The Foundation Garment

 “New Old Stock” the shopping site listing said. I had owned and loved one just like it years ago, worn it at every opportunity until purge day…sorry I’m getting ahead of myself. I’ll start over at the beginning.

I remember my first purge as if it were only yesterday rather than a half-lifetime ago. I remember putting every item of clothing in the black trash bag along with my shoes. All of the things I had built up over the years since getting my own apartment went in that bag. I even watched as they threw my trash bag into the back of the refuse truck. I won’t say if I shed a tear but it did feel like watching a friends coffin descending into the grave as my clothes disappeared into the truck.

The decision had seemed right at the time, well of course it did, I was young and Elizabeth and I were in love. Putting my days of sneaking around in women’s clothes behind me was the right thing to do for us, a small price to pay for a life together. Things were different back then, the good old days, days of yore…call it what you will but I remember it as the time before online shopping.

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In those days everyone knew only a certain type of man shopped for women’s clothes, much less shop for women’s underwear. That is until I saw a small linage ad in the back of a mens magazine:

“Corsetry and Foundation Garments, stage and TV specialists’ 

The advertisement gave an address which was far enough away from the town I lived in for me to be anonymous, feigning illness at work I took a train to the city the next day. 

The shop was run by an elderly woman who declared she was a professional corsetière, ‘I was trained when proper foundations were as important as shoes or hat’

I had wanted to buy a bra and a girdle but the professional corsetière, as if the decision laid solely with her, said ‘that will not do, you need a proper foundation unless you want to look like a man in a frock’ she smiled as if I were a slightly backward girl, ‘is that what you want?’

The internet is full of erotic fiction nowadays, a common subject is men being “fitted” for a bra or some similar fantasy. 

The professional corsetière did not even permit the removal of my coat but merely observed as I opened my jacket. She said ‘this will be perfect for you in every way Sir’ as she handed me a box about three inches square by twelve inches long then bustled about behind the counter as a sign I had been dismissed.

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We were still young (ish) when Elizabeth and I parted, we sold our house in the town and I took a short term rental apartment in the city. 

A man like me could get lost in a city the size of London. 

A man like me could be herself I a city the size of London. 

From the day I moved to London I was back to crossdressing at home, shopping had progressed to an online process free of judgement and embarrassment. Plucking up courage to “come out of the apartment” felt as daunting as ever though.

In hindsight I realise I had not thought things through, a city is a lonely place and new me needed to find a social life and job but first I needed to find myself. As if it were fate I happened on what seemed like a cross between a fancy dress and sex shop while exploring my new home range, the small sign in the corner of the window announced “Be the woman of your dreams — dressing day £50”

It would have been rude to pass on by so I called in to book a day ‘can I bring my own things?’ I asked

‘Sure you can, the boss still charges same though. See you tomorrow at ten’ Chantelle said as I handed the money over. 

It had not occurred to me there might be others on my dressing day and was surprised to find that I was one of five when I arrived a little late next morning. I confirmed that I was happy to dress myself and slipped into a changing booth. I went into what had become my home-dressing routine while the others were busy.

‘Now we are all dressed there is coffee coming or for the brave amongst us there is a cafe over the road’ I heard through the changing room curtain. The other four immediately deemed the outside too scary and opted for coffee in the shops ‘lounge’

I assumed that I would be staying with them when Chantelle suddenly slipped into my cubicle and quietly said ‘dressed already that was fast…the others are all first timers, we can leave them with Jim while we wander’

‘I haven’t been outside yet either and I’m not sure I’m ready for that’

‘We’ll get a second opinion if you don’t trust me’ Chantelle said as she smiled then dragged me into the shop then spun me around ‘I say unclockable…what’s your verdict Jim?’

‘Totally one hundred percent un-fucking-clockable…now get out of here you two’

———//———

‘So why are you paying for this?’ Chantelle said ‘seems like £50 for nothing, but don’t tell Jim I said that’ I told her my story, Chantelle waited for me to finish then said, ‘well you are out now and still alive so lets go window shopping for a while. My guess is that you will not bother changing into your drabs when you leave the shop’

We wandered for a while pausing to look in shop windows from time to time: clothes, clothes, estate agents, clothes, jewlers, estate agents. Chantelle and I were looking in an estate agents window. ‘That used to be a great club, the owner skipped to Spain over some dodgy business’ Chantelle said while pointing.

The shop door opened, ‘you ladies looking for a nightclub?’ The estate agent said

‘We sure are’ Chantelle said as she followed him while pulling me behind. The estate agent is super smooth, a receptionist brings two cups of coffee for us only a degree or two colder than the surface of the sun. Satisfied we are trapped he goes to fetch the sales details.

Chantelle whispers to me, ’see totally one hundred percent un-fucking-clockable just like Jim said’

‘For you together?’ The estate agent said, ‘sorry in all the excitement I forgot to introduce myself…I’m Patrick’

‘Not for us, for my friend, I’m Chantelle’ 

‘I’m Peggie ie not y’ I said for the first time in my life and, give Patrick his due, he did not even miss a beat at hearing my voice. 

‘Not the biggest club in London but it has got little apartment over as well…doesn’t that sound just perfect for a first nightclub Peggie?’

Chantelle had been right about my mens clothes, my drabs, I decided to finish my dressing day at home later. I took a bus home, shopped in the supermarket, winced as my heels rubbed, bought an Evening Standard paper that I read over a cup of tea in a small cafe. 

What I should say is that I meant to read the Evening Standard but instead stared at the paper until my tea was stone cold. Away from Chantelles influence and with time to think I had finally come to my senses. It was time for my second purge.

Not leaving any time to change my mind I went straight home, threw everything in a trash bag and put it in the dumpster.

Firing up my MacBook Pro I clicked on my favourite shopping site, I was in the mood for some retail therapy. I clicked “add to basket’ once, twice. The purge became less and less important as my basket filled. I clicked “add to basket’ three, four. “Customers also bought” flashed up and there it was identical in every way as the one the professional corsetière had sold me years before…New Old Stock, Playtex Suspender Corselette, last one, my size, free next day delivery. My basket total was already more than I wanted to spend. But I did I need more undies to wear under all those new dresses I told myself.

‘see how easy it is to justify clothes…’ New Me said

‘Bad Peggie’ Old Me said

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