A first for The Girdle Zone- original fiction.
It is often said that our stories will tell us more about ourselves than any attempt at non-fiction. Certainly, The Viewer will tell the reader much about the dreams and desires of a man obsessed by the allure of the Girdled Woman.
O.J.Simpson killed his ex-wife. Stabbed her and that waiter fellow. Most people were pretty sure of it, but Riley knew it for a fact. He'd watched it happen, several times, from different angles. He'd also watched Nicole Simpson dress that morning, so he knew she was wearing blue Jockey-For-Her bikini briefs when she died, and a nondescript beige bra.
Amelia Earhart, on the other hand, was wearing all white beneath her flight suit when her plane ran out of fuel and ditched in the Pacific, several hundred miles north of her intended flight path. Riley thought she should have known better than to hire a drunk for a navigator.
There were many things that Riley knew. The attractive waitress who served Jimmy Hoffa his last cup of coffee was wearing a black bra and panties, along with support pantyhose. (The union leader did not, as many thought, end up in a hubcap. Riley watched a couple of goons bury him at a construction site.)
Riley also knew that Lee Oswald had acted alone. He'd carefully inspected every square inch of Dealey Plaza while the crackpot ex-Marine was aiming his mail-order rifle out the Schoolbook Depository window. There was no sign whatsoever of a second gunman. Riley had also tracked Jackie Kennedy's movements that November morning, so he knew that beneath that pink suit, she was wearing a matching pink girdle. Open-bottomed, with little ribbons over the garter clips. As he watched her dress, all unaware of the horror to come, he felt tremendous sadness and a sense of shame at his peeping, and he switched off the Viewer before she got the girdle all the way on.
He made no effort to find out what Eva Braun was wearing in her last minutes, but he was interested to see that she faced death far more calmly than Adolf Hitler, who sniveled and cried. Riley recorded the ignominious scene, and thought of how many people would pay money to see it, but he knew that he'd never show the tape to anyone, for any price.
Riley had a sense of right and wrong, a sense that convinced him to keep his invention a secret, and forego the chance for wealth and fame. If word of the Viewer ever got out, no one- anywhere, any time- would know privacy again. Somebody else might stumble upon the principle some day, but Riley couldn't help that. All Riley knew was that he was not going to enter history as the man who turned the world into a fishbowl.
This afternoon, Riley was not trying to solve any historical mysteries. Keeping so many secrets had become stressful, and most days recently, Riley used his invention only for relaxation. Today, Riley was monitoring a Macy's lingerie department in 1969. Riley had a thing for women in girdles, and there was something fascinating about that era. It intrigued him that, even though pantyhose had been on the market for several years, so many lovely young women refused to give up their girdles.
There was one such on the screen right now, talking to the matronly clerk behind the counter. Twenty-five or so, blonde hair, trim figure and a charming smile. Her stomach was pool-table flat, but the sleekness of her fanny beneath her slim-skirted dress suggested she had some sort of foundation on already. Riley couldn't hear what she had to say, of course; the Viewer had no means of picking up sounds. After a minute or two of discussion, the clerk disappeared into the stockroom, then came back with two black panty girdles, which she handed to the young woman.
Manipulating the joystick, he followed her to the changing room. To his delight, she pulled off her dress as soon as she latched the door. Another correct guess: she did have a girdle on, a white brief with a stiff-looking stomach panel. She forced it down over her hips, then faced the mirror in bra, panties, and pantyhose. She cupped her hands over her stomach and frowned; without the girdle, it was just slightly rounded. Rather cute, Riley thought, but he suspected she perceived it as a hideous bulge.
Grabbing one of the black girdles by its waistband, she bent forward and stepped into it. It slid upward easily, and after a moment's fussing with waistband and cuffs, the woman began a series of contortions, stretching, squatting, and bending at the waist. Riley always enjoyed watching the different methods women used to check a girdle's fit. Some, like the blonde, did calisthenics; others seemed to rely on some sort of silent meditation to arrive at a decision. Apparently satisfied with the garment's fit, she pulled her dress back over her head, cinched the belt, then inspected herself in the mirror, first standing sideways, then turning away, looking over her shoulder at the outline of her rear end.
