Hubba-hubba, indeed. At the grand old age of thirty-five, answering to a dare, I'd promised to attend Hell Night at Man-Ray here in Boston and, even worse, I'd promised to dress appropriately. So it was with some trepidation that I followed my friend Brian into this fine establishment on Mass. Ave. clutching my respectable American Express card much like one might a cross while navigating a basement full of vampires at sunset.
Oh my.
As Brian had a field day among the racks of skimpy black leather clothing, "Oh Arlyn, it's you!" I wrestled with the temptation to just faint quietly in the corner and be done with it. I'm not a prude by anyone's standards, but this raucous collection of whips, collars, and cuffs had me completely buffaloed. My heart pounded and my elbows felt as though they were coming unhinged while Brian draped the must-try-ons over my senseless arms. Leather creaked, chains clinked, and spandex stretched as I tried everything on in the dressingroom and several times I vexed Brian no end by refusing to model his selections. In the end, a must-have padlock bracelet, complete with keys, somehow made its way into the final purchase.
The spoils of the trip, which were indeed worn at Hell Night (another story entirely), now live in the bottom drawer of my dresser and I sometimes imagine having to explain them to future possible nosy grandchildren. "Guh-ranny! What's this???" On the one hand, maybe navel-bound cleavage held together by tiny silver chains won't cause anyone to think twice by that time. On the other, I'd look forward to being considered a bit of a hoot by my descendants.