Victoria's Secret

Every year, Victoria’s Secret models sway down the runway, wearing the next-to-nothings frothed up by this year’s designers. I usually wince for them, imagining all the waxing and not-eating that has gone into the making the shine and smoothness of their bodies. But I also have to admire the way the stuff actually skims over their bodies and the feral expression on their faces.

I used to think about these models whenever I went into a department store to buy my undies. I was usually taken over to what I call the prosthetic department. This is where they sell bras that have one hundred different ways of stretched elastic to hold things up and hold things in. They look like nursing bras. Or panties that look more like the gym knickers I wore in school, designed to camouflage and be—that very British word—comfy. I couldn’t imagine the VS models in anything like these aircraft carriers of underclothes. Of course, they wouldn’t need to be. But I also came to the conclusion that they wouldn’t put up with a choice of only white, beige, or black.

One day, I mutinied. I crossed the mall from where I had been shopping and went into Victoria’s Secret. When I first heard the name of the store, I’d thought it must stock things like lavender sachets and lace-trimmed petticoats like Queen Victoria might have used to tempt her Albert. I was soon disabused of the idea.

Here was everything I had been lusting for. Shiny panties in kaleidoscopic colours that came in three sizes: small, smaller, and did I forget to put them on today? Their bras came with one angle of thrust: out and up. Size was optional and an asset. I fell in love.

That first day, though, I decided that my initial self-consciousness in this unapologetic celebration of the body would only allow me to look at nighties, with the prepared excuse that I was shopping for my non-existent daughter. I found frilly baby-doll confections, some even in sizes that I might hope to get over my head. But I didn’t need my pretense. The saleswoman didn’t seem to turn a hair and showed me to the changing rooms.

The first one I tried on was full of straps and I had trouble finding where my arms were supposed to go. Back to the hanger. The next one was virginal white with silver satin bands. Very pretty but made me look as if a mound of cotton candy was trying to sneak into a slumber party. The third was soft layers, with a strawberry pink cover over taupe under. I could get in it. True, I looked a bit like a dumpy fairy, but I decided to take it and promised myself to lose weight. Then I tried on the last one: a lacy black confection with little ribbons and an intoxicating sway about the hips. I posed in front of the mirror, putting on the Victoria Secret’s pout. I looked bloody ridiculous, but it wasn’t the outfit’s fault. Where was all this when I was young?

“Are you doing all right?” the saleswoman called over the swinging door.

“Just fine,” I called back. “I’ll be out in a minute.”

Reality had intruded. Quickly, I took off the black nightie and hung it back on the hanger. I had a momentary horror that someone might have been watching on a surveillance camera. What a story that person would have to tell tonight. But as I put on my street clothes, I noticed that the room seemed empty and very quiet. I fingered the black nightie again and heard again the distant jungle roar.

When I went over to pay, I bought them both. I had a smile on my face. I could wear the pink one. I could dream about the black one. I’d have to keep the black one secret though, so no one would laugh. That’s when I knew why they chose the name Victoria’s Secret.

In a confidential mood, I leaned into the cashier and whispered to her. “Not all your customers look like your models, you know.”

She leaned back to me and whispered. “Neither do the salespeople.”

I like Victoria’s Secret. I will be back.