After a minute's contemplation, she slipped the dress over her head, slid the first girdle off and picked up the second. As soon as she stepped into the second girdle, it became obvious that it was considerably heavier than the first. Drawing it gradually over her hips, she tugged the garment from side to side, pulling first one leg, then the other toward her crotch. Once the legs were near their intended position, she tugged at the waistband, and soon she had that in place as well. She turned her attention back to the legs, smoothing the cuffs down and making sure they were even, then ran her fingers beneath the waistband until that, too, lay flat against her skin, with no rolls or folds.
Riley stopped the action for a moment, rolled it back, then watched once again in slow motion. The process never failed to fascinate him... the squirming, the tugging, the last-minute adjustments.
He unfroze the screen, and the woman repeated the series of contortions, at greater length this time. After appraising the fit in that manner, she donned the dress again, and once more examined her reflection. Again, she appraised herself minutely, checking from all angles, pulling the dress tight against her flanks. She reached high in the air, checking, Riley surmised, whether the long legs showed below her hem. He slowed the action for a moment, moved the view to a point closer to the floor, and noted wryly that from a low enough angle, they certainly did.
Finally, she pulled the heavy girdle off, then without removing her dress, she put the white brief back on. There was a moment as she pulled it to her waist when dress and foundation seemed to tangle together, but she straightened everything out.
As she left the changing room, Riley wondered which of the two garments she'd chosen. The lighter one, or the heavy-duty job? He got his answer: she handed the lightweight one to the clerk, who placed it aside, and held on to the firmer one.
It amused Riley to see how many trim young women seemed to prefer heavier girdles to lighter ones, as if they actually liked the sense of constriction. Had their mothers habitually yanked down on their snowsuit straps when they were infants, he wondered? Actually, he suspected that the explanation often lay in a slinky new dress, bought for some occasion or other. If he tracked the blonde for a week or two, Riley guessed, he'd see her at a party or wedding, in a form-fitting dress, with the new girdle beneath.
He moved the mouse to highlight a box labelled Object/Track, clicked, lined up a set of crosshairs on the girdle, and clicked again. Then he clicked on Object/Intersect, clicked again on the image of the young woman, and settled back. In a moment, the screen shifted to what seemed to be the young woman's bedroom. He watched briefly as she took the girdle out of its bag and placed it in her bureau, then he clicked on Next. The screen shifted again; he checked the readout and noticed he'd moved up four days. A Saturday, he saw with satisfaction.
Once more, the young woman stood at her bureau, but this time she was clad only in a robe. She took the girdle from the drawer again, laid it on her bed next to a slip, a bra, and a pair of stockings. Riley waited patiently as she bustled about the room for a few minutes, then smiled as she undid the robe, and hung it in the closet, her back to him. Her bottom was womanly and full, her waist small, the skin of her back smooth and unblemished. Then she turned toward the room. Her breasts were well shaped and firm, her nipples large and brown, the hair at her crotch light.
Reilly watched with delight as she stepped toward the bed. In a moment would come the sight he'd been waiting for. He was a little disappointed to see her don the brassiere first... no chance to watch her breasts sway as she wriggled into the girdle. Then, utter chagrin: she slid the slip over her head, sat down at her dressing table, and began to apply makeup.
So she was letting the girdle go till last!
He fast-forwarded through the rest of the scene and barely slowed as she discreetly pulled the girdle into place beneath the slip.
Reilly was disappointed, but he shook it off. Rather than dwell on this letdown, he opened his Bookmark file and scrolled to the name of an upscale corsetiere in Beverly Hills, circa 1965. Natalie Wood liked to shop there, as he recalled.
"So many women," he mused, "And so much time."
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Originally Posted April 20, 1997