It always sounds like such a good a idea. A romantic candlelit evening, mood music, perhaps even, a little strip tease–all while wearing the sexiest lingerie money can buy. You’re imagining the night will end in a night full of passion and pleasure, and, of course, a bit gratitude from the lucky man who gets to behold you in your bedroom costume, before it ends up strewn across the floor.
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This is what we call, “The Lingerie Myth”–that ill-informed notion that donning lingerie for your man is a sure fire way to a night full of lusty naughtiness. If only it were that easy! For so many of us, our best efforts are met with ambivalence, disdain, or even (dun dun dun), laughter. For every woman who has ever been humiliated while wearing a garter belt and a boustier, here are the HelloBeautiful staff’s worst lingerie horror stories. Enjoy!
I am a lingerie addict. I have an extensive collection of thongs, garters, erotic, romantic and skanky getups hidden at the back of my panty drawer for those “special occasions.” A few years ago I was dating a guy who would rather sit and have a debate about politics, (I’m no Chris Matthews, but I can hold my own), than get busy between the sheets. After countless nights filled with political chatter, I decided to spice things up by wearing this smoking hot Brazilian carnival costume, (headpiece included), that was donated to the company I worked for. I invited said boyfriend to my apartment and when he rang the bell, I carefully sashayed my way down the stairs with my new borrowed sexy getup. I opened the door, expecting him to throw me up against the wall. (I mean my outfit was ALL THAT!) But what did he do? LAUGH!!!
That was definitely not the reaction I was expecting! Talk about a blow to my self-esteem. Once I got it together and went upstairs, I asked him, “Was it the outfit? Too sexy? Headpiece too over the top?”
He replied, “I’m intimidated by how good you look! I feel pressured and overwhelmed by what you expect of me.”
“WHAT???,” I thought, I just wanted to have some fun!
He went on to say that I didn’t need to go the extra mile, he’d rather see me in a wife-beater and boy shorts, and, that women expect sex and romance to be like the movies, and real life does not work that way! Well guess what? I want to role play, dress up and create my own movies, (if you know what I mean)–and I can do it while debating you on healthcare! NEXT!!
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I wanted Valentine’s Day to be exceptionally romantic this year. It was the first time the lovers’ holiday would be celebrated in my own apartment, which meant I could have a movie scene moment without paying $10 for stale and greasy popcorn and $30 for overpriced tickets.
I had it all planned. I picked up my favorite drink from the liquor store–this sweet coconut rum that helps me transform into my sexy alter-ego. I grabbed his drink of choice as well. I didn’t have a lot of money to buy an expensive gift, so I figured the gift would be…well, me.
I cruised the Internet days prior, searching for the perfect piece of lingerie to set the evening off. I got nothing. I couldn’t trust my Double D’s to fit, so I decided to shop local. On my way to the mall, I happened to stumble upon his closest friend. I grabbed his number and told him to keep my boyfriend stalled until a certain time. The mall was depressing. I couldn’t find a single thing, and believe me, I tried on at least seven garments. Frederick’s Of Hollywood was the last resort. I found a sequin halter dress that stopped right at my kitty cat. It had a plunging neckline that revealed my buxom breasts. I felt confident. I was excited. I grabbed a pair of thigh-highs, and a garter to top it off.
On the way home, I picked up some Dominican food from our favorite Hispanic restaurant. By the time I got home, I had only an hour left to shower, do my hair, and complete a flawless face of makeup. My eyes popped in radiant blue eye shadow. My hair was pinned up so nothing would cover my beautiful face.
I set out my black wine glasses that I had never used before, then stamped a bare index card with my red lips and scribbled across the lines, “Drink Me.” I laid it neatly beside a fresh cup of Hennessy. I texted my man and told him to be at our place promptly, then set on the mood music and hid in the hallway.
Standing in garters and heels is one thing, but keeping calm and cool after waiting for 20 minutes is another. Still, I was anticipating what the night would have in store for us. He is a great partner, so I just knew he would rip this fabric off as soon as he laid eyes on me. Finally I heard the music lower, so I knew he was in the house. With my heart racing, I rang the bell like I was entering the threshold for the first time and hadn’t lived there for a year. He answered the door. I stepped inside and opened my trench coat, revealing my masterpiece of a body.
“Sequins? Where’d you get that?” He asked. I was vulnerable. I instantly I felt embarrassed, but I was determined to make it through the fantasy I had playing on repeat in my mind.
