Of Course It’s Complex

abril 9, 2019 at 4:54 pm (Personal)

Okay, so this may just be my favorite pic of myself to date—top three, at least. Good lighting, a solid angle, my hands aren’t just hanging around awkwardly with nothing to do…and of course, it features a fantastic view of my squeezed-the-fuck-out-of waist, courtesy of Puerto Rican designer Innova Corsetry.

(Yes, I can breathe.  No, I’m not causing permanent harm to myself.)

Of late, I’ve been pondering whether or not to speak in more detail (i.e.: any detail) about why I’ve been wearing corsets on the semi-regular for about a year now. On one hand, there isn’t a whole lot that demands explanation: I love how they look and feel, and that’s all the explanation that’s needed. On the other hand, that also feels unsatisfying–in part because corsets are so fraught a garment, and in part because just saying “I like ‘em” feels like an incomplete answer–sufficient, but incomplete.

Back when I was three-to-fiveish-years old, my aunt had a blue one of those neoprene exercise belts that are supposed to help sweat oneself thin. I don’t know exactly how I came to know this information, but I was obsessed with that thing. The feel of the materials. The color. The pleasant resistance felt as I pulled the Velcro, accompanied by a sound I still find satisfying. I don’t recall if I tried wearing it, but I do know that I would carry it around with me–there’s pictures. Years later, when I realized that my grandmother also had one of these belts—also in blue, and as far as I could tell identical—the process repeated itself (this one I definitely wore). Eventually—mercifully—I figured out that these were actually extremely easy to buy and got my own, which I would covertly wear wrapped as tightly as possible (which wasn’t much—they’re rather flimsy, and not really designed to be tightened to extremes, despite what their all-you-can-cinch designs suggest).

But that isn’t the whole story. As a kid, my dad would regularly read selected comic books to me, which was an excellent way of getting characters and images to embed themselves in my brain forever. One of these comics was an issue of Pinky and the Brain, which included a story featuring a corset as its central element. In the story, Brain sought to become Henry the VIII’s latest wife; in order to sell the disguise, he is made to don a corset, one which Pinky repeatedly (and correctly) worries may be too tight, and which proves to be Brain’s downfall. Suddenly, the thing had a name, and I had a fixation.(*1)

Yeah, what can I say?  I’m as confused as you are.

It’s hard to say what about corsets appeals to me so, then or now. I can give explanations, having to do with their structure, all the various connotations they’ve accrued, the way women look in them, the indescribable appeal of watching them slowly alter the body’s physical appearance as they’re laced…but they feel, to a degree, unconvincing—a way to explain the ineffable. I didn’t have concepts for things like structure and fashion and aesthetic or things that were sexy as hell, as a kid—all I knew is that corsets were super-neat, and I liked the exes in the back.

Context matters, of course. When the aforementioned comic book came out, in 1996, the internet had yet to become ubiquitous, and corsets had yet to obtain the relative prominence they received in the aughts, so encounters were sporadic and almost always surprising. A Titanic here. An exceedingly random (and still baffling) episode of failed sitcom Zoë, Duncan, Jack and Jane there. The rarity of these instances made them notable, with a hint of the forbidden, which caused them to inevitably become seared in my mind.

In my thirty-three years on this Earth, there are a handful of things I would say I’ve been obsessed with, many of which have featured prominently in this blog.  Alias, for one—I have not been able to stop thinking about the series since I really got into it in 2005, and things have only gotten worse (by which I mean better) with time, what with the podcasts, and the epic fanfics, and the conversations with what remains of the fandom. I will be complaining about the series until the day I die. Nikita is just as near and dear to my heart, the thing to which I compare all other fiction. My fascination with the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles lasted from 2003 to 2015, and that’s it’s you don’t count my childhood love for them, back when they first became popular. If this space isn’t positively flooded with essays on all of these, it’s because I can’t focus enough to bring most of what I begin to write to fruition.(*2)

If you like action, you owe it to yourself to watch Nikita.

In another universe, this blog would contain as many posts about corsets here as there are about any of the above—God knows I’ve written, or started to write, enough about them. An interest in corsets, though, doesn’t feel nearly as innocuous as a fandom does.  They’re too associated with non-innocuous things—sex and femininity and queerness and fetishes and oppression and insecurity and vanity, to ever not be weird. Talking about them feels like Sharing Too Much.  And so, with some exceptions, that stuff gets compartmentalized—which is, when you get right down to it, ridiculous. Hence this post.

