Last week I treated myself to a proper steel-boned corset.
It’s Cadbury purple.
That would have been enough to tempt me, but then I got to try it on. I’m used to the cool appraising gaze and business-like hands of Her Majesty’s brassiere fitters, but this takes that several steps further.
Letting those practiced hands adjust me, smoothing the corset’s sides and my ribs, tugging the modesty panel straight, doing the Picard manoeuvre, judging how much tighter it can be made. Having someone handle me firmly, being made to stand taller, feeling myself pull in and up, the subtle but growing pressure on my body as the laces are pulled tighter, incrementally: bottom, then top, then bottom, then top, one hand constantly taking up the slack in the middle.
I find it thoroughly enjoyable and deeply comforting. Babies like being swaddled; I like being held tight.
When she’s done, she says “well“, quietly, but clearly impressed – and, finally allowed to look in the mirror, I’m stunned by the literal hourglass I’ve become. My small but very short waist is even tinier, an amazing contrast with my hips and chest.
I should have got a picture then. I can never get them tight enough myself, for two reasons.
The first is that while I can exert a fair amount of strength pulling the ties, I’d be able to give it far more welly if I wasn’t working against my shoulders. I’ve been told door handles are my friends in this respect.
The other reason is that I get myself terribly confused tightening the laces and pulling the spare lacing in the right direction from the hips and bust.
To be honest, I like how obvious it is even when I’m not cinched right in.
Who else is playing this weekend? Click on the kiss: