The first time I ever attempted to shop for lingerie was in 2011. If I had to describe the experience, I would use the word dreadful. Catastrophic, even.
At the time, I was a size 18 and my hometown had exactly one store that sold lingerie. It was an overwhelmingly pink place with a variety of delicates that hung from every inch of every wall.
In the window display, you could find excessively large signage that featured thin, white, cis-presenting women posing sensually. Words like Beyond Sexy and Seriously Hot circled around them in a font that made it look like it was written in red lipstick.
After a quick lap around the store and a few tag checks, I could feel a familiar heat rise to my face. Despite having an abundance of product, there was not a single thing in my size.
Although this was not a new experience for me, I have to admit it stung much more than usual. It was also the beginning of a pernicious train of thought: If this is the place you go to buy the things you need to be sexy, what does that mean for me?
That feeling of unworthiness followed me long after I left the mall. It crept into every crevice of my self-worth, laying eggs that hatched with every attempt to find beauty or sexiness within myself.
I felt like an anomaly but what I failed to realize was that I was not alone. In fact, I was far from it.
In the early 2010s, a US study found that only 5% of women naturally possessed the body type portrayed by the media at that time. That lack of representation, along with the negligence of limited sizing, left a staggering 95% of us feeling the way I did. And body image only begins to scratch the surface.
As a white woman who is cis-gendered, my feelings of inadequacy have always stemmed from my body but, for many folks, that lack of representation intersects with the underrepresentation of their race and/or gender identity.
It's said that a greater story can be uncovered when you look beyond your own experience and consider that of the collective. If these brands were in the business of helping women feel Beyond Sexy, why were so many of us leaving their stores feeling worse than when we went in?
The vast majority of us are familiar with a popular lingerie brand that reached its peak in the early 2000s but the story behind its inception is not as commonly known.
In the late 70s, an American businessman was inspired to start a company after experiencing an uncomfortable trip to the department store to buy underwear for his wife. His solution was simple: create a place where men would feel comfortable, even proud, to be shopping for lingerie.
In other words, they weren’t selling undergarments to women, they were selling a fantasy to men. And upholding that fantasy was of the utmost importance, which was their justification for excluding plus size and trans women from their annual fashion show.
For decades, women have been victim to the male gaze — but this feels like an offense of its own class. Not only did we trade our money and our worth to shop in some white guy’s imagination, it was done under the guise that it was for our own benefit.
They had us believe that we needed to meet these impossible standards and felt no remorse when we hated ourselves for falling short. They also distracted us from the most important thing of all: without us, the very real women on this earth, lingerie is nothing. It’s fabric. We are what makes it worth looking at.
The better half of this millennium has been disheartening to say the least but I believe some solace can be found in the silver lining. It only takes a few scrolls on Instagram to see the cultural shift that has taken place since the early aughts.
The rise of social media and user generated content has given people a platform to challenge and subvert those insidious notions of sexiness; to redefine and reclaim it in their own image.
Why pine for representation when we can take it for ourselves, leaving any company who refuses to keep up scrambling for relevancy?
Individual efforts to build an online presence have led to a full-blow movement, a catalyst for change within the undergarment landscape. Though, the past decade’s surge in female-founded intimate brands has also incited change, further fueling the shifting tides.
It’s an insurgence that has led to more inclusive sizing and increased representation, but that also caters to the multifaceted experience of being a woman. From periods to chafing to nursing, there’s finally consideration for the very real needs that fall outside of what we look like — or, better yet, how we’re perceived.
It seems obvious to say at this point but the male gaze that once dominated this space is dying and I, for one, will dance on its grave. In its place, the female gaze has emerged, triumphant.
Campaigns like those that decked the storefronts of my local mall and tormented me as a young adult now seem like stale remnants of a history none of us are interested in revisiting.
Rather than striving to fit a narrow mold, we’ve ditched it altogether. The truth is, there’s infinite beauty outside of the confines that once dominated the realm of lingerie and intimates. And it’s a truth that’s been kept from us far too long.
Authentic sexiness can be found in the embracement of the self — lingerie is simply an extension of what’s always been there for us to cherish.