Lingerie and Sausages

I owe a lot to a woman I‘ve never met: whoever trained my boyfriend in how to treat the ladies. For example, when we arrived at our bed and breakfast in the Wine Country for Valentine’s Day, he had a dozen roses waiting for me, plus I received my very favorite candy, See’s Dark Chocolate Molasses Chips. Any man who sends flowers ahead of time and goes near a See’s Candy store during the week leading up to Valentine’s Day is a definite keeper.

But, as the commercial says, that’s not all.

That night, I received a stunning art glass necklace and matching earrings. The man pays attention! And another present, this one for him: a lacy bustier and matching microscopic panties. Everybody wins! (Funny how the most expensive clothing is the smallest and stays on for the shortest amount of time.) Both of us were grinning ear to ear as I dashed to the bathroom to put it on.

The smile faded as I observed the size on the label, which was only a single digit. How terribly flattering, and terrifying at the same time. Minutes later, I was emitting groans and cursing like a longshoreman - a real turn-on, I’m sure.

“Honey, are you OK in there?” he asked.

“I’m FINE!” I spat, then softened: poor guy. “I’ll be out in a minute.” The thing about lingerie is, if you like to see it on women, don’t watch them put it on. It’s not pretty, the way that watching sausages being made will ruin them for you forever.

By the time I emerged, I looked just fine. Of course, I had lifted and tucked and re-shaped my body to fit the sausage casing: the built-in brassiere had definite spill-over (not a bad thing), and the laces up the back were loosened so much that my entire dorsal region was exposed.

But then again, who was looking at the back?