And seeing as there’s been requests for the story behind the lacerating corset, I shall address those requests now.
A few years back when I was heading to New York on my first press trip with my first porn-related client, one of my contacts – and now good friends – Jamye asked me if I wanted to go to the Black and Blue Ball.
“What the fuck is that?� I asked her.
“It’s an annual fetish ball and everyone dresses up in black and or blue.�
So it’s literal in all senses of the term.
Problem was, I had nothing to wear to a fetish ball, let alone a black and blue one. So I dragged the ex down to Melrose and combed the stores looking for something that might work before finally landing at a store that was called Fashion Crimes (I think… it’s been a while since I’ve been to Melrose.)
I’d already found the greatest pair of vinyl pants known to man, which fit like a glove and laced up the crotch. But so far, the top was proving to be a major issue, until we hit that store. There, high up above everything else as if it had been placed near the ceiling by the heavens above, were three corsets. Each one was made of leather with black trim studded with metal, each one of them had six panels, and each one was held together by dainty ribbons. I was alight with girlish glee, but the question remained: which one would I get? The red one that looked like it had nipple rings, the green one that looked like it had handle bars on either boob, or the blue one, which was just simply blue?
Duh. Black and Blue Ball. Obviously it was the blue one.
The price? $300.
Whatever. It was necessary.
So I went to New York, did all my work stuff, and got ready with Jamye to go to the thing. Her roommate helped lace me up properly, and it looked fantastic, if a little uncomfortable. But it’s a corset, so it’s supposed to suck in and hold up and be painful, right?
Three hours later I wished I didn’t have an issue with public nudity because I was ready to start tearing the fucking thing off me. Every move I made, my skin rubbed against the ribbons, which acted like little pieces of paper giving me little paper cuts. And every time I did something other than stand ramrod straight and attempt not to cry, they sliced a little deeper. By the end of the night I needed assistance getting the damn thing off, as the wounds had started to fuse to the corset, and peeling it off of me just re-opened them. The only thing more painful would have been if someone had dumped lemon juice all over me.
Did I wear it again? Of course – I paid $300 for it, and it looks cool. In fact, the most recent time I wore it was to a party last fall. I remember having a discussion with Nina Hartley about how painful it was, as she’d seen it on me before and loved it.
“You know, that’s part of the thrill of wearing them for some people,� she said.
“What is?�
“Those little cuts,� she explained. “People get off on the pain of it.�
“Yeah, well, not this people.�
Obviously I still have it. Obviously I’m never getting rid of it. Obviously I will wear it again someday, and obviously, I will be in excruciating pain as I do so.
So there you go. The more you know.
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