Bad Girls (16 page)

What, you might ask, is the gentleman's stitch? It is among the most common medical procedures to accompany giving birth, yet many aren't even aware that they've had it done. It's certainly the most common sexual enhancement surgery, though one that, if given a choice, most would be too embarrassed to request. That's why Dr Weaver began doing it decades ago, without anyone's consent, and quietly exhorted his students and colleagues to do the same.

It simply consists of the addition of an extra stitch when suturing the incision after an episiotomy. This stitch, binding the labia together so that they heal tighter than they were before, is presumed to have increased post-pregnancy sexual pleasure of both women and men for generations. Though Dr Weaver admitted there was an unfortunate degree of guesswork involved (if one knew the actual dimensions of the husband in question, then the stitch could be quite precisely placed), he believed he knew the general girth of the average Englishman and only permitted himself to depart from this average in the case of an East Asian husband, in which case he might make two extra stitches, or an African husband, in which case he placed the stitch so as to result in only the slightest tightening. Dr Weaver, though a pioneer in the field of sexual enhancement surgery, was a bit retrograde in his racial stereotypes.

Moreover, some feminists had always condemned his procedure for… well, Dr Weaver had never been exactly sure what for. He was careful never to stitch too tight. He adored a woman's sexual pleasure and would hate himself if he ever thought he'd done something to make sex uncomfortable for a single one. Nor had he meant to suggest that women were somehow sexually defective after childbirth. On the contrary, he had always regarded it as a surgery to compensate for the inadequacy of men.

Protests aside, however, Dr Weaver's innovation had been nearly universally adopted. Even Dr Alton commonly utilized it and made plain that she would like it done to her if she ever gave birth.

‘Do you want to know the story behind the origin of the gentleman's stitch?' Dr Weaver asked after a long silence.

Everyone looked at each other. Had it not been one of those self-evident ideas just waiting to be discovered? Had it really been any more than stumbling across the obvious? Certainly women could not hope to retain their original form after giving birth, and certainly there was room to spare for any man anyway, and certainly both parties owed their sexual pleasure to the friction involved, so in retrospect it just seemed the sensible thing to do. As episiotomies became more widespread, so did the ease with which an extra stitch could be made. It added nothing to the healing time or the risk of infection, the two greatest drawbacks of episiotomies, and therefore was contraindicated only on the most rare of occasions. For all these reasons, everyone had imagined that the idea simply came to Dr Weaver in a flash of inspiration. No one bothered to wonder if there was a story behind its origin, and yet here was Dr Weaver, suggesting there was.

‘Why, yes,' Dr Wilson said, as the senior member of the group he took the responsibility of speaking for all present. Moreover, he was the most surprised of anyone his old friend and confidante Dr Weaver had kept from him for all these years. This is the story he told:

You see, I had just finished my long apprenticeship and opened my own tailor shop when the war began. That meant I had very few clients. The older men had already established relationships with their tailors and were reluctant to switch, while the young men were all away in the army. Not to mention the economic hardships that struck and the disruptions in trade that affected our supplies of cloth. People were forsaking new clothes. Wearing the same suits and dresses several years in a row became something of a statement of character. Decadence had gone out of style, or rather it had gone underground and existed in only the most rarified circles. And no members of those circles frequented my shop.

