Agent Provocateur
January 6, 2006
Before Christmas, it was clear that Deborah and I wouldn't have the time or money to buy each other proper gifts, and we agreed that we’d try to make up for it after the holiday. Unfortunately, "after the holiday" found us in the same predicament. Presents, we told ourselves, aren't that important anyway. But yesterday, we had a day off, and we decided to stroll around the city to see if anything caught our eye. We took the R train from Deborah's apartment in Park Slope to Prince Street in the heart of SoHo.
"SoHo?” I can hear you say. “Didn't you just say you didn't have any money?"
No one ever accused me of being practical. And if you're going to be impractical, you might as well go all out—so that's the kind of thinking that led us into Agent Provocateur, a fancy lingerie store filled with peek-a-boo bras and rhinestone-encrusted riding crops.
As soon as we walked in, I knew I was in trouble. Deborah's eyes widened as she looked around, up and down, and said, "I want to live here!" Or maybe she said, "I want to work here." Either way, since she wasn't likely to do either, all it meant was that she wanted to walk out of the store with as much stuff as possible. When your credit card debt has you swimming in abstract numbers, it's easy to say, "Fuck it, what's the difference between a zillion dollars and a gazillion dollars?" So I resigned myself to charging a thing or two.
"Pick something out for me to try on," said Deborah.
"Hm," I shrugged. "It all looks good to me."
"I know, me too."
"This is one of our most popular sets," the salesgirl said, showing us a black lacy peephole bra edged with pink ribbon tied into bows, and a matching pair of panties.
After about twenty minutes, Deborah disappeared into the dressing room with four or five options.
"Psst," she said, poking her head out from behind the dressing room curtain. "Come look."
I got up from the black velvet couch and took a peek.
"What do you think?" she asked.
"Whoa. Very nice."
"You like it? I like it, too. It's definitely in the running."
She pushed me away and slid the curtain shut to change into the next getup.
"Psst."
Once again, it looked great.
"I can't decide," said Deborah.
I saw the hangtag, but there wasn’t a price on it. Out of everything she had with her in the dressing room, only one bra had a price tag. The amount seemed reasonable — I mean, it was high, but we knew that going in, and weren't shocked — and we used it as a guide to estimate the cost of everything else. "I'll kick in some money," said Deborah, feeling a little guilty as she watched me struggle with my rudimentary math skills. "I knew it was going to be hard to decide on what to get," said Deborah.
We added it up and decided that, along with Deborah's contribution, we could swing two outfits.
As Deborah handed the salesgirl the things she wanted, the salesgirl asked her if she wanted stockings too. "Yes."
They picked out a pair together.
"And are you interested in pasties?"
Silver dollar-sized cones of leather, or sequins and tassels, starting at forty bucks a pop.
There was a limit to our impracticality, and we passed.
The salesgirl entered each item into the register, while another salesgirl folded them and put them in a fancy pink box wrapped with black ribbon.
When the total was announced, I swallowed as subtly as I could. Our guestimations were a little off, putting us decidedly over the already extravagant number we predicted. Oh well. I was in too deep at that point to turn back. Besides, after getting home and watching Deborah try on just one of the ensembles, my buyer's remorse evaporated with the breeze of Deborah's first twirl.
