Bra Shopping, Body Issues and Partying Naked (TMI-ish)

Next weekend My Mr. and I are going to a Mardi Gras masquerade The Dom is throwing. I scored an amazing deal on a red dress that puts 'the girls' properly on display, hugs my waist and flows perfectly over my hips. The issue is that the arm holes are just big enough that my bra shows through so I need a red bra to wear with it. Last weekend we went to Kohl's and I tried on what seemed like 100 red bras. We tried every possible equation to find the right size... 38D is too small in the cup. 38DD is too small around. 40C poked out on the sides. 40D had miles to spare... You get the point. It's like algebra added to the already demoralizing experience of buying clothing.

Even as I work towards embracing the extra fluff on the edges I'm still forced to contend with the discomfort of "sizing" and the expectations that clothing manufacturers put on women by the way they make clothes. Apparently having my size hips means I should be 6 feet tall with a giant belly. Seriously.

So today we tried again... First at one of the department stores in the mall. (I can't remember which ones we went into, and where I even bothered to make an attempt) and then I resorted to Victoria's Secret. It pains me to think of spending the same amount on a bra as I spent on my dress, but I was desperate. The fitting girl said I am a 38DD and returned with 2 red bras. The dressing room was like a sauna and the lights were the usual, unbearably bright kind that accentuate every blotch, every wrinkle and every ounce of back fat. The first bra squished my sides, dug into my shoulders and gave me quadra-boob. The second bra also squished all around but poked out in the front on the sides as though it was too big in the cups. Same size. Same store. Totally different fit. What. The. Fuck, right?

I deposited both over-priced bras on the 'don't want' rack and sulked out with tears in my eyes. On the way out of the mall I did was any sensible fat girl would- I got a bag of cinnamon sugar pretzel bites with cream cheese and came home to my sweat pants.
 
Here's the real kicker about my body issue moment: tonight we are going to our first "Socially Nude/ Lingerie Optional" party. The host is the same guy that hosted the Halloween party. We have run into him since then at other social events with some of the other Alt-Lifestyle groups we are all members of. He's been very clear that this is not a play party and addressed concerns of those new to social nudity such as "What about accidental erections?"

It's a big boundary pushing this for us. Despite my lack of shyness, I'm still really struggling with being okay with the extra weight I've put on since moving out here. My Mr. has been even more anxious about the party, and has talked about it at least once daily for the last week. He has also been doing a lot of clothes shopping, and an equal amount of clothes returning due to sizing issues.

It's a mean trick played on us all by an industry that makes millions telling us all that we are not good enough. They play with numbers and add buzz words to make each item stand out, while telling us that it's all standardized and emphasizing your SIZE, rather than your shape.

Once upon a time ago I was a perfect size 4 and a 32D. I had the body of a Victoria's Secret model for the first time in my life and couldn't wait to buy lingerie to show it off. Several online orders and several returns later I realized that even the clothes in Victoria's Secret are not made for a Victoria's Secret body.

I just don't understand it... Who DO "they" make all of these clothes for?

Night at the Gay Bar

In a moment of "Fuck it!" I wriggled into the red dress and fishnets for a 2nd time in 2 days. I opted for my knee-length boots instead of the impossible ankle-breakers I wobbled around in at the Burlesque show on Friday night. Destination: the gay bar up in the city that out last date talked about.

I won't deny that minor panic attack that came over me as we circled the block looking for parking. Everyone we saw on the street looked absolutely "Normal" to the point where I was sure I was going to be totally over-dressed. After finding parking and mistaking what looked like the front door under the sign and awning for the entrance, we back-tracked to the door where a group of men were outside smoking and walked in.

