Off the bat, let me tell you; I loves lace, I do. Number one reason; it’s strictly for girls. Not even the campest camp man can do lace and get away with it. Lace is all about femininity, with a bit of flamboyance tossed in. And another sweet ting about lace – you can see through it, natch.
Not that I’m an exhibitionist (I so am) but what could be better than offering the world a sneaky peak (it was a typo, but I’m leaving it in) of your bra? I’m no Christina Hendricks (is anybody? she could kill a man with those ridiculous airbags) but I like exposing a bit of bra-covered bosom as much as the next chick. There’s just something so playful and liberating, not to mention sexily voyeuristic, about someone almost seeing your underkecks.
My drawers are stuffed (ahem) with lace tops and lace bras. Like most things in my life, it all started with Madonna. That woman abso-fuckin-lutely rocked a lace corset and gloves in the eighties. She can still carry it off now, at 150, or however old she isn’t. I bet Jesus
Christ Luz is lovin’ it. Unsurprisingly, the only woman in the world who is as inspired by Queen Madge’s fashion choices as I (that’s Lady GaGa to you), has picked up the lace mantle and is gash-flashing all over the shop in various lace body-suits.
I’ve paraded my own lace, from the demure, high-necked blouse to the frankly scandalous fitted body, everywhere from clubs of the night to PTA events. Lace has that versatility, you see. Just a touch of it adds a splash of glamour to an outfit; go overboard and you’re practica