Girl in the Hat looks suddenly sexy.Today, I gleefully introduce to you the incomparable Averil Dean, my esteemed writer-friend who agreed to play a game of literary truth-or-dare with me. She picked dare (that daring girl) and below, you can see what I made her do.Tee hee hee!
(I picked truth, of course. If you like dares and want to see my answer, find me at Averil’s place.)
by Averil Dean
Today I am wearing a corset under my scrubs. It’s a red and black number with fake crisscrossed laces up the front and a number of real hook-and-eyes up the back. I held it up this morning in the dim bathroom mirror, smoothed it against my body. I had to put it on backward to get all the little hooks done up, and turn it around again for some strategic rearrangement while I tugged at the demi cups, hoping at least for, um, coverage.
Before your eyebrows pucker and you wonder what kind of friend is this Averil and why is she smutting up Anna’s lovely blog, let me point a righteous finger at our Girl in the Hat and say, She made me do it. She dared me. She triple dog dared me. Wear something unusual under your clothes for a day, she said. Report back.
So I’m at my desk. In a corset.
A couple of observations. First, like every other ultrafeminine garment, this fucker is hideously uncomfortable. It feels like a collection of spare bits from the recycling bin: hard plastic boning, lace like frayed cardboard under my arms, underwires that may well have been cut with a pair of poultry shears from the bottom of a tin can, one of which has slipped its mooring and is wedged between my breasts. Clearly the corset was not intended to be worn for more than ten minutes, and as the afternoon drags on, I begin to feel mocked and strangely bereft, as though I’m all dressed up for a date in the bedroom while my man is passed out on the couch. I have an urge to paint my nails, if you get me.
Still, the corset from hell has stirred a bit of cantankerous lust in me. When no one’s looking, I sneak a quick peek down my scrub top. It looks as though I’m smuggling a baby under my shirt–if that child was upside-down and dressed in red satin bloomers. I dig through my purse and find a tiny vial of perfume, slide a dab into my cleavage (soft as a baby’s bottom, yes indeed). It’s a covert maneuver, a coy bit of female shenanigans. I apply some lipstick for good measure–three strokes, press and dab.
The corset asserts itself as I go about my day. I avoid jogging down the stairs and reaching for objects overhead, and find it difficult to look my well-endowed boss in the eye. Over lunch with my husband, I keep the secret of the corset. I don’t smile too much, I don’t whisper in his ear. When he reaches for me, I laugh and push him off so he won’t feel the boning at my waist and think it’s a come-on, that I’ve worn it with nefarious intentions for a tryst in the rooftop stairwell. He thinks it’s all for him, always for him, and usually he’s right. But not today.
Today I want to think about how it feels to spill out of my cups and roll my hips as I walk across the floor. I want to feel the bite of the wires and the chafe of cheap lace, the juxtaposition of tight sexuality and loose cotton utilitarianism. I want the exaggeration, the posture, the scent of my skin, because for all the insult of being female there are also delicious rewards–not the least of which is release.
Today the corset is for me. Tonight my husband can help me out of it.
I dare you to take a dare. I dare you to let me assign it. But if you’d rather take a truth, the Girl in the (White) Hat is waiting at my site, and I’m pretty sure she won’t make you wear a corset.