“The store,” I replied, handing over his cup of Hennessy. “Here, drink up,” I urged him, presenting him with the kind gesture.
“Na, I’m good,” he replied nonchalantly.
I felt my insides crumbling like an anthill in an earthquake. My hopes for a great time were slipping away. His attitude was ruining the entire occasion. My last attempt to salvage an intimate Valentine’s Day was the food.
“You hungry?” I asked and he shook his head. I let loose a deep sigh. Ready to cry, I retreated into the bedroom, sat on the edge of the bed and tried to regain my composure. What was I missing? Why was he so not into it? What was the problem? I wiped my tears as I heard his footsteps closing in.
“You called me here, to sit in here?” he asked.
By the time I returned to the living room in a pair of his boxers and a tank, his size 11 feet were inside his Jordan sneakers, on the way to the door. What took days to orchestrate was over and ruined in 10 minutes. I said “F**k it,” watched him walk out on me then opened my Spanish food and dug in!
I’ve always been obsessed with beautiful underwear. I’ve never really had a reason to wear them because honestly, my panties were always the last thing on a man’s mind before we jumped between the sheets. At least they were always the last thing on my mind, as I often opt for “Granny panties.” (There was this one time when a guy asked if he could “keep” the ones he just pulled off of me. But that’s a different story for a different day.)
This story starts at Lane Bryant–a department store for plus size women. One day as I was cruising the aisles, I spotted a sexy, red, black and gold lace corset and panty set, and immediately, I needed to have it. There was this guy that I had been seeing for a few months and even though he and I had already been intimate, I wanted do something special for our four-month mark. I grabbed up the lacy lingerie set and bee-lined it to the register. I didn’t even try it on.
When I got home, I showered, made sure the mood was set in the apartment–candles, incense, Isley Brothers crooning from the speakers, I was ready to slip on the lingerie. I’d prepped my guy, telling him there would be a surprise waiting on him when he came over, so he was expecting some type of fanfare. Now if only I could slip the lingerie on!
Honey, when I tell you I was in the bathroom huffing and puffing–take that as an understatement. It was like I ran eight miles, Rocky Balboa’ed up a few flights of stairs, then tried to put a straight jacket on. Standing in the bathroom in only panties, while panting, I held the corset in one hand, almost defeated. I looked at myself in the mirror and said, “You can get this on. You will get this on.”
I tried to hook the seven hooks in the front and I succeeded. Now all I had to do was spin the corset around, the right way. I twisted and twisted until my boobs were perfectly perched in the cups and the hooks were centered in my back. Sweating, I decided another shower was out of the question, but I was definitely not as fresh as I was when I started. I thought about scrapping the entire lingerie plan, but I caught a glimpse of my reflection and I thought, “Damn! That’s hot.”
The lingerie plan was happening whether I was comfortable or not, whether or I could breathe–or not. I stabilized my breathing, got myself together and waited for my buzzer to ring, signifying that it was showtime. Unfortunately, I couldn’t sit because the boning from the corset dug into my gut, so I stood and sipped wine until the bottle was gone. Woops. Now I’m tipsy and my breathing is just a bit obstructed, but I can function. I kept telling my increasingly drunk self that it would be off in no time, and my lungs and rib cage, will forgive me.
The buzzer rang and he came upstairs. As soon as he saw me standing there in my makeshift coke bottle shape, tits up to my chin and lace dancing along my curves, a smile spread across his lips so wide, I thought his mouth would be stuck in a permanently pleased position. “You look good babe,” he said as he walked towards me with his hands out, ready to touch.
“Thank you,” I managed to say in a breathy (possibly deemed sexy) voice. We embraced, his hands roamed my body and I broke away. I then sat him down in the chair I designated as the best seat in the house. As Ronald Isley sang, “ooooooh baby, baby….” I let my hips sway to the groove. Tonight, I was going to dance for my boy. As my sways turned into body rolls, I kept feeling a sharp, stabbing pain. Determined to give him a sensual fantasy, I kept dancing. The show must go on, right?
The stabbing kept getting increasingly unbearable. Suddenly, I felt a jolt in my side, as if lightening crept into the room, crawled between my ribs and struck me. I wailed, “Ahhhhhhh!” and I almost hit the floor. He stood up, grabbed me and asked what happened. I was almost hyperventilating. “The cors…” I said reaching for my back and then my side. “Help me get it off!” I cried.
