The name says it all.
A lace plunge teddy.
And plunge I did.
I plunged to my butt. I plunged to my elbow. I plunged nearly all the way down the stairs.
Wait.
Is “plunge” one of those cringeworthy words?
Now that I write it over and over, I fear we might need to send “plunge” the way of “moist,” “pucker,” and “Uranus.”
Let’s not use words like “plunge” when referring to sexy lingerie, shall we agree?
So what if the makers of this satiny garment call it a lace plunge teddy? I say we give it a new name. The lace V teddy, because it cuts a V down my neck, between my breasts, to the top of my belly button.
V indeed.
And last night, it gave me confidence. It helped me radiate desire, and it boosted my spirits.
But the thing is, asking a man to disrobe you while you walk up the stairs in heels is like trying to run the egg-and-spoon race while also carrying a wily cat in your arms and balancing a bucket of water on your head.
IT DOESN’T WORK.
Or, really, it works phenomenally well if your goal is to twist your ankle.
My handsome scene partner and I reenacted the staircase strip four times last night. Each time, we landed on our butts, elbows, hips, or the wrong side of our feet.
The problem is, you’re not supposed to land. You’re supposed to parade upstairs, looking sensual, shooting sexy-times eyes at your lover, and sashaying to Sade.
But where there’s a will, there’s a way.
We were determined to make this scene work, so we found a way. Or, rather, he did.
He took the lead, whispering naughty words and deeds in his smoky, gravelly voice as he followed me up the steps.
Then, when we reached the top step, he whisked off my dress.
In one bold, swift, commanding move.
Like a hero in a romance novel, casually, coolly dropping the fabric to the floor.
And my silky black clothes pooled by my feet as I stood wearing only heels and a teddy that exposed most of my flesh.
Most.
But not all.
Plenty was left to the imagination.
And that’s why I say don’t try the staircase shimmy at home. But do indulge in a piece of clothing that will make you feel adored when the one you want tugs everything else off you.
In short? Make this move your own.
Xoxo
The Lingerie Devotee
Find me at You Look Pretty Today on Madison Avenue
18
Peyton
When I walk into Gin Joint on Friday night to see my girls, I check if I have toilet paper on my Jimmy Choos.
Nope.
Maybe a leaf fell into my hair? I brush a hand over my head as I make my way to the purple velvet couch Amy and Lola have commandeered in the center of the lounge.
With the way my two best friends stare at me, like I’m a giraffe walking backward, something has to be amiss.
I run my hands down my leopard-print skirt, then check my backside. “Do I have lint on my shirt? Dirt on my nose? A sign taped to my back that says I ate two whole chocolate bars for lunch? Because I swear, if Marley ratted me out about my midday Lulu’s Chocolates scarf session, that girl is toast.”
Amy blinks, holds up a stop-sign hand. “Wait. Your dessert compartment is that big? It holds two chocolate bars?”
I sit next to her, crossing my legs, answering primly, “It wasn’t my dessert compartment. It was my lunch compartment.”
Lola bows. “I had no idea it was possible to eat two chocolate bars for lunch. I humble myself before you, O Great Chocolate Queen.”
I pat her curls. “You may rise now, my subject.” Taking a moment, I stare at them like they’re crazy. “Guys! No, I didn’t eat two chocolate bars.” I lower my voice, cupping my hand to my mouth. “I had one. But seriously. Why are you staring at me with those you’re-so-naughty eyes?”
Amy gently shoves my leg. “Because you are naughty. Ahem.” She clears her throat, adopts a sultry tone. “But do indulge in a piece of clothing that will make you feel adored when the one you want tugs everything else off you.”
I shrug as a waitress swings by and asks for my order. I eye Amy’s drink.
“This one’s called Last Word. It’s delish,” Amy says. “Get it.”
“I’ll have the same, thanks,” I tell the woman, then return to my friends. “So, what’s the issue with my blog?”
Lola blinks rapidly. “What’s the issue? You just declared in a public forum that you want Tristan.”
“No. No, that’s not what I said.” I jerk my head back, shocked they’d leap to that conclusion. “I did not. I was writing about . . . ”
But I don’t entirely know how to fill in the blank. I was writing about whether romance novel scenes work. About walking up stairs. Was I writing about reenacting desire?
Or rekindling it?
Lola does know how to close the thought, it seems, since she jumps in. “You were writing about how you felt. With Tristan.”
Her statement—bold, possibly true—rings like a gong.
And with it, a host of nerves descends on me. Nerves I haven’t felt quite like this. Because this time, the nerves aren’t about what I’m doing. They’re about what I’m feeling.
Or, rather, what I can’t let myself feel.
I recalibrate. “It was an experiment, and I was writing about it sort of as if I’m an everywoman. I was saying, as an everywoman, you want to feel desired when the guy, or gal, stares at you like they want to ravish you.”
Amy points at me excitedly. “That’s how he looked at you! Like he wanted to ravish you. I knew it. Called it.”
She offers a high five to Lola, who smacks it.
“You’re placing bets on how Tristan looked at me?”
They nod in unison, twin torturesses.
“And you guys are my friends, right? Just want to make sure.”
“We are your people.” Amy pats my knee. “Now, how did it feel when he stared at you like he wanted to eat you up like those chocolate bars?”
Decadent.
I wave a hand, wishing I could erase this conversation because it’s treading on dangerous shores. “I wrote about it. It was an experiment. I wasn’t saying he’s the one I want.”
Lola arches a brow, her expression shifting. “But do you? Do you want him?”
“Because it seems like maybe you do from those posts,” Amy adds, a gentleness in her tone.
My throat hitches. My breath comes fast with the swell of rising emotions I do my best to deny. “I was just trying to capture a moment. To write broadly about how a woman might feel if she were in the shoes of a romance heroine.”
“Did you feel like one?” Amy asks, all teasing stripped from her tone.
Did I?
Yes.
In my bones. In my heart. In my mind.
But I can’t answer with words. If I speak, the reality might terrify me. I can only nod.
Lola inches closer. “Does that scare you?”
Yes.
But I don’t want to give voice to the fear. I keep the question in my head a little longer, mulling it over, turning it this way and that. Maybe because I don’t want to experience all this strange newness by myself, I manage to whisper, “So much,” as the waitress brings me the drink.