Baby bird or teenaged boy,
imprinting can have lifelong effects.
The Austrian psychologist Konrad Lorenz once convinced a gaggle of baby geese that he was their mother. Picking just the right moment to strut around their pen, flapping his arms and honking, the eminent professor soon had the goslings happily goose-stepping behind him. After tucking his new family into their nest that night, Lorenz coined the term imprinting to describe the way he'd messed with their little goose minds.
Human beings are not geese, and while it may be tempting to describe teenaged boys using animal metaphors, it's dangerous to generalize too broadly between species. Nonetheless, during the critical years of adolescence, young men can be every bit as susceptible to imprinting as those goslings were to Dr. Lorenz's manipulations.
I grew up in a strict, Catholic milieu. Sexuality was repressed, and the female body was a thing of mystery. My curiosity on the subject was overwhelming and unrewarded. As a shy, late-maturing bookworm, I had little opportunity for the backseat exploration that pushed the frontiers of some guys' knowledge. Even pictures were unavailable; stores wouldn't sell you Playboy until you were eighteen, and my dad wasn't the sort who stashed copies in his workshop. Fortunate boys who could bring a girlie magazine to Scout camp gained instant popularity, and the one old Playboy I found during a scrap-paper drive became a treasure, tucked into my chemistry set and consulted reverently, with trembling hands and an ear alert for parental footsteps.
Paradoxically, though images of the naked female body were unattainable, pictures of partially dressed women festooned the breakfast table every Sunday morning. The New York Times Sunday Magazine carried so many lingerie advertisements that it was nicknamed the Girdle Gazette. While reading the sober articles--"The Peace Corps at Age Five," "Whither the American Theater?"- - my eyes would drift to the photos of beautiful models in their underwear, and as puberty progressed, the stirrings I felt grew more intense.
Advertisers recognized and exploited the erotic dimension of these images. The warning, "Don't peep, Tom!" at the top of one display ensured that I'd take a closer look at the lingerie-clad beauty shown beneath. Some ads hinted at darker desires. The purveyors of Peter Pan foundations accompanied a photo of a kneeling woman, restrained by a heavily paneled girdle, with the stern admonition, "Every woman needs a little discipline." Whether suggestive imagery impelled women to buy more underwear is questionable, but it certainly made an impact on a curious teenaged boy.
Though the Girdle Gazette provided my first acquaintance with such ads, the most memorable image came from a different source. Toward the end of high-school, as my late-breaking hormone storm was reaching crescendo, I happened upon a pile of discarded Seventeen magazines. No one was around to see me, so I grabbed a couple and took them home. Girls were terribly difficult to figure out; perhaps reading one of their technical journals might help me understand them a little better.
I was right; flipping through the magazines proved highly educational. I quickly noticed that the underwear ads differed in a crucial way from the ones in the Sunday Times. The Times ads showed adult women, as old as twenty-three or twenty-four; unapproachable to a kid like me. The models in Seventeen were my own age. They looked just like the girls in school-- girls who might some day condescend to talk to me, or even agree to a date.
It surprised me how many of the ads were for girdles. I hadn't suspected that girls my age wore them. I'd always assumed girdles were something older women wore once they started getting flabby. Playtex commercials on TV consistently featured adult women, and slogans like "You'll look five pounds thinner," conveyed the notion that girdles were intended as remedial devices for the overweight. I'd been under the impression that they must be awfully uncomfortable to wear, as well; dumb blondes on TV sitcoms habitually complained, "My girdle is killing me!" Those Playtex ads, which stressed how comfortable their styles were, actually served to emphasize how bothersome all the others must be. It was hard to picture a young, active woman in such a garment.
Moreover, even in those days there seemed something vaguely foolish about the idea of wearing a shaping garment. In this pre-feminist era, it was perfectly acceptable to depict women as silly and vain. Comedians went on at length about the way women squandered their money on clothes, how they passed hours in front of the mirror, and not least, how they tried to squeeze themselves into tight foundations. They loved to tell girdle jokes; just saying the word guaranteed a cheap laugh:
My wife just bought a new miracle girdle.
It'll be a miracle if she can get it on!
Yuk, yuk.
Widespread mockery of this common wardrobe item helped reinforce the stereotype of women as shallow and superficial. Yet although this may have been a pre-feminist era, there was a sense emerging in the air that many traditional female stereotypes were somehow demeaning to women. Even I could tell that when a tough-guy detective mocked a woman's anger by asking, "What's the matter, sister... your girdle too tight today?" he was dismissing her ability to consider more serious topics.
In sum, the impression I'd formed was that girdles were inconvenient, uncomfortable, and most of all, old-fashioned. Surely, I thought, they were strictly a last-resort item for the figure-impaired; no modern, self-respecting young woman would wear one unless it was absolutely unavoidable.
The articles and ads in Seventeen shook this belief. Here were dozens of photos of girls my own age, in the most astounding variety of elaborate underpinnings! Trim, pretty girls, too; not an ounce of flab to be seen on any of them. Was this really what the girls in school were wearing beneath their dresses? I combed through the magazine for clues, and found some fashion articles which touched on the subject. Their advice was unanimous: girdles were mandatory for young ladies of any figure type.
I was shocked.
Of all the ads in these copies of Seventeen, one in particular stood out, a simple shot of three girls in pastel underwear: pink, white, and blue. Looking back on it now, it seems a fetishist's version of Botticelli's Three Graces.