Fumbling with my back, his hands were clumsy as he tried to pry the clasps apart. He was finally able to get it open and I breathed a sigh of sweet relief. As I stood there corset on the floor, hand on my side, huffing and puffing, he stood confused. “What happened babe?”
“This stupid corset tried to kill me,” I kicked it. I looked down at it and saw that the boning was broken. Both ends of the broken piece were sticking me directly in the ribs and my dancing caused them to shimmy out of the secure spot they were in and continuously jab me in the side. As I sat on the floor beside the corset, laughter burst out of him, filling the room with his delight in my tragic attempt at sexy.
“Not funny,” I shot him an evil glance, still holding my side. I looked down at the broken corset and eventually joined him in the side-splitting (pun intended) laughter. Never again.
It was one of the classic New York romances. You know, the kind that starts over Sunday Night Football in a sports bar and ends up in sex on the first night. But three weeks later, we were still dating, I was hopeful, and it was Valentine’s Day. (I know, there was no way this was going to end well.)
The weekend before Valentine’s Day, my hottie new guy suggested that we spend Cupid’s night out–in, watching Love Jones, at his house, no, my house, then his house again. Considering I know that movie by heart, I was happy to oblige. It was a little low key for my taste, but hey, no need to make a big deal about it (especially considering my V-Day track record was abominable at best).
Valentine’s Day morning I woke up feeling excited and adventurous. I put on a sexy pencil skirt, turtle neck, and a beautiful cocktail necklace. I figured I’d should at least look cute when I finally saw my beau later that night, even if we were staying in. Midday, a girlfriend invited me to a “death with Cupid” happy hour post work, and since my beau didn’t get off until late in the evening. I agreed to go. With all that extra time on my hands I’d also decided I should swing by the lingerie stop on the way downtown to get something super sexy and special for the occasion.
This was my first foray in to lingerie and because my breast are, what some may call, huge, I found my way to a serious store that carried the best brands and a wide variety of sizes (and really high prices). Inside I instructed the clerk to find me something “boardwalk-empire-esque” and soon I was standing in the dressing room in a corset, thigh highs stockings, garters and my cocktail necklace. I slipped in to my heels, put my clothes back on over top of my sensual undergarments, and for only $200, I was ready to get naked on Valentine’s Day (don’t miss the sarcasm here).
Three glasses of wine, and a shot of something later, I had gushed all about my sexy beau and my lingerie surprise to my friends. Since I was the only one with Valentine’s Day plans, my friends were happy to cheer me on, exacerbating my excitement for the evening. Around 9 p.m., I got the bat signal and I headed uptown to meet my boy. As I walked up to his apartment, nervous and excited, I straightened out my corset, plumped up my boobs and rang the bell. (Oh, this was also my first time ever going to his house–I know, I know).
And then it happened. My super sexy, buff and delicious boy toy answered the door in sweats, a wifebeater, and a doo rag. eriously, a doo rag. My heart hit the bottom of my stomach, this was certainly not what I expected. Inside, the house was dark and antithetical of Valentine’s Day festive–no flowers, no card. I headed in to his room and there it was…a mattress on the floor. And then he said it, “Can you take your shoes off? I don’t let people where shoes in the house.” You mean my perfect pumps to match the inner 1920′s seductress I plan to unleash, I think not.
A little while later, as I laid (on the mattress on the floor) trying to look sexy and find a way to get my beau to realize I was dressed head to toe in lingerie, the liquor started to kick in. Soon, I was having blurry, and not particularly good, sex. Then I heard snoring. Powered by a couple more glasses of cheap wine, I turned in to an emotional demon. My head started spinning (or was that the room), and I began crying and pouting, while half-naked, stumbling around (I kept tripping on the mattress on the floor) looking for my clothes so I could go home. How could he have fallen asleep? Did he know I just spent $200 on lingerie–that I can’t take back! A doo rag? Really?! I thought we were special, I thought we were really something–I was a lunatic. The next morning when I was unceremoniously tossed out of the apartment, I was pretty sure I was never going to hear from again. After all, it had only been three weeks. Despite my girlfriends best attempts to convince me he’d get over it, he didn’t. His final text, “I think you’re an amazing woman, I hope we can be friends.” SMH.
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