Fit to be Tied: My Love Affair with Corsets

FIT TO BE TIED: THE POWER OF CORSETS

By Athena Bradford 

I was browsing the aisles of my favorite sensuality boutique, when Raye Andrews, the owner, help up a black leather corset.  “Try this on,” she urged. I had been fingering satin camisoles and silk kimonos to add to my collection.  Reshaping my torso with busks and binding was not on my agenda.

Raye knows me well, so she hit me with her best shot.  “I’ve had it in the backroom for weeks, and I’ve been waiting until just the right woman walked in. Flattered and feeling adventurous and slightly naughty, I agreed to put on the intimidating intimate apparel.

Once in the dressing room, however, I discovered that this was easier said than done. Fumbling with the laces, I tried to figure out the construction plan.  Did the zipper go in the front or back?  Were my boobs supposed to go inside or outside the scalloped edge?  Could anyone’s waist possibly be so tiny?

Coming to my rescue, Raye reoriented both the bodice and my breasts and began to adjust the grip. “Take a deep breath and hold it. Don’t let it out until I’m finished.” Before I could object, she took hold of the strings and began to pull.

Anticipating a tourniquet, I discovered temptation.  As the bumps in my road took on a decidedly hourglass shape, I kept urging her, “Tighter, make it tighter.”

I know what you’re thinking: “What sane woman would willingly subject herself to the bondage of a corset?”

Well, I am the first to admit that my passion for corseting defies logic. 

First, I’m not the sort of person who concocts potions of pain, for myself or anyone else. Power struggles interest me, but when the tightening and turning of the screws crosses over into masochistic torture, I’m out of there: “If you ever do that again, I’ll fucking kill you,” have proven to be very effective safe words.

Second, like most women I know, I Hate, Hate, Hate wearing bras, and trust me; I’ve tried every possible variation. I’ve poured my 34B breasts into demi-cups and caged them in wire. I’ve supported them with water wings and pressurized them with gel. My poor tired tits have taken the plunge, endured the full press, and weathered full-frontal assaults.

I do own a sizeable stack of confectionary pasties and pastries for when I’m intent on seduction. When the mood strikes, I delight in decorating my cupcake breasts with black tracings of lace and caviar pearls.  Displaying them on a cantilevered platter arouses my audience, and me quite nicely, thank you. But in the hide and seek tension of foreplay, my leading ladies are usually uncovered before the end of Act II.

For the most part, my bra is the first thing I shrug off when I get home and the very last thing I tug on in the morning

Third, I am emotionally allergic to all other support garments.  Wearing Spanx® is pure torture, and I am always on the losing side of Lycra. Oh sure, these slimming foundation garments smooth out the uneven bits, but after all that squeezing and stuffing, I feel like an upholstered armchair poised for the moment of release.  How can I ever utter the words, “I want you take me to bed and mess up my covers,” when I’m firmer than my mattress?

So why do I a have secret stash of corsets in my closet?  Because while a lover’s hand encircling my waist is a caress, the pull of a corset’s strings is a command: “Pay attention!”  Each tug forces me straighter and pulls at the core of my eroticism.

Corralled in a corset, my tightened waist becomes an internal landmark leading to a secret stash of desire.  If as St. Thomas Aquinas said, “All knowledge has its origins in sensations,” lacing acquaints me with my core sexuality.  A corset functions as a reminder, a passionate Post-It note, that I have something important to offer.  I morph into a serpentine Eve when I experience my warm, soft skin rise up above a corset’s reinforced seams. Toss in some glitter and glam, and the transformation is complete.

Some women openly display their corsets to flaunt their sexuality. Worn as a tease beneath an open jacket or brazenly on view as a bodice, a corset is the ultimate siren call.  Lavishly embroidered and embellished, sex falls from its slips at the slightest provocation. The restraining architecture cries out to be touched, like the woman within it.

That’s not my style. My goal is to feel internally flammable, not overtly incendiary.  It’s a secret that I may or may not share with a lover in the privacy of my home, but the power is all mine.  When I wear a waist cincher beneath a tailored suit, I’m concentrating on anticipated pleasure even while I’m discussing business priorities.  It’s the mystery under the mundane.

Wearing a corset is not a choice I make everyday, or even most days.  I am much more a slave to comfort than a supplicant of steel and suspension. Sweats are my default mode, and freedom triumphs over fashion whenever I’m in the position to make the choice.

Yet like a great many women, my sexuality covers a lot of emotional and physical territory—from surrender to dominance and everything in between.  I wear corsets because I don’t want to be an infrequent visitor to those feelings. So when my confidence flounders or when my flames recede, wearing a corset is the perfect anodyne to a sluggish libido.

Sometimes smutty, always sexy, my corsets serve as bookmarks, recording the connected chapters of my pleasure.