Audio By Carbonatix
Andrew Wilson, lingerie explorer, homes in on the peach-hued camisole. Moving a strap from its padded hanger, he murmurs, “Hmmm…satin weave or charmeuse?” Of the silver satin robe he encounters next, he says, “Nice, but the work on these seams is borderline.” To a green crushed-velvet bodysuit, he says, “Ah. Hand wash, for sure.”
Judy Lowe, who owns Chelsea of London, the Golden store through which Wilson is foraging, knows enough to stay behind the counter. Wilson, she says, is not your typical lingerie customer. “Some men, it’s all they can do to open our door,” she says. “They’re terrified. You have to start out by showing them the less-revealing items. A chemise, maybe.” A bra, never.
But Lowe hopes all that will change on February 3, the official publication date of Andrew Wilson’s Handbook of Lingerie. Wilson calls his self-published book “a field guide for men,” and he hopes it will embolden them to brave the perfumed-and-pink confines of a store like Chelsea.
Wilson, a self-described “laboratory rat” researcher from Golden, was struck by inspiration two years ago while browsing the bra racks for Kathy, his wife of thirteen years. “Quite literally, it was an overheard complaint,” he recalls. “I heard a woman say, `I can never get my husband to buy me lingerie.'” Wilson instantly knew why. Before his own first lingerie-shopping experience, he realized, he had “put all the initial planning into getting up sufficient nerve. I thought I would be escorted from the premises, a naughty-boy sort of thing.” Are wives and girlfriends being shortchanged, lingerie-wise, because of this cringing attitude? he asked his wife. After an informal survey of friends and co-workers, she came back with an answer: yes.
Wilson determined to write a book that would “subdue the forces” that keep the average straight man out of lingerie stores. True to Wilson’s statistics background, he began with an exhaustive survey of underwear through the ages.
“I had no interest in fashion whatsoever,” he says, “and I was rather frightened that I would be bored to tears. But it turns out that fashion ties into all of history, especially underwear. It’s not just some sideline.” The day the Denver Public Library’s central branch closed for renovation, Wilson checked out two shopping bags full of books on women’s clothing. “Just so I wouldn’t miss out on any information,” he recalls. “I got some looks at the checkout desk.”
By then he was used to it. People seemed unable to comprehend a scientific, consumer-oriented interest in lacy underthings. And that, says Wilson, was part of their problem.
“Studies, for instance, have shown that red and black lace things are a turn-on for many men,” he says. “And as a matter of fact, this goes right back to the naughty Victorians, who thought men were somehow sick if they preferred a woman in black lingerie. But you’ve got to steer the men away from that. You can’t override the woman’s taste, or whatever you buy her will end up in a back drawer somewhere.”
To determine what type of lingerie a woman will wear, Wilson advocates spying. Men should analyze the clothes a woman wears outside her lingerie, as well as snoop through her drawers for revealing numbers and peek at her driver’s license for height and weight statistics. (Ha! Good luck!) “In the course of searching through her clothing for size information,” he writes, “you may encounter a mysterious number on a garment tag. This is her dress size.” For those even more terminally mystified, Wilson provides such essential information as: “A bra consists of two shaped panels, known as cups, which cover the breasts…Bra size is defined by a number and a letter.”
More advanced sections of the book lead readers through the complexities of teddies, corsets, garter belts and body stockings, along with a treatise on fabrics. Wilson does not pretend to be impartial. He praises silk and rayon, vilifies acetate, and offers this wary description of thigh-high stockings: “These bands grip the thigh, and, at least in theory, prevent the stockings from sliding down the legs.”
Having guided his reader through the exhaustive decision-making and purchasing process, Wilson cautions him to “remove any tags which feature a photograph of a model wearing the lingerie. These tend to make a woman wonder whether you got the lingerie for her to look good in or to make her look like the model.”
That comparison, Wilson suggests tactfully, is better off left unexplored–by all concerned.
His own wife, for instance. “A very attractive woman,” he says. “Right now, she’s significantly pregnant with our first child.” She’s also significantly undersupplied with lingerie. “The selection for pregnant women is poor,” Wilson says, “and I’ve spent so much time writing this book that I haven’t made many purchases.”
With that, he begins combing the racks for a present. He runs a thumb over cotton lounging leggings. He checks the underwire strength of a demi-bra with removable pads. He falls under the sway of a black velvet bustier but ultimately rejects it. Finally, as recommended in his book, he consults with Lowe. She is, after all, the lingerie professional.
“Do you still have the ones with the bears and mooses?” he asks.
“In the back room,” Lowe replies, caught somewhat off her guard.
“I think Kathy deserves flannel after the birthing process,” Wilson explains as Lowe returns with a red flannel nightshirt–boxy, knee-length, thoroughly unrevealing and festooned with a design of dancing black bears. “I like this,” he decides. “I think part of romance is understanding the need for comfort. And comfort doesn’t necessarily come in lace.