The momentary awkwardness between having our ID's checked and the first walk around the bar quickly subsided when I sat down in the same bench & coffee table area as 2 very suburban, almost frumpy looking M/F couples. I saw a bag and jacket on one of the end tables and asked if anyone was sitting there. They gestured that I could sit and My Mr. headed for the bar. Within about 2 minutes an older, very intoxicated Italian man from London was kissing my hand and going on about how gorgeous I was and how much he loved my curves. The bag near where I had sat down belonged to his date- a beautiful young black man with long dreads in a conservative sweater and jeans named Michael. Michael was friendly, warm and easy to talk to despite his date's overly-exuberant state. He reminded me of a co-worker who recently left my job: same field of study in college, talk of family and prayer and the differences between race and "culture."

The Italian Man eventually asked if I was with anyone, and seemed genuinely shocked each time I told him I was here with my husband. (Being so inebriated, there was quite an echo in our exchange.) When My Mr. returned with drinks, The Italian Man only briefly stopped petting my fishnets and made sure there would be no offense taken at his gawking at me, then at his repeated expression of how gorgeous we both were. The Italian Man did say that he had never been with a black man before and that before meeting Michael he considered himself to be a racist. They had plans to see DC the next day and after hugs and kisses goodbye, we went to check out the karaoke room.

One song later, we ventured back to the bar where we met John, a cute ginger graphic designer a couple years younger than me. My Mr. had gone to get a drink and I saw a man flirting with him, reaching over and putting his hand on his back. He returned with a drink and I suggested he go back and get me water. More flirting, and then they looked over and gestured for me to join them at the bar.  There was the usual “What do you do? Have you been here before? Are you from around here?” as well as discussions of identity and labels. John said he had known he was gay all his life and had never been with a woman... while he had his arm around my waist. When I first approached he had expressed his disappointment at My Mr. being here with something so much more beautiful- me. It was only upon learning that he had a boyfriend and they were monogamous did a door close on the possibility of more than casual flirting. John didn’t seem to fully realize this in his inebriated state and went so far as to try to pull My Mr. back into the bathroom with him at one point. That was the only moment that I felt anything other than flattered at the attention we were both getting. In that moment, my claws came out and I only relaxed when My Mr. quickly returned.

The other half of the bar had a dance club area with pulsing lights, fog and lasers that we briefly visited before retreating again to the more relaxed bar area. John had friends there, but spent the rest of the night chatting us up and occasionally goosing My Mr. It really was a test of our own code of ethics to not go too
far with things, and around his 3^rd rum and coke My Mr.’s resolve was quite weak. He confided that I was his conscience and had I not been there the evening would have gone differently. I agreed that if John was single, or ethically non-monogamous I would have been on board with things.

One of the conversations that sticks out in my mind was when John asked me what I thought he “was.” He said he had been known his whole life he was gay and had never been with a woman but he was questioning things. “Am I gay? Am I bi?” To which I reminded him of the salad analogy I’d presented earlier in the evening. “Have you ever eaten a salad? … Did it make you a vegetarian? … So why should sucking cock make a man gay?” John was just on the opposite end of things- a gay man that seemed to be considering the possibility of trying pussy.

Maybe it’s that My Mr. is so hot that a gay man was considering being with a woman in order to be with him. Or maybe it’s that I’m so hot that I could make a gay man rethink his identity. Admittedly, neither of these scenarios does any less for either of our egos.

At the end of the night we exchanged numbers and hugs and My Mr. kissed John on the lips, causing a bit of tension on the way home. John sent a text message a little later saying he was looking forward to getting to know us better and hanging out again. We aren’t sure if we’ll hear back from him again, and if we do, how we will handle the balance of attention being shifted at My Mr. much in the way it was on our very first date exactly a year ago this week. The problem I have with it all is the obvious honesty issues John has. My Mr. and I have both been there and understand, but part of our agreement is that we will not get involved with anyone who is in any kind of dishonest situation. On top of all that, the age difference and the fact that he lives at home but is not “out” to his family just leaves me feeling unsettled.

Either way, the weekend was amazing! I’m so glad I pushed past my own apprehension and into my high heels again. It’s been too long and we need to do it again sooner rather than later.