I was only days away from accepting my failure and returning, humbled, to the tailor for whom I'd apprenticed when a young man came by my shop with an odd request. He had heard, correctly, that the craftsmanship of my hems and seams was among the best. He asked if I had ever done seams for ladies clothing. I couldn't see his purpose in this question, for a good seam, meant to be unseen and discreet, was no different for women than for men. I reassured him that I had, though I hadn't actually done any women's garments. I was desperate and there was nothing he could ask me to do that was beyond me. Next, he asked if I was familiar with the situation concerning ladies' stockings at that moment, and I replied truthfully that I was. It was well known that all natural and synthetic elastic, as well as all silk, was being monopolized by the military. Without elastic or silk it was therefore almost impossible to get stockings that conformed to the shape of a lady's legs. Indeed, some of the atrocities that passed for stockings in those days were as baggy as men's trousers. Finally, he asked if I was familiar with the most recent trend among society women to address the lack of stockings. I thought it likely that he would call my bluff if I lied, so I replied that I was not, hoping it wouldn't preclude me from his business. Ladies of means who were determined to look attractive for whatever reason, he said this with both a sneer and a smile, were having stockings that would otherwise be quite baggy sewn together while on their legs so as to achieve the formfitting tightness so desired. The seam, following the shape of the leg and determining the ultimate success or failure of the effect, had to be of the finest quality, and the patience and skill of the tailor were of paramount importance.

I could see why. I thought I'd never heard of a more appetizing assignment. I assured him I was eager to try my hand at the task and could guarantee him that my seam would have no equal. This pleased him, and we agreed that he would bring a lady by the following week to have her stockings sewn up prior to a ball that evening. I would procure the best material I could for these stockings, for which he forwarded me a generous sum, and would block off my whole day for the long process of sewing a seam up the contours of this woman's legs.

You can imagine my eagerness as well as my hopes of this lady's attractiveness. Indeed, I was optimistic for I assured myself that no man would pay such a sum for this service if the lady in question were unattractive. When the day arrived I awaited her anxiously, having exceeded my budget to make sure I had the finest black market silk. It was amazingly fine and beautifully translucent. I knew that the ball to which the gentleman referred wasn't going to be a normal affair. The style at traditional balls still involved dresses so large and elaborate that the shape of a leg hardly mattered. No, this was another sort of thing completely – the sort of thing members of my social class only could read about in prurient novels.

When the door of my store finally opened a woman entered who possessed beauty, grace, youth and daring in proportions that I had never imagined possible. She arrived alone, saying the gentleman had no patience for the daylong procedure that was about to occur. She told me exactly what he wanted her to be wearing, the exact effect on her curves it was to have, and asked if I minded if she smoked while I worked. I told her I didn't mind at all and went to fetch my newest, finest needles. When I returned she had let her skirt fall to her feet and stood, statuesque, in nothing but a blouse, knickers and suspenders, awaiting something to suspend. Now, since our medical profession dictates we see people similarly undressed daily, it might be hard for you to imagine the thrill this gave me. Even more thrilling, I knew I would spend most of the day in direct contact with those legs, my head close enough to her crotch that I would smell it like I smelled the blossoming garden outside my window.

Indeed, that is exactly how I spent the day, careful to do the finest quality work and not to do anything that might dissuade her from utilizing my services again. I instructed her that if she removed the stockings carefully by severing the thread I was now sewing, she could return the silk to me for reuse. Though I had pulled it so taught that it would inevitably be stretched, I thought I could still sew it onto a woman slightly larger than the one I had just sewn into it. When she put her dress back on and left that day, I watched her legs as she walked out of my store and thought proudly that no one could possibly know from looking at those legs that we lived in an era when silk and elastic were scarce.

When the next week began I awaited the return of the gentleman, who promised he would come to pay the bill. I desperately hoped he would schedule another appointment. I was quite beside myself, not daring to imagine a future of women's legs in my shop but hoping for it nonetheless. He finally returned on Wednesday, well after I had given up and figured that I would never see the money I was owed. He announced that he was terribly pleased with my efforts and asked if I could possible manage to do the same thing for three women this coming Friday. Three! This truly exceeded my expectations. I told him I could, but only on the condition that the first arrive at seven in the morning. He replied that she would. I was hesitant to ask about the silk from last week's stockings but did so anyway, as I would have to know whether it was going to be returned to me if I were to assess my need for new supplies. He admitted that the silk had become quite unusable due to certain activities, but offered to compensate me generously. This he did, tipping me as well, before he left.