In the center was a girl in white pettipants, a baggy, bloomer-like slip substitute that enjoyed a brief vogue during the miniskirt years. She seemed younger than her companions, too young to be appealing to me even then.
On the right was a pretty blonde in pink bra and half-slip. She knelt demurely, sideways to the camera. I don't think I'd ever seen a half- slip before; I liked the look, and I still find it sexy.
It was the girl in blue who fascinated me, though. A striking brunette with a full and frank face, she stood erect and proud at the left side of the photo. Unlike the shy girl in white, or the kneeling, passive girl in pink, the girl in blue seemed completely at ease. She showed no hint of embarrassment at being photographed in her underwear; her dark eyes challenged the camera, fixing the lens with dignity and poise.
The more I looked at the girl in blue, the more she seemed a real person: complex, multifaceted, and confident. Even in a state of undress, she projected composure and strength. She demanded to be accepted on her own terms, and eventually, in my mind, I came to understand just what those terms were, and why I found her so intriguing. The girl in blue accepted her own sexuality, and she was willing to share it with a partner who acknowledged her equality.
To a teenaged boy whose only previous images of female sexuality were a few tawdry centerfolds, this was a revelation of unparalleled significance. But there was still one paradox to resolve as I contemplated this new concept, because the girl in the center was wearing a pale blue bra and panty girdle.
A girdle... an emblem of subservience, not independence! How could this vibrant, self-assured young woman present herself in a garment so symbolic of outmoded conceptions of woman's role? There was no insecurity about the girl in blue; just the opposite. Surely such a girl would not sacrifice her comfort and freedom for the sake of mere vanity.
Yet the girl in blue offered no apology for her decision to wear a control garment. You must accept me as I am, her expression said, and not as you think I ought to be.
I tried to make sense of this puzzle, and eventually, I distilled an understanding. The girl in blue had no illusions about herself, I decided. She knew her strengths, but this confidence bred no arrogance. Instead, it gave her a willingness to accept the strictures of femininity. She had no fear that by doing so she would seem weak; there was no weakness about her. She could accept a minor encumbrance because she was free in more important ways. Because she was strong, she was free to make her own choices, and the choice she made showed me that beauty and grace might coexist with honesty and strength.
I knew, of course, that the girl in the photograph was a model, paid to wear what an art director told her to wear. She may never have worn a girdle again in her life. It matters not; I know that my perceptions were valid. The girl in blue, as I understood her to be, was every bit as real as any other character created by the interplay between artist and observer. The photographer and the model, working together, had painted a picture of womanhood that has stayed with me to this day.
A year or two later, the age of the miniskirt arrived, and there was no longer any need to wonder what my female classmates were wearing. I was no more of a Peeping Tom than any other teenaged male, but there was no way of escaping the public display of feminine underwear that took place during the transitional period until pantyhose came onto the scene. There was a continual exhibition of stockings and garters, panties and girdles, as women stood up, sat down, reached for things-- as they carried on the ordinary activities of life.
A new rule of etiquette was formulated to address the problem:
A gentleman does not notice.
...but this rule was more easily stated than practiced. I've read several accounts by women describing how challenging it was to maintain modesty in those days, but the situation was also stressful for guys. There was a perpetual inner conflict of "I want to look, but I know I shouldn't." I'd be trying to have an ordinary conversation with a girl, and every time she shifted in her seat, she'd reveal a bit more of the Sub-Skirt Mystery Zone. If she were sitting across from me, the line of sight would often extend right up to the little triangle of fabric that covered the mysterious holy- of-holies. Being a guilt-ridden Catholic kid, I'd try hard not to look. Then I'd catch myself gazing downwards, and be horribly embarrassed, wondering whether the girl could tell I'd been peeking.
Even my strait-laced father came home one evening from the womens' college where he taught part-time and complained how uncomfortable it was to look out over a classroom filled with girls showing their underwear.
Without thinking, I said something like, "I didn't think that would be a problem for you," and he answered, offended, "Do you think I'm immune? "
Actually, until that point, I had. It was hard for me to accept that a guy my father's age-- in his forties, for Pete's sake-- might still have sexual urges. Gross!
But the most devastating experience came in my freshman year of college, one morning just before class. I was sitting in my seat, gazing idly across the room at Mary Catherine O'Reilly, on whom I had a vague crush. Sweet, Irish Catholic girl... buxom, long brown hair, green eyes to die for.
I'll never forget-- she's wearing a plaid miniskirt and a tight, white sweater. She's standing, facing me, then someone says something and she turns away to answer. As she moves, her flippy little skirt hooks on the back of a chair and lifts all the way up to her waist. Suddenly, there for the world to see, is the beautiful rear end of a girl I admire, encased in a white, long-leg, panty girdle. She hadn't a clue how much she was showing, and that's how she stood until class began-- an eternity.
I was good for nothing the rest of the day, and I suspect that this chance moment finished the process of warping me for life.
And the girl in the pale blue girdle?
I cut the ad out of the magazine and kept it for several years, until one day, racked with guilt and shame, I tossed it into a dumpster.
Sometimes, I think I've spent my life since then looking for the girl in the pale blue girdle.
*****
Download a high-resolution JPEG of the
1967 Teenform ad
(300 kb)
Note: I'm certainly not the first to note how easily a teenaged boy can be affected by visual imagery. Pete Townshend of The Who wrote about it in way back in 1967 in Pictures of Lily. There's never been a band like the The Who, before or since.
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Orginally Posted October, 1996