Dressing myself, while I love sheer materials, lace is not a favorite among them. Lace to me is about a type of femininity I don’t possess, something soft and subtle and tactile. The patterns are small and delicate and on my bigger body I just feel like they don’t seem to balance. I have never been able to wear frills and ruffles in a way I felt suited me or felt comfortable, so many years ago I gave up trying.
When I came to write this piece I had very little to go on. There was a lace dress in my wardrobe, but it is possibly one of the most matronly things I own…
For as long as I can remember, I have been aware that guys in eyeliner were hot. As I grew up, although I am slightly too young for the whole new romantic vibe to be “my” music, that is definitely the start of my appreciation of things that don’t conform to conservative gender presentations.
I read voraciously, more like other people seem to watch tv. And like how we watch tv, some is serious documentary style stuff, but the majority if fluffy (if well written) pleasure. One set of books I have enjoyed over recent months is the Leashes and Lace series by Shaw Montgomery.
I decided this prompt was a good excuse for an experiment. Leashes and Lace are M/M romances that are bubblegum bright, based around a male lingerie company. The idea intrigues me. Not necessarily the old cliché of the businessman wearing his wife’s undies exactly but I do apparently love men in lace lingerie.
The lovely Mr Hunt was patient with me as always, and we decided on a trade off.
Lacy boxers for him and something he wanted to see me in, however I felt it was unlikely I would feel comfortable in, for me.
He swaggers in to the living room, with a happy little smile which wasn’t entirely from getting the kids to bed, and starts to unbuckle his belt. Black lace shorts peak through the fly.
They invite touch. To press them against his skin and catch more of a peek at the skin beneath. And they are soft. Much softer than I expected, letting through more of the warmth of his flesh.
I had forgotten how nice it could be to kiss someone through lace. That added texture brought back memories of very different bodies and very different times. Despite the memories, the physicality of exploring the new sensations with him made me very aware of each tiny point of our contact. He loved the feeling of my breath through the fabric, the almost touch of my mouth against the lace.
I loved the visual. I loved the newness.
I loved being able to see everything happening beneath the fabric.
Then it was my turn.
The first thing I learnt was next time I want to wear lace, I need to change out my nipple jewelry for something less likely to snag in the fabric.
It was hard to feel attractive in something I’d told myself didn’t suit me. Hundreds of photos later, I still wasn’t convinced. There was nowhere to hide, no structure to hold me in place.
The answer to this was to not rely on my own perception of my body. I was never going to defeat the feeling that I looked as attractive as a pound of lard in a string bag. I handed the camera over.
He told me he like the tease of knowing what was beneath the fabric. The contrast between the paleness of my skin and the black. The softness adding texture under his fingers and his mouth.
I prefer to see myself through his eyes.
Is lace our new kink? Probably not… but it was very interesting to explore something new that kept us both focused on each other rather than stressed by the world.
And yes… I still like men in lace, including my own lovely Mr Hunt.