Chelsea Summers, whose blogging has grown sporadic in recent years, remains worth waiting for. Here’s a pair of recent posts about the power of fancy and expensive lingerie:

Unmentionables, The First

Since that Friday in September, I have not stopped shopping for lingerie. I am breathy with the magic of it. It’s a giddy, girly contrivance, these dreamy imaginings of silk, nylon and lace. I have spent altogether too much money on these matching whispery sets (and I’ve way too many in shades of crimson, scarlet, cerise and bubblegum pink). But I love them, love them for their precious glow, their caress under the globes of my breasts, the way they hug my hips. I love them for the potential of showing them to others, lovers or no. I love them for their erotic promise to myself.

Make no mistake: there is great power in the wearing of good unmentionables. I defy any woman (regardless of how she comes by her womanhood) to put on a perfectly fitting bra and matching panties and not feel girded for battle. Lingerie may look like sweet nothings—and the best lingerie does—but if it fits right, it acts like internal Kevlar.

Unmentionables, The Second

These days, I know what I want: caressing unmentionables, intriguing men, luxurious sex, sparkly conversation, the comingling of the previous, and the quiet satisfaction of the door shutting when it’s over. I don’t know where I’m going with this juggling fine experimental phase, this sexual walkabout. I don’t know that it matters. I do know it’s not settling and that it fits me, exquisitely.

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