This story is but
a small extract from a huge volume of material sent to us from a reader some
years ago. Until now, we had never included the work for, although well written
and technically accurate, it borrowed from our own work and was in places,
blatant wish fulfillment. Despite this, we believe that amongst the text are
elements of genuine experience, and we feel that these paragraphs relating a
young teenager's tenuous and fearful steps towards discovering what Granny wore
beneath her tweeds, is an interesting insight into the beginnings of an
obsession. The author requested that certain pictures from our collection were
included. - Ivy Leaf
Granny's Corsets
I began to learn much
more of the secret ways of women, partly because my sisters tended to ignore the
presence of a younger brother and even Mother would ask me to zip up her frock
if nobody else was around to help. Unbeknown to them this was causing me acute
excitement. I well remember zipping up Mother one evening and being amazed by
the complex hook and eye fastening of her long brassiere; there must have been
fifteen of the little devils to close, and how did she do it alone when it was
behind her back? The tighter the dress, the more I got excited, and occasionally
Mother or Granny would wear a satin blouse which made me almost ecstatic. I
prayed for another wedding in the hope that my sisters might once again be
displayed in the pink satin frocks. Amazingly, the thought of invading my
sisters' and Mother's rooms to touch this finery had not yet occurred to me,
however, a small incident caused me to transgress their privacy once and for
always.
I often saw my sisters
pulling up their skirts to fasten suspenders, that was no great secret, but one
day alone in the lounge Granny came in from the garden in her customary tweeds
but regrettably no exciting blouse. She bent over to pick up a magazine and
there was a distinct snap. She looked a little embarrassed and then pulled up
the rear of her skirt and asked me if I knew how to re-attach one of her back
suspenders. For the first time ( I would be about twelve at the time ) I got a
tantalising glimpse of what an older lady wore beneath her skirt. I suppose I
assumed that she wore a roll-on or a suspender belt like I knew my sisters did.
But no, whatever she was wearing was much more substantial, however, all I saw
was an edge of what appeared to be stiffened pink satin below which Granny's
white thighs bulged out before the stockings contained them again. I could
barely breathe with excitement at the sight of this unexpected garment whose
function must have been more than to hold up her stockings. "What are doing back
there?" asked Granny, so I fumbled about as long as was decent and re-connected
the errant suspender and stood up, not a little red faced. I guessed that it
must be some form of girdle, something I understood as a tighter and stronger
roll-on, that I had once seen models wearing in advertisements on the London
Underground. But a girdle in satin, this was too much and I could feel the blood
pounding in my brain. Granny even asked if was all right and I made some excuse
about the heat and bending down. "It's us ladies that are supposed to get hot
flushes, not you young chaps" she admonished, but not unkindly.
Granny returned into
the garden and with some trepidation I opened the ladies magazine that Granny
had been looking at. Even then, I felt that I was invading some female privacy
and after many furtive glances around I began to flick through it. Here were
all recipes for beauty that women seemed to enjoy, curlers, face masks, hair
spray, and at the end of the magazine some advertisements for brassieres and
girdles, all of which I was vaguely familiar with. However, in some small
advertisements at the end was a picture of a women wearing a long girdle and
being measured by another lady. The girdle had strange laces, like a shoe, for
which I could see no purpose. Spirella corsets, made to measure in the privacy
of your own home. Was this was the sort of garment that I had glimpsed? I
remembered now that Mother sometimes referred to her girdle as a corset. Perhaps
the huge lady that visited Mother and Granny every six months, who vanished with
them upstairs was a corset lady, or corsetiere as the magazine called her. I
was utterly fascinated and unconsciously, Granny had added corsetry to satin as
one of the powerful forces in my life. For days afterwards I watched Granny and
Mother almost trying to see through their clothes to what lay beneath. Although
I was quite familiar with my sisters underwear; I mentioned that they weren't
shy, Mother and Granny were completely and literally closed doors.
I decided that I would have to enter Granny's bedroom, and find one of
these garments for myself. Pictures in the various ladies magazines that I had
become addicted to, weren't enough. I had to see and touch the real thing. One
afternoon, having determined that the house was indeed empty, and Granny at the
far end of the garden, I went upstairs, along the landing and gently approached
the door to Granny's room. For half an hour my hand went to the handle of the
door and then retreated again. I just couldn't do it and cursing myself I slunk
away to take unsatisfactory solace in my magazine collection in the loft. I even
investigated the clothes basket in the bathroom, but this only revealed my
sisters knickers and stockings which wasn't what I wanted at all.
