My mother never showed her décolletage to anyone but my dad, and only in private. For me, life began with the invention of Wonderbra. When I subconsciously registered that men are visual creatures, I invested in the most promiscuous-looking items of clothing. From curve-hugging dresses to sheer stockings, I purposely showed off my voluptuous figure.
But then a funny thing happened. Over the weekend, I was invited to a sophisticated son-et-lumière party. The theme? Wolf of Wall Street, since you asked. The guest list? It supposedly included abstemious epicures. Women were asked to find frocks that would sent the bull-headed male specimen to overdrive. For men, the tailoring changed up a notch. It was Teddy Boy instead of the louche aesthetic that characterised the nineties.
When it came to my wardrobe, I ditched the spaghetti-strap bondage slip and went for the military-esque bardot dress under the name of the iconic double C. And that's when it hit me; for the first time in my life I chose fashion over men. I chose to be Audrey instead of Brigitte.
The party was an epic celebration of being a man-magnet but it was also an epic satire. It asserted that the erogenous zones du jour were the expansive bosoms and buttocks. As I looked around, troubled and troublesome men were complimenting on things that were now noticeable.
I inhaled deeply and cast a beatific gaze. And that's when I realised that at the end of the day, it doesn't really matter what you wear but what you project.