In Support of Garter Belts

It is Saturday at Bloomingdale's and I am standing in front of the garter-belt counter, trying to find a "lacy little white one" with satin ribbons. The purchase of a garter belt has not been my idea. But more on that later.

Bits of a conversation between a man and a woman who are looking at the black garter belts drift over to me. At first, I can't figure out what a couple in their late 50s are doing in Bloomingdale's picking out sexy black garter belts together. But then I look up and see that they're not in their late 50s at all; the self-conscious, halting tone of the woman's voice has thrown me off.

"This one?" I hear the woman of the couple say uncertainly. Her attractive mate, who looks more than anything else like a lawyer, nods decisively. The two of them seem to be solid citizens in their 30s.

The saleslady passes by. "I'll ... uh ... take this one, please," says the woman nervously.

"Did you try it on?" the saleslady asks.

"Oh, I'm sure it will fit fine," the woman says. But before she can close the deal, the saleslady reaches over the counter with the garter belt and insists that the woman try it on over her dress.

"Oh, no, no, I know it's perfect," says the woman, pulling back mortified.

"Will that be all, then?" the saleslady says, turning to the cash register.

The man is standing to the woman's left. He begins jabbing her repeatedly in the side with his elbow. "The panties," he whispers urgently.

"Oh, yes," the woman says, "I'd like some bikini pants to go with it."

"Panties would be in the next section," says the saleslady.

"Oh . . . Ok . . . fine. Just that, then."

As they walk away looking relieved, I find that I am laughing hysterically. What am I laughing for? I have just spent half an hour browsing through the lingerie department, trying to figure out how to purchase a lacy white garter belt without being too conspicuous. I rehearse asking outright for a white garter belt, white panties and white hose and letting the saleslady and the people at my right and left think what they please. Then I backslide and consider introducing myself to the saleslady as an old-fashioned nurse in need of a complete set of undergarments.

•

I am on a mission of love, you see. My boyfriend, who doesn't seem to like anything as well as shiny white underpants, has regularly asked me to please, just for kicks, get a white garter belt and panties and hose. I'm from the panty-hose generation; I grew up snickering at ladies in garter belts. I thought being totally undressed was sexy; he thought being partially undressed was sexier. I kidded him about it; he mentioned his craving less often. He was hopeful; I was firm. We dropped the subject.

Then one week, he went out of town and a friend of mine invited me to see my first porno film. It was Gerard Damiano's Odyssey. I'm told that most porno films have a little something for everyone, and I believe that is true of Odyssey, which even has a scene for that army of people who have soft spots for ladies shooting themselves in their vaginas. I wasn't so much interested in the character who shoots herself in the vagina as I was in what happens right before: She methodically shaves her pubic area and then slips into a pair of little white bikini pants threaded with tiny pink ribbons, a white-satin garter belt and white nylon stockings. She glows. She looks clean and beautiful and she seems even to smell good. And, to tell you the truth, I decided on the spot that Damiano's genius for porn didn't have a thing to do with how clean and beautiful she looked--it was the white garter belt, the white panties and the white nylons that did it.

So here I am in Bloomingdale's. I begin to worry that I have too much in common with Marabel Morgan, but I push those thoughts aside and get down to the serious business of deciding which style of white garter belt to buy. I pick two minimal white ones and go into a fitting room. I pull my jeans down to my knees and hook the tinier of the two garter belts around my waist. The vision in the mirror takes my breath away.

Now that I have actually seen myself in it, I am feeling doubly lascivious and eager to conceal my motives. I want the exchange of money to be over as quickly as possible. At the garter-belt counter, I am earnestly looking for a saleswoman, when a man walks up.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Sims," says the saleslady I had hoped was coming to wait on me. "You're back so soon."

"Well, I ... er ... just like to keep up with the new merchandise," he says, obviously realizing too late he should have stayed away longer.

"We do have a few new things--a garter belt from Christian Dior," the saleslady says.

"Well, perhaps," says Mr. Sims, trying to conceal his eagerness.

They walk off to another counter. Pervert, I think.

I look around and notice that the lingerie department has become a sea of hands. There are literally hundreds of people--men as well as women--grabbing at the underwear for sale. I am amazed at the number of couples who appear to be from wealthy New York City suburbs. In fact, I later meet the Bloomingdale's lingerie buyer, who six years ago was responsible for putting the first pair of black-lace bikini panties into a Bloomingdale's catalog. The stock on those panties sold out four times (that's 11,000 panties). If the panties had been white, the buyer said, fewer than half as many would have been sold. A large portion of the orders came from the city of Philadelphia and the state of Connecticut. The orders were placed more by men than by women. According to the buyer, an enormous percentage of the men were doctors.

I also see young career women like myself who are doubtless on their own intimate buying missions. Most importantly, it occurs to me that when a major department store devotes three entire counters to garter belts and related undergarments that are more sexy than functional, I no longer need to fear embarrassment when making my purchase.

I boldly seek out another saleslady. "Can I please pay for this?" I ask.

"Sure, I'll be glad to help you, dear," says the kindly matron I've picked out. "Just a minute."

I hand her the white garter belt and my credit card.

"Are you sure this is what you want?" she asks.

"Yes," I say, wondering why she would ask such a question.

She rings up my purchase and as she hands me my package, she says sotto voce, "Let me give you some advice. What you really ought to buy is a black garter belt and black hose."

I am not certain what determines a preference for white or black. For the most part, the matronly saleslady is right: Whenever I confess how garter belts intrigue me, the person I am talking to inevitably tells me his or her own black-garter-belt story.

I have a 25-year-old friend who comes from a wealthy and famous conservative family. Panty-hose generation or no, he told me of an affaire de coeur that involved a woman who bought black panties, black hose and a black garter belt to please him. A cousin of mine, on her honeymoon, stopped into a New York lingerie shop to pick out a garter belt. It had been a joint husband-and-wife venture until, in front of the saleslady, my cousin asked her new husband which of three black garter belts he preferred. He took sudden intractable interest in pink-flannel nightgowns. "Whatever you want, honey. Makes no difference to me," he said offhandedly.

Nonetheless, my boyfriend liked "lacy little white ones." So did Gerard Damiano. And now so did I.

•

My boyfriend returned home from his trip on the evening of the Saturday I had gone to Bloomingdale's. While I awaited his arrival, I took a bubble bath. I smoothed lotion over my entire body. Dusted myself with fragrant powder. I stepped into the white panties with the pink-satin ribbons and hooked the lacy little white garter belt around my hips. I pulled the nylon stockings on the way it is done in the movies. I started at the toe, flexed my knee and slowly extended my leg until the stocking pulled tight at my thigh. I surveyed myself in the mirror and savored my accomplishment. Then I put my clothes on.

He rang the bell. At the door, we kissed and hugged. He carried his bags to the bedroom and sat down, out of breath. I bent down to kiss him, as I always did, knowing he would caress the back of my thigh, as he always did.

At first, he simply grazed the back of my skirt with his hand. Feeling something slippery, he moved his hand under my skirt near my knee. I tingled. When his hand reached the garter clasps, he gasped.

"A garter belt!" he exclaimed in the singular manner of a man who has for the first time discovered that his girlfriend is wearing a garter belt.

I stepped back and lifted my skirt slightly to afford a view of the garter ensemble. He tackled me affectionately on the bed.

"I thought you hated garter belts," he said, between kisses.

Sometime later--much later--that night, I lay sleepily musing on the power of lacy little white garter belts, white panties with pink-satin ribbons and nylon stockings. Visions of other lacy lingerie I could buy at Bloomingdale's danced before me. I wondered whether or not it would be too soon to go back on Monday.