An excerpt from Sex Drugs & Working Moms

A special thanks to Emily Wright for letting me post here on your website. Thanks Em.

It was Valentine’s Day, four years ago, and I was expected to step out of my powder room donning Victoria Secret’s newest super sexy show stopper. The evening was meant to be oh so romantic.

Lit only by the glow of our fireplace, my love handed me the suspiciously large gift bag with excitement and anticipation dancing in his eyes.  I tried to pull my libido from its hibernation to match his enthusiasm,

 …but I am a Canadian girl and it was February.

This means I was still carrying my post holiday weight, nothing below my collar had seen the sun since September, and I was sporting homegrown insulation.  In short, I was doughy, pastey, and hairy.  Yes, I said it. 

There I was under the harsh lighting of my bathroom unveiling the wonder that was my Valentine’s Day gift. You know the outfit; every man’s fantasy.  A lacy full-bodice number with reinforcement enough the hold cleavage at an unnatural altitude, thigh high stockings and garters of course.   By the time I presented myself, I was wild eyed, red faced and completely dishevelled.  One might be flattered that their husband bought a size too small. I, on the other hand, know my hubby all too well. In his mad dash to the store to meet Hallmark’s Valentine’s Day expectations, he picked the sales clerk who looked most like me or who was closest to him in the store and asked her her size.

Don’t get me wrong, the black ensemble was beautiful with its iron boning, 72 hook and eyes lining the back and impossibly tiny claps for the garter belt to be fastened just below the butt cheeks. I am sure it looked amazing on the porcelain manikin. The headless, armless figure also had the advantage of not having flesh or flab to hinder the shape. More importantly, the manikin had assistance strapping the sucker on without the pesky inconvenience of having to breathe.

I am sorry, when Valentine’s day is on a Tuesday night, a school night,

…you are just happy to get the kids in bed early enough to share a bottle of wine, whisper some sweet nothings, take top, and go to bed.

Instead, there I was with my breasts up my nose, tugging and reefing on the least agreeable fabric known to man.  Imagine 72 tiny curls of wire that need to slip into loops of thread that run down your spine.  The only way to fasten every delicate hook was to put the corset on backwards.  I did mention that it was too small, right?  I remember looking in the mirror and seeing the elegantly laced breast cups sitting on my back as I wrestled and wiggled trying to twist it into place.  At one point, my husband asked if I was okay because I had spun myself into the vanity so violently that it was a wonder I didn’t wake the kids.  Once the death trap was facing the correct way, I was an enraged, unlikely contortionist, who still needed to fasten the garter straps. I was bound so tightly that my breaths were short and sharp. How the hell was I going to bend at the waist to locate the tiny gold clasps, let alone secure my nylons to them?

Somehow I managed to get it on, not without sacrificing skin and my air supply – I got it on.  My gliding to the bed wasn’t exactly by choice as the stockings, again too small, limited my movement. I did reign in my frustration, discouragement, and overall self-loathing for the sake of the occasion.  When my husband began to release me from my torture chamber, I was mixed with relief and outrage.

What was it all for?  Better yet, who was it all for?

Afterwards, when he was still giddy with the memory of his gift, he started making birthday and anniversary requests. There must have been something in my expression that said divorce or homicide because he abruptly stopped talking.  I haven’t gotten lingerie for Valentine’s Day since.   

Happy Valentine’s Day!! 

Look for more advice, anecdotes, and steamy stories to be posted in the weeks to come.