Given everything, it should perhaps come as no surprise that my mind eventually went from being fascinated by corsets on women / women in corsets (*3) to being intrigued by the idea of wearing them myself. Things that stopped me: Being unsure about how they’d look. Being afraid that it’d be as uncomfortable as detractors said. The whole «being a dude» thing. Eventually, though, my curiosity won, so I plunked down eighty dollars for my first model, from Mystic City.

I don’t regret it, at all.

Corsets, assuming you’re wearing one suited for your body, feel fantastic. Uncomfortable isn’t the word; it’s more accurate to say that they demand consideration—they make you aware of the way you breathe, the way you stand, the way you eat, the way you sit, and how you dress (boots before corsets) in a way nothing else I’ve worn does (*4). It is a constant stimulant, the opposite of casual.  Also, between the metal structure and the way they force one to stand up straight, wearing one makes me feel a bit like a cyborg in a very cool way.

And have I mentioned they make me look fucking amazing? Because they do. Before I started wearing them, I would have never thought a wasp waist would suit me, but Jesus Christ it does.  They also do wonders for my confidence—I’m an often-homebody with antisocial tendencies, and wearing my corsets just makes me want to go out to see how many people agree with me about my utter hotness. Logistics and what insecurities I have not been able to shed prevent that from happening—probably for the best—so instead I take pictures. And here’s the thing: I tend to dislike having my picture taken: I rarely look good, or natural, and there’s rarely the opportunity to take a dozen pictures just to keep the one that sucks least.  After I started wearing corsets, though, my selfie-taking skyrocketed. This, inevitably, has caused taking-pics-of-myself skills to improve, which in turns allows me to feel even better about myself. To paraphrase Henry Higgins in My Fair Lady, I’ve grown accustomed to my face.

Corsets have shaped me in other ways, as well.  It was my interest in them which led me to discover one of my favorite fanfic writers and people, whose Narnia fics—most of which feature no corsets—are absolutely fantastic; everyone should read them, no matter how you feel about Narnia. It’s also led me to meet other corset-wearers, many of whom are really interesting and cool. A jokey essay about corsets in the contexts of fetishes also got me a perfect score on a semiotics test, which then led to the professor asking me to read the essay in front of the whole class, which in turn reminded me that I can be impossible to embarrass, sometimes. Spending time on the internet and being in the presence of other corset aficionados played a direct role in helping me better understand consent and that finding corsets sexy is not an excuse to be a creepy, entitled ass.  In short, corsets have been important—perhaps more important than a single item of clothing should be, I sometimes fear.

Part of me wishes corsets were more like jeans—that they could be worn without eliciting comment. However, that’s not often the case: their very presence invites opinion, whether derision, concern, or admiration, (*5) but quite rarely shrugs. On the other hand, I’ve never been one to care about jeans. They can be comfortable, and the may look good, but I’ve never been excited by them. I’m excited by corsets. I like being excited by corsets, and context has a lot to do with that. Perhaps it’s more accurate to say that I want to be able to share my excitement without people going, «Really? This is what you’re fixated on? Also, are you sure your organs are okay?»

The answer, in both cases, is yes.

—-

Footnotes:

(*1) Probably not coincidentally, another Pinky and the Brain story focused on go-go boots was responsible for my fascination with those. What were the writers thinking, I wonder.

(*2) I’ve sometimes considered the possibility that I’m on the autism spectrum. It would explain a lot. That the psychologist I saw on-and-off for several years didn’t diagnose it is a rather large strike against that hypothesis—they seemed more focused on discerning if I had ADD—but nevertheless, I have my suspicions.

(*3) The fact that men in corsets really do nothing for me is one of the strongest pieces of evidence to suggest that my sexuality is nowhere near the middle of the Kinsey scale, and closer to the exclusively hetero end than anywhere else.

(*4) It’s worth noting, though, that I tend to favor comfort in my clothes selection, so I’m very much grading on a curve.

(*5) Sometimes of the creepy kind, which is one of the reasons why lady corset wearers who are perceived as feminine don’t necessarily have an easier time of it than the men those who aren’t, even if corsets are more acceptable on them.