In an agony of frustration I spent the next week waiting for another
opportunity, but either the sisters were in, or it rained and Granny stayed
indoors. At last, the day came, sunny, and with Mother and the sisters out on
yet another shopping expedition. I should mention that we were far from poor,
and Mother had no need to work. She enjoyed cooking and had a maid and gardener
in to keep the place clean and attractive. I waited for Granny to go out into
the garden, but for some reason she seemed reluctant and sat in the lounge
awhile reading. Eventually, I saw her go out through the French windows and I
literally ran upstairs, along the landing, and desperate that my courage
shouldn't fail, I walked straight up to her bedroom door, opened it, went in and
closed it quietly behind me.
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Like an experienced burglar, I had seen them on TV, I kept to the wall
and approached the window. Through the net curtains I could see Granny at
the far end of the garden, but I kept well clear of those windows just in
case. I started to take in the room. A large bed covered by a pink silk
counterpane dominated the room flanked by two small tables on one of which
lay a glass, presumably for her dentures. An old ottoman lay at the foot of
the bed and two antique chairs sat against the wall. I guessed, correctly
as it turned out, that the chairs were where Granny laid her clothes at
night. |
Peeking through the window, I confirmed that Granny was still weeding in
the garden, and so I crept over to a huge old wardrobe that stood beside an old
fashioned chest of drawers. By a basin, Granny appeared not to use our communal
bathroom, stood a dressing table. On this lay several models of a female head
surmounted by immaculate silver wigs. So this was how Granny always kept her
hair in such good condition. Briefly, I felt a twinge of guilt that I was
invading an old lady's privacy, however, I was not to be thwarted from my
search. The wardrobe contained Granny’s clothes, very old fashioned by today’s
standards but in one corner, in a cellophane bag hung a long white dress. This
must be Granny's wedding dress. I lifted the cellophane a little and confirmed
that the dress was made of the heaviest and finest ivory Duchess satin. The
waist, however, seemed almost impossibly small. I felt faint. This would
definitely need further investigation.
I closed the wardrobe and approached the chest of drawers, my heart
beginning to pound. Yet again I checked the garden and to my dismay saw no sign
of Granny. I tiptoed to the door but heard nothing. In my absorption with the
dress would I have noticed Granny's footsteps coming upstairs? A scrunch from
the garden drew me to the window where, blessed relief, Granny had dropped a
rake on the flower bed. As she bent over to retrieve it, I could see the outline
of her long brassiere, just like Mother's, and was there something else, but her
slip and the heavy tweed skirt defeated my prying eyes. Vowing to be more
careful I waited until Granny had reached the end of the garden before
approaching the chest of drawers again. The top drawers opened easily but
contained only jewelry and scarves. The next drawer revealed a cloud of silky
things in black, white and pink that I knew from my sisters were probably
knickers and slips. This was not what interested me and I tried the third
drawer. It was stiff and in my eagerness I pulled too hard and the entire
drawer shot out onto the floor spilling its contents onto the carpet. I gazed at
the display of garments that I had only ever seen in the pages of the magazines.
Girdles like my sisters, but so much more substantial and obviously much more
powerful; strange combinations of girdles with brassiere attached, and there,
displayed in its pink satin majesty, my first corset. This is not quite true, I
had seen occasional corsets, by this time in shop windows, but they were small,
cotton affairs, although highly exciting all the same. I immediately related
this corset to the glimpse of satin beneath Granny's skirt and, indeed it had
laces which I guessed correctly were to tighten the garment, and incorrectly I
assumed lay at the back. Later research showed that Granny wore them at the
front. One of the few occasions when women had made their underwear and clothes
easy to get into.
I was jolted out of my reverie by Granny calling from downstairs. Once more
in a panic that I might be caught, I put the underwear back in the drawer, but
goodness knows what order it was in when the drawer fell out. I replaced the
drawer and crept out of her room closing the door behind me.
The next few days were lived in an agony of suspense as I expected Granny
to accuse me of looking in her drawers, but as time passed and nothing was
mentioned my confidence returned. Having violated the sanctity of Granny's
bedroom, excursions to my Mother's room were easier, and very fruitful I might
add. I began to realise that it was only the older woman that wore corsets in
1961. Mother's underwear lay easily exposed on a shelf in her wardrobe and
consisted mainly of long brassieres and girdles. These in themselves were quite
exciting and I was delighted that year when Marks and Spencer introduced a satin
elastic zip girdle which I noticed became a regular favourite of my Mother. I
became a connoisseur of ladies’ underwear and I made many subsequent trips to
Granny's and Mother's bedrooms and after a while became more familiar with their
underwear than they were themselves.
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