Songstress Joyce Grenfell once quipped that “happiness is the sublime moment when you get out of your corsets at night.” Being body bound seems to be very out of vogue these days, unless you’re the female lead in one of those erotic Asian art house thrillers where an ancient warrior unwraps your feet, gives you a chaste kiss and sets you free in the lush mountainous village landscape.

Those of you who know me well are keenly aware of how I fight the power, buck the trends, and give little thought to adhering to the of-the-moment “it trends” whether it be in fashion, culture or traditional gender roles. After all, who else dons a bright green polyester sundress in the summer Beltway heat to visit conservative Senate staffers beloved by the Christian Coalition? Not the Policy Wonkette, I assure you.
Alright, enough gafawing. I have a confession to make. Got your priest collar ready? With a little urging from the medieval maven in my life, I have put my initial feminist misgivings aside and gone to a corsetiere to find out what the mysterious pattern cutting and whale bone wows are all about. I admit to being pleasantly surprised. Other than standing in my skivvies, having every inch of abdominal fat on my body measured and recorded, it was a very empowering process. One that ended up with me as the owner of a snazzy dual-colored mid-hip stunner. My “maker” is a true artiste who pursues her stitch-in-time calling with zeal and carefully thinks through and improves on every aspect of corset construction. The one catch to making a purchase?…you have to snatch a co-conspirator willing to lace you up from the back and must also entertain the notion that your bod will fit into a garmet four inches smaller than your REAL waist size, with more than a little time and training. 26 inches here I come!

Looking to improve your posture, feel savvy and sexy during a business meeting or get that special someone to stand up and take notice? Check out http://www.waspcreations.com/ You won’t be disappointed and neither will your partner in crime.

Signed,
(TLRT) That Little Red-Headed Tightlacer

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In days of yore and yonder past, if a gent really fancied you, he’d bring back wood and game as sustenance for your culinary cave fire or offer help disembraking from the carriage. :kiss1: What, you wonder, is the modern day Order of the Garter equivalent? According to my guy, it’s whipping out the ol’ Woolite Gel and gettin’ down to business…with, ahem, the unmentionables. Yes, it’s true that while in Europe Mr. Q really did as the Europeans do and handwashed each of my lacy-racies in our barbie-sized bathroom sink. :redhead: Oh and a few pairs of stinky, dirty socks too.

Every relationship has milestones…for some it is the first overnight slumberparty stay. For others, it’s the inaugural joint purchase of articles ranging from a supermarket potroast to a lawnmower. For me, one was watching my Highland honey gladly scrub and ring out EACH of my panty pairs (twice) and tenderly put them on our hotel heater to dry. The act of stepping outside himself (with nose pinched) to do something sub-Brahim meant more to me than any roses and $2,000 Liberty shopping spree ever could. He not only touched my undies, he touched my heart. I therefore nominate him for scrub-a-dub-dub sainthood. And give him latitude for his frequent bodily eruptions. Hail RJQ! Remind me never to travel on a trip longer than W’s attention span without him.
With Love and Detergent Bubbles,
TLRL

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