The magic of good underwear – underwear so good you want to call it ‘lingerie’, in a French accent – is endless.
When you get the really good stuff – the Olympic standard gear; the stuff dealers only sell to their ‘special customers’ – straight girls can have their heads turned by other straight girls in it.
Once, I ended up in a strip club with my friend, Vicky. It’s a long story. Indeed it’s most of Chapter 9. But when, at around 1am, a stripper called Marina gave us a private dance, my head was swimming after just three minutes. I was in some kind of Imperial Lingerie Swoon. Marina’s incredible, Snow-White arse was wrapped, like a present, in cerise-coloured satin – the ribbon ties trailing down her thighs. As she swayed from side to side, laughing, it was impossible to think of anything other than how you could hear the faint, faint rasp of the fabric on her skin, and how overwhelmingly tempting it was to pull those ribbons, like an emergency brake, and bring her to a shuddering, sudden stop, right next to your face.
Caitlin Moran - “How To Be A Woman”