Dating in a push-up bra
His head rests on my chest. We are naked, but he is unaroused. My push-up bra with extra padding lies on the floor. Was it a form of womanly deceit to hoist my small breasts up in cushioned cups, a bit of self-promotion to the coveted size C I’ve always longed for? Earlier in the evening when I tipped back a martini with extra olives, his eyes locked on my falsified feminine pillows. Now in bed together, I think of signposts, yellow and black, which warn of wet, winding roads ahead. But mine bears a straight line.
I turn to the window. The moon, like my heart, is almost full, but never quite. I’ve been single for three years now. When I first moved to Hollywood, I dated a TV showrunner. Accustomed to giving feedback against an audition line of beautiful actresses, he immediately saw my issue. “You’re not a girly girl,” he pointed out. “You know what you should do? Go buy some sexy nighties. Get in touch with your femininity.”
My heart wanes a little just remembering. I had taken his advice and gone to Victoria’s Secret to face down my insecurity over lingerie. Teenage girls ran through the store, giggling and laughing. They hurried back to try on bright pink bras and lacy hip huggers.