That Friday was an embarrassment of riches. I didn't know my gentleman benefactor's name, nor did I know the names of the women whose every contour from thigh to toe I became intimately familiar with. But they were all pleased with my handiwork and left glowing with the feeling of being glamorous and finely dressed for perhaps the first time in a year. That they were not women of the finest classes and probably dependent on their gentleman friends to finance their glamour should go without saying. They were actresses, starlets or faux ingénues whose beauty, charm and freedom elevated them to the objects of desire of the highest class of men. These men led double lives that were secrets to no one: propriety, titles and progeny on the one hand; and these women, their soirees and nights no one asked about on the other. That it was an arrangement to everyone's satisfaction was quite obvious to me.

Soon this became my main trade and I was approached by many gentlemen about providing my services to the ladies in their keep. I noted that no silk was ever returned to me and surmised that a great part of the allure of this odd sartorial bondage was the thrill that must have been attained by violently ripping the lady free of it. I imagined my creations – three to four hours in the making – being destroyed in a few seconds of passion. I was foreplay for them, I thought. My sewing was an essential part of the long ritual preceding the final release. I thought this not only because of my insights into human sexuality, but also because of the smell of the ladies' arousal that emanated from between their legs as they passed the tedium of their day by imagining how their night would end. Sometimes I was sorely tempted to offer them a degree of satisfaction to help pass the time, but I was too afraid to do anything that might disrupt my wonderfully rejuvenated cash flow.

There was, however, the small matter of the war, and so it was not all smooth going. Some of the young men who were patrons of these women were called up for duty and faced the imminent prospect of leaving them behind. Knowing the ease with which these women could be stolen from them in their absence, for many had stolen their lovers from other men in the first place, some were determined to go to whatever length necessary to assure that their treasures would faithfully await their return. The men were aware that the greatest threat they faced for their lover's fidelity came from the world of the soirees itself. There the women could return and find new lovers, lovers present to lavish them with gifts and pleasures, not far away and in peril. The men's options were equally bad: either unenforceable interdictions against their lovers attending the soirees or blind trust that their lover might – drunk, poor and alone – resist temptation.

One of these gentlemen approached me with a suggestion. After announcing that he was going to ship out to North Africa, he told me that he fully expected that when he left, Laura, his lover, would come to me the following week spending some other man's money to get her legs done up. He therefore wanted to continue to reserve my services to prepare her stockings for every party on the social calendar so that she'd have no basis for complaints of neglect or deprivation. This was not, however, all he wanted me to do. He asked if I could do anything to guarantee him that his Laura wouldn't stray.

When I asked him what he had in mind, he paused and professed not to have really given it much thought, but when I pressed him he proposed a plan in great detail, one so cunning and well thought out that I had to do little more than get over my moral qualms and implement it. He wished me to sew longer stockings on Laura, the sort that would now be called hosiery. They wouldn't need suspenders because they would go all the way up. These would be tapered at the waist and therefore impossible to pull down without tearing the top part of the seam. She would thereby be trapped in her stockings until she came to me to remove them and to certify her chastity.

As if this weren't enough, this gentleman was a bit of a sadist, so he had an additional measure in mind. He was afraid that she could remove the stockings and simply have them re-sewn by another tailor. I wanted to assure him that my seams had no equal and that I could certainly detect an imposter, but I kept silent in order to hear the rest of his plan. In order to prevent such an actuality, he insisted that I make small stitches in the flesh of her buttocks, so as to remind her of her obligation to him and dissuade her from any impulse to remove the stockings during the evening. I could therefore be certain that there had been no removal and replacement of her stockings by inspecting the state of the wound. He wondered if I could put a small patch of loose mesh underneath her crotch so that urine could flow through, all the while guaranteeing that she would return to me late the very night of the soiree and not go home with another gentleman because it would be impossible for her to shit prior to having the stockings removed. This would require me to stay quite late in my shop, something he would compensate me for.