The first and only holiday bonus I ever received was my first year in sex-posi #girlboss retail: a check for $250. I spent the whole thing on a Bordelle bra, a black balconette with a strap that framed the top of my breasts like a cartoonist’s outline. It was the most expensive piece of clothing I’d ever bought myself. The bra became my protective carapace that year. It was the base layer for the outfit I wore to my first-ever sex party. Months later, in the midst of a bewildering breakup, I took a break from grief-vomiting for a promotional photoshoot. I paired the bra with strappy high-waisted panties and fringed opera-length gloves, and posed in a downtown boutique hotel like a fat Bond Girl. As I braced myself against the floor-to-ceiling glass window, I felt every stereotypical thing that people say about lingerie: that it’s for you, not for them, that you get dressed from the inside out, like the French. I was a ripe, juicy fruit and the bra was my peel, containing me — but just barely.
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