“You’ve got to get me out of here!”
My client’s panic stricken face peeked out from behind the dressing room curtain urgently pleading for me to assist.
“I have to leave,” she hissed in a tone low enough for just the two of us to hear. “You can’t let them see me!” She glanced toward the dressing room across the way.
“That man… The couple in the dressing room. That’s my best friend’s husband. But the woman he’s with… That’s not my best friend!”
Just a typical Saturday afternoon working as a shop girl at Madison Avenue’s premiere luxury lingerie boutique. Cheating husbands. Kinky divorcees. Sugar Daddies. Call Girls. I got to see it all, selling lingerie to Manhattan Upper East Siders wanting something a little luxe and naughty. We specialized in underthings suited for the sexcapades of the uber rich: Silk seamed stockings, nipple exposing peekaboo bras. Sawarski crystal studded ‘playsuits.’ The products were salacious and expensive, handcrafted with the finest materials. Even our provocative accessories were top of the line: leather whips with diamondite handles, rose gold handcuffs, Silk blind folds. Basically, my workplace was one stop shopping for the Eyes Wide Shut crowd.
Champagne flowed freely in the opulent uptown boutique. My coworkers and I lubracated customers inhibitions, offering flute after flute of bubbles to enhance their shopping experience (and our sales). Occasionally serving too much of a good thing would backfire. Tipsy couples would morph from timidly exchanging hushed whispers to engaging in volatile public arguments. Near a display of crotchless panties or a shelf stocked with patent leather spanking paddles I’d hear someone exclaim “You like that kind of thing?!! Disgusting!” One person’s fantasy can be someone else’s taboo.
In general, couples seeking a thrill were the worst clients. It they weren’t arguing, they’d fool around in the spacious dressing rooms, draining a bottle of champagne (and my time) only to maybe purchase $500 bra and panty set. Small time stuff. Not exactly a boon to my commission check.
The real clientele, the big spenders that I was always happy to see, were the ‘working girls.’ Prostitutes, hookers, sex workers: Whatever you want to call women employed in the oldest profession in the world. These gals dropped the big bucks.
They knew what they wanted and they didn’t skimp. Silk satin negligees, lacy garter belts, cleavage enhancing balconette bras. These ladies bought in bulk and typically paid in cash, leaving no paper trail.
Far from the tired trope of the Times Square street walker, these ‘professional girlfriends’ had flawlessly blown out hair, bombshell figures, and carried covetable designer handbags. Most of them were thirty plus, making them realistic companions to their big shot dates: the chairman and CEOS they accompanied to charity dinners and social events.
Occasionally these women brought their younger protégés into the boutique to shop. I’d setup their dressing rooms for try ons and overhear the older women instructing their pupils on what to wear, what to say, and how to behave. The goal was to play their charges for maximum cash out. It was a masterclass in flirtation and manipulation, and wearing the right lingerie was an essential part of the operation!
Men like black lingerie. I learned this early on in my luxury lingerie career. Red is also a popular preference, but nine times out of ten, a male client is buying something black. Husbands, boyfriends, Johns: they had a universal proclivity for black underthings, and one other thing in common: they had no idea what size to buy.
Whether shopping for their wife of twenty years or their lady of that night, our male clients were completely clueless about sizing. Bras, with their mysterious combination of band vs cup measurements, were a puzzling equation that could not be solved. In desperation, men would thrust their iPhones towards me showing screenshots of their intended. Surely I could determine her size from a photograph? Some of these photos were flattering nudes, while others were clearly working girls ‘composite cards’ straight from an X rated website. I always remained unfazed by these intimate revelations.
“She looks like a 32DD,” was my standard reply. When it doubt, I’d always recommend the most popular Upper East Side combo: 32DD bra and matching XS thong.
Occasionally we had guys shopping for matching ‘outfits’ for two or three different girls. No judgement! However, the guy wanting to purchase a single pair of panties and have them gift wrapped, would receive some thinly veiled scorn (for being a total cheapskate)!
The wisest male shoppers were the ones who purchased gift cards. You can’t go wrong letting the lady in your life pick out something for herself. At the very least, it’ll be the right size!
A man we called Daddy Warbucks stopped into the boutique to purchase a gift card almost weekly. Like his namesake, he wore dapper suits and had a shiny bald head. All of the shop girls loved him. He would hold court by the register, regaling us with tales of his exploits in Monico and star studded nights at the Carlyle Hotel. After finishing his amusing anecdotes, he’d peel $100 bills from his pocket and hand them out to each of us, as casual as offering a stick a gum.
I happily pocketed the tip. Daddy’s generosity was a rare perk for me, though some of my coworkers were accustomed to receiving gifts from older gentleman. These girls would occasionally disappear to the nearby Barney’s department store during their lunch break and return with a new pair of Loubitons or a YSL handbag, courtesy of an indulgent admirer.
Another frequent boutique visitor was a dominatrix who’d come shopping with her ‘dog’ on a leash. Not to be confused with a typical canine companion, our Dom’s ‘pet’ was a nondescript middle aged man. He wore a collar and followed his commanding superior throughout the store, silent and obedient, only breaking character to pull out his credit card to pay for his master’s selections. She did not ask his preferences; or try anything on for his approval. Corsets, bustiers, stockings: she had expensive taste and he never balked at the total. Typically I’d resent participating in someone’s public role playing kink, but for the commission I was earning I wouldn’t have minded if the man on the leash had barked at me.
Day to day, the boutique wasn’t just filled with sugar daddies, doms, and call girls. A lot of our clients were Madison Avenue locals, meticulously coifed, manicured women over forty who lived in penthouses along the Upper East Side. Behind closed dressing room curtains I’d notice that these women all shared the same physique: rock hard augmented breasts, two boulders attached to a stick figure frame, the result of a carefully monitored diet, pilates, and personal trainers. Most of these women came to the boutique hoping for the same thing.
“I’m looking for something to make him notice…” they’d say, eyeing their near naked reflection warily in the three way mirror. “I want him to SEE me.”
It was a familiar story. After decades spent running a household and raising children, these women’s husbands had lost interest. They felt invisible.
As their retail therapist, I’d get to hear about their failing marriages in excruciating detail. The particulars would vary slightly, but these women’s stories were primarily same: The husbands’ extramarital affairs with women half their age. How they’d given up their careers and never should’ve agreed to a prenuptial agreement. They yearned to hold their marriages together, hoping to regain their husband’s love and devotion by buying a bustier or a becoming bodysuit.
It was hard to fake enthusiasm for their plight. I wanted to tell themto leave the cheating assholes, but I also wanted them to charge 10K worth of lingerie to their Amex. More than likely, their husband’s new young girlfriend was also buying lingerie from me.
Eventually, the bizarre social dynamics and emotional labor of my job took a toll on me. I loved my employee discount, but the sexy fun fantasy world of lingerie began to feel more depressing than glamorous.
I put in my notice after a full year working in the boutique. For my final saIe, I went out with a bang, booking a private shopping appointment that yielded over 20K. It may have been a boutique record! The best part? My high rolling clients were a happily married couple from the suburbs of Long Island. No scandal. No drama. They spent a few hours sipping champagne and falling a little more in love with the help of our latest collection of wearable decadence. It was nice to be reminded that sexy lingerie and true romance can coexist together.
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