Assaulted for Underwear

Victoria's "Secret" is that she is a lesbian who likes to wear men's carpenter pants, a wife beater under a blue and white flannel shirt, and work boots. Victoria likes to think that in another world, she's a lumberjack. Victoria believes that a woman's body is beautiful, but she feels more manly than feminine. Victoria is okay with this. She accepts it and loves herself for it. In fact, Victoria has very high self esteem and a fantastic self image that other women would die for. And so Victoria designs beautiful, lacey, sometimes complex pieces of lingerie and panties for her girlfriend, Jasmine. Jasmine is a dancer and always hoped to make it big. She has stunning dark features and a large chest. Victoria and Jasmine immediately fell in love, and like most lesbian couples, they moved in together exactly two months after they began dating.

Their relationship is going well and everyone is comfortable with it. Often at big Victoria's Secret meetings, Victoria will have Jasmine model the new pieces of lingerie she has designed in front of the boardroom for the top stock holders to see. The stock holders feel very much a part of the "process" at Victoria's Secret Corporation.

In fact, everyone who works at Victoria's Secret feels very comfortable with the womanly figure. This is mostly due to Victoria and Jasmine's relationship. They have created with they call in the business world a "safe zone", where people are safe to explore and develop their feelings and work through insecurities.

People like me are highly, extremely, overly uncomfortable with the "safe zone" which has far outreached the private board rooms and offices of the Victoria's Secret corporation. Their safe zone is apparent in their pink smelly stores.

Upon walking into a Victoria's Secret store, it is evident that a large pink marshmallow had vomited everywhere, leaving the hot pink contents of its stomach to ooze down the walls. One also sees that the staff of the lingerie empire has just come out of the break room where they appeared to have showered in old lady perfume and been snorting pixie sticks.

My problem with this establishment is not the intensity of the sales staff or even the careless use of gallons of pink paint. I will admit that I am slightly taken aback by all of the cleavage on the sales staff, but that probably has more to do with my feeling that I am more likely to be hired as a representative in the pre-teen bra section of a department store than as an ambassador in the big-breasted grown up woman's lingerie store.

My discomfort with Victoria's Secret stores mostly has to do with the nipple graze. Yes, the nipple graze. More than once, I have been casually felt up by a staff member of Victoria's Secret. I didn't enter the store looking for a good time, but that's exactly what they tried to give me.

Entering the store, a cheery, busty woman always approaches me and asks if I am looking for "panties or a bra!". Then, she will point out some of her favorite bras and the new "panties" they just got in. I, for one, prefer to call them "underpants" rather than "panties". "Underpants" takes longer to say and gets a completely different reaction than if one were to say "panties". It makes the sales people a little uncomfortable because "underpants" sounds anything but sexy. Then, before I know it, the tape measure is out and the lady has her arms wrapped around me and my arms are hovering over my head. I want to say, "Stop! You are violating my personal space!", but the words just don't come out. Next, a bunch of bras are thrown at me and I am forced into a fitting room where I have a moment alone to gather my thoughts. But it's always just a moment because soon there is knocking at the door. "Did you put on the very sexy busty and separating extra cleavage bra? Let me see it!"

Two things always happen at this point. First, the lady makes me nervous and I somehow get stuck in the bra. Secondly, I fear and dread the point that I have to come out the fitting room shirtless. Yet, I don't ever say no. I do exactly what they tell me to do because they have jugs and I, well, don't. Maybe subconsciously I think that if they notice the lack of cleavage coming from my bra, they will give me some of their cleavage.

The knocking at the door continues and I am forced to come out of the dressing room, shirtless. I always try to stay in the room and just open the door, but the fitting room attendant pulls me out by the arm and shoves me in front of a big mirror where I am forced to stare at my inadequacies with a woman whom I do not know. This is usually where the nipple graze comes in. And yes, this has happened more than once. The lady stares for a long time at my breasts in the bra and then shakes her head. "Hmmmm…" she says. "Girl, you barely fill out that cup!" Then, she'll reach into the bra, grab a boob in each hand, and yank it up in an effort to fill out the bra. You can't help but graze the nipple when your hands are fishing around in someone else's bra.

After trying on what seems like hundreds of bras and having the attendant try to mold my breasts into a shape more conducive for filling out a Victoria's Secret push-up bra after each fitting, the whole event becomes a little blasé. I get used to the lady's hands all over my breasts and even begin to get bored with it instead of tense and nervous. Her comments about my anything-but- large-breasts are still just as biting, but I learn to accept it. "At least I need a bra," I think. "It's not like I could go without one, so how bad can they be?"

Eventually, I find a bra that fits and usually purchase the matching underpants. But really, what does it matter if I have a hot matching bra and panty set when I clearly get more action inside the underwear store than at home?

Despite my ever growing stack of insecurities with my body, I continue to go back to Victoria's Secret and pay an exorbitant amount of money for a good bra and a feel-up. And even though I feel like I do not belong at Victoria's Secret, I still hope that one day I can join the club.