A few months ago I was at a press event in downtown San Francisco. I spent the morning and part of the afternoon listening to media briefings, chatting with PR people, snapping photos, and trying to figure out what would be worth writing about. Just as the conference room lights and business friendly chatter was making me feel like I was trapped in a windowless nuclear bunker, I decided to get out. The first place I could think of escaping to was H&M, where I bought a bunch of new underwear to wash the business casual sterility out of my pants.
I don't need more underwear at this point in my life. I have a drawer filled to the very top with a variety of intimate wear that could last me three or four weeks without a washing. Underwear shopping is a new vanity I've given over to in the last few years. I get excited for a few minutes every morning when I know that I'll be putting on a colorful new pair. I stare at myself in the mirror for a few minutes before putting on my pants, taking in my body, the swells of cotton, the edge where the hem becomes skin.
A few years ago, the thought occurred to me that my perfect sexual mate would be a clone of myself. I would know every last little corner of the body, and might feel some disembodied pleasure in sharing that knowledge with an intimate doppelganger. Is it gay if it's with yourself? Buying new underwear in the afternoon on a Wednesday is a concession to that metaphysical ghost, my shadow lover.
Shopping is vaguely sexual to me. The crowds of curious strangers, the idealized ensembles, the impersonal optimism of the music, the white walls and tiles framing it all. Clothing stores always remind me of this, the collage of expressive colors framed in restrictive white box buildings. They want to lure you into the mirage of a better version of yourself, thinner, sleeker, and perfectly unique. Everyone mulls around in comparative silence searching for their own personal mirage.
Someone I used to date told me she had sex in a dressing room once. It's hard to describe the flames of jealousy that rose inside me when she told me this. I've never had sex in a dressing room, but I can't think of a single sexual experience I would want more than that. It's such a startling experience to find yourself alone, in a small boxed room in the heart of a department store; stripping down to your underwear, staring at yourself nearly naked in the mirror, anticipating the discovery of some new skin, a flattering pair of pants or a fitted shirt.
I would want that moment to involve the surprising discovery of another person, not just a pair of pants. To be in the cement bowels of Union Square, shivering under the heatless lights, and to be there with someone else. Swoon.
This morning, I put on one of the pairs of underwear that I bought that day. They looked amazing on the rack, the color seemed like it would mesh perfectly with my skin tone under the store lights, the bright elastic band seemed like a perfect little accent to have poking above the belt line of my jeans. It seemed perfect imagining it there on the rack.
Previous Posts:
Date Machine: Look Ugly in a Photograph
Love Machine: On Your Own, or Moving On
Love Machine: Going to Bed Angry
Love Machine: The Hooker on the Corner
Sex Machine: Having Sex on Inauguration Night
Sex Machine: If You Can Get Me Hard I'll Show You A Good Time
Date Machine: Tool Academy, or Watching TV with Your Girlfriend
Sex Machine: Getting Laid
Love Machine: I Was a Six Year-Old Virgin, or Is There A Happy Ending?
Date Machine: Getting Pierced on a Date
Love Machine: Hitting Snooze on the Morning After
Date Machine: Let Me Seduce You With The Cardigans
Date Machine: I'm Too Sexy For Your Blog
Love Machine: Breaking Up Is Hard To Do, or Leaving Home
Date Machine: Super Macho Man Slumber Party
Sex Machine: Having Sex in Your Parents' House During the Holidays
Date Night: Trying to Behave on a Boring Coffee Date