When I was a little girl, the ladies' dressing rooms at big department stores looked like torture chambers. All around, wide-hipped matrons heaved and sighed and dripped sweat as they struggled with the thick, tight girdles, and stiff pointy bras with straps that carved welts into their skin, and baroque hardware to keep slippery unbreathable stockings in place. If that was womanhood, I wanted to be a man.
This may partly explain my thrill today in making men wear this stuff.
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