Men’s Lingerie Preferences Are Simpler Than You Think
Working in a prominent lingerie boutique, it’s been really interesting getting to observe the different nuances in people’s respective desires and turn-ons. While some men have no particular preference or don’t even care for lingerie in the first place, others are incredibly specific, refusing to look at anything but silk, or lace, or in some cases even certain colors. For example, I had one client come by saying that whatever I showed her, it had to be a combination of red and black, otherwise her guy simply wouldn’t be interested. I love intriguing little psychological things like that, especially relating to sex, because you know that buried deep down, there’s some super fascinating source to the fetish.
Even in my own four-year relationship, there are little tidbits about what gets my man going that I’m only now really picking up on. From the start, being a lingerie enthusiast by nature, I was always trying to incorporate ensembles into my seduction rituals, and it worked, but never really the way I’d thought it would. I’d spend forever putting on some elaborate look, with feminine frills and suspenders and lace and heels and robes, but I think it was just too over the top. Spontaneity is what’s truly sexy, and some of that gets lost in trying too hard to please. Plus, what appeals to a female’s sensibility is certainly not always what appeals to a male’s, and that’s fine. He would always seem like he didn’t know what to do with all of it, and there would be this awkward moment of hesitation that would silently disrupt the entire vibe. Little by little though, I started picking up on the things I’d notice stronger reactions to, like body stockings or anything fishnet. And I’d say that it’s not even so much about how it looks—which is hot as fuck, by the way—but more so the physical sensation.
Right at the start of us dating, there was a night I vaguely remember, chilling on the couch with him and talking about this and that. I’d asked something along the lines of what turned him on in a female, and he mentioned stockings and thigh highs, relating it back to when he was a kid, watching the schoolgirls flood out of Catholic school. That always struck a chord with me in the best way possible. There was just something about it—a lust so natural and pure, I couldn’t help but be turned on by it myself. Ever since, I’ve really tried to hone in on exploring the root of his proclivity; and the more I try, the more I realize how simple it truly is.
Don’t get me wrong—he adores the fishnet body stockings. For one, it’s the stretchiness of the material, the enticing contrast of that harsh diamond pattern cutting across the suppleness of plump skin. If used properly, it can help turn you into a human yo-yo. And what dude doesn’t secretly want to see their girl bust out into a stripper? But recently, I’ve noticed that my non-sexy hosiery is where his true interest seems to lie. Just my boring black sheers, or a five-year-old pair of holey fishnets used strictly for layering under little black dresses. I’ll yank all my shit off at the end of the day, plop down on the couch, and then his hands will creep onto my legs and thighs almost mindlessly, magnetically, petting the nylon smoothness and squeezing like it’s a taught stress ball.
One day, surprised by his voracity in a pair of said tights, his roaming hands led us straight to our bedroom, and I feel it’s the most sexually synced I’ve ever been with someone. There was something so effortless about it—just pure, raw desire, unforced, stemming from a place deep down that few ever have the pleasure to experience. Feeling his strong hands run up and down me in the darkness, then shredding apart the material covering the best parts, it was like unlocking some cheat in a video game that boosts all your shit up to the max.
Now, any time I get a run in a pair of stockings, I place them in a bag separate from my wearable stock: a bag full of things that can be worn for purposes of destruction. Knowing all too well what I’m doing, I’ll slip a pair on to parade around the house in, a tear forming ripples over the curve of an ass cheek (hiking them allll the way up to lift every crevice), and then watch as he sneaks secret glimpses. I’ve had to throw away at least five pairs already this month. Hoping to make it 10 by April.