Male Lingerie Logic.

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If love is blind why is lingerie so popular?

I've noticed how my fellow man buys lingerie like they’re prepping for a West-end show! Satin, lace, garters, bows hell, some of it looks like it came off a Vegas magician’s assistant. “Ta-da! It’s crotchless!” Yes, great. So’s a donut. Doesn’t mean I want to wear one.

And they always buy it as a gift. A gift! Like it’s for her. “Here pet, I got you this see-through dental floss with rhinestones. I thought it’d make you feel sexy.” No, mate. It makes you feel horny. She feels itchy. And cold. And slightly betrayed.

Because here’s the truth: women wear cotton. Real women. Not the ones in perfume ads writhing on a piano. I’m talking about the ones who pay taxes and yell at the dog. Cotton! Big ol’ breathable, sensible, machine washable cotton. The kind that says, “I’ve got errands, a uterus, and no time for your fantasy.”

But men don’t want hear that do we!? Nooo. We want the illusion. The illusion that their partner is secretly a Victoria’s Secret assassin who just hasn’t been activated yet. “She’ll wear this and suddenly want to do the splits on the kitchen counter.” No she won’t. She’ll want to know why you spent £80 on something that looks like a spiderweb made of regret.

And let’s talk about sizing. Men don’t know sizes. They guess. They eyeball. They hold up a bra like it’s a puzzle from The Da Vinci Code. “Is she a 34C or a 36D? What does the letter even mean? Is it like blood types?” No, it’s not. And if you get it wrong, congratulations you’ve bought her a hammock or a tourniquet.

And don’t get me started on the names. “Midnight Temptation.” “Crimson Desire.” “Forbidden Whisper.” Sounds like rejected Bond girls. You know what men’s underwear is called? “Boxers.” That’s it. No mystery. No seduction. Just a name that says, “I might punch someone.”

So here’s the deal: lingerie is a lie. It’s a costume. A prop. A theatrical flourish in the bedroom circus. And that’s fine if both parties are in on the joke. But don’t pretend it’s a gift for her. It’s a gift for your imagination. And her thighs are just the wrapping paper.



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