The day my dream died
Wednesday, 17 July 2013
EDIT : This post tells a light-hearted story of my visit to AP (and somewhat tongue-in-cheek). I was disappointed at the time but I got over it about three minutes after I left. No words of commiseration are required. Hand bras and IM vouchers will be gratefully accepted however.
I’m an Agent Provocateur virgin. I used to admire their gorgeous, sexy smalls with painful longing – they didn’t make larger cups then. Recently, I discovered that, lo and behold, AP offer up to E cups in some of their ranges, and despite the fact that I’m actually an F cup, I nearly flipped my lid with wild excitement. Anyone that knows me is aware of my passion for lingerie (don’t bother me with shoes or handbags when there’s a little gauzy, flimsy, lacy piece of nothingness that I can pay a few hundred dollars for). And, as many of you are aware, my breasts are not exactly on board with my passion. They tend not to fit into what I want them to fit into. I want delicate and sheer and gossamer. My breasts want giant, sturdy and robust. The bras that fit me best and provide me with “support” could double as a yacht sail or possibly a straightjacket. However, here and there I find a bra in a smaller cup that I can squeeze the girls into for a short period of time and for, ahem, non-support purposes.
Having received a cheeky couple of AP vouchers, I decided to go into denial and skipped off to visit the concept store in David Jones. I’d done quite a bit of delicious research on their website and was well aware of the ranges going up to an E. In my mind, I was envisaging how all these divine little things would fit, gliding over my skin, gently hugging every curve, magically transforming me into an Irresistible Sex Kitten with the snap of a clasp.
I arrived, admiring the design of the area and the slightly slutty looking sales assistants, who were wearing seamed stockings (purr) and little satin dresses with their bras hanging out. Their tiny bras. Teeny, tiny, little bras and perky little breasts inside. Hmmm.
I perused the gorgeous items on display, beautiful silks, satins and laces, blacks, reds, electric blues and strong purples, and the softest blush pinks. All beautiful, sexiness sitting prettily on every black satin hanger. All tiny. More teeny bras. I looked in vain for a range of sizes, but they weren’t there. There were several B cups on show. None of the slightly slutty sales assistants (SSSA) approached me, so I got the attention of one of them.
“How can I help you?” she asked.
“I’d like to see what you have in an E cup, please.” I replied.
“Sure, I’ll bring out some things.” Off she went through the glamorous black door to Where They Keep The Actual Lingerie.
She returned. With two bras. So, not really a wide selection.
Organising me into a change room, which was very warm, flanked by seductive velvet curtains and including a cuddly robe with AP embroidery on it on a hanger inside, she passed through the two bras. I admired them with gusto (and requested that she please go back to Where They Keep The Actual Lingerie in order to show me the matching knickers/accoutrements). They had the whole frou-frou impracticality that I had been dreaming of. But then, I tried them on. And this is where it all goes downhill.
It wasn’t pretty. It wasn’t elegant, or sexy. And it certainly wasn’t perky. My breasts reminded me of two kind of pale, circular sausages, dramatically bursting out of not-at-all adequate sausage casing, squeezing out the tops, the sides, even one of the bottoms of the cups. The straps strained and dug in. The temperature in the little change room was rising.
“How are you going in there?” called the SSSA.
“Fine thanks.” I replied, even though this was the exact opposite of reality.
She passed through some matching knickers and suspender belts. My optimism refusing to leave me, I tried them on. Amazingly, I did not resemble the size four 18 year old waif model on the AP website.
“How do they look?” she called.
“Fine thanks.” I repeated. It was hard to see myself in the mirror properly as I was now crying, but they almost did look fine due to the gentle blur across my vision, created by the tears.
By this time, I was sweating and the change room felt like a sauna, I felt like a whale with breasts that must be visible from space, and I was desperate to remove one of the most uncomfortable bras I’d ever tried on. Overheated, I stared at the plush robe with disgust and wished they’d put a posh looking fan in there instead. I had to get out of there.
I dressed and flung open the velvet curtain, relieved to breathe some fresh air, or at least air not heavy with disappointment and humiliation. The SSSA seemed ready to wrap up my two sets of lingerie. I declined, and told her, in as light-hearted a fashion as I could muster, I’d have to come back another time when I had the emotional fortitude to handle the experience of shopping there. She just looked at me blankly.
So, needless to say, AP isn’t for me. The lingerie is incredibly beautiful and looks unbelievably gorgeous on women – other women. Me, not so much!
In the meantime, I’ll keep lingerie-shopping, stay out of denial, and if I have to, I can always just prance about naked. Or try a hand-bra. Anyone keen?