May 2011 by Anne H.
Okay. You say to yourself. What can one write about knickers and old lace, well, frankly, a hell of a lot, actually - and when it comes to 'Agent Provocateur' the name just says it all. Agent Provocateur evokes a certain... je ne sais quoi, all on it's own. MI6 spooks aside, you walk into any one of their stores whether it be Paris, Rome or London and you immediately feel like a French underground agent - imagine; black raincoat collar turned up, red beret tilted over left eye and with a sultry look that says, 'I'm out to commit an assassination and mayhem most foul with my new racy lacy garter belt.' It is sheer lust tantalizing you there on a rack. The dim lights - but, never seedy - and it all whispers sexily to your sensual gaze, 'come to me.' And so you do. Brushing your wandering finger tips lightly against the scintillating fabric. Rag Trade Titillation supreme. What men miss out on, eh? And, they say men have all the fun - perhaps, because they only see the end result, where as us women know only too well, anticipation far exceeds that - so, guys, you often miss out on one of life's best diversions by a long shot (no pun intended) as we browse through these rails of frills, touching the divine silk and shear lace of any one of these garments in an awesome lingerie store. It's pure heaven, or at the very least, what heaven should be like if one was to choose that route. What say thou? You can appreciate the temptress in us all when you lavish yourself with one of Agent Provocateur's little Basque numbers. Or choosing garters and suspenders for that jewel heist you'd been planning at Christies - far more exciting than bidding...what? And, in person too. It really beats shopping on-line hands down - that just seems far too detached and remote (again, no pun intended) This is not cheap lingerie, but then again, it is not truly expensive either. It is within most femme fatale's reach. Paris alone is known for the ultimate in French Temptations of the Frilly and Silky Variety for a reason. With it's hand sewn petite creations, perfectly crafted and protectively placed in ornate draws where your eyes can dwell, but your fingers dare not touch or linger - until it's almost yours. I must concede, from that respect, Agent Provocateur is a wee shade under par when you consider the real 'cream de la cream' lying restless in the passionate boudoirs of the French capital city, where the male purveyor's hormonal temperature gauges can approvingly hit the roof. The proof is always in the price and in it's delicate wrapper. And, I guess that is life. In the end, 'You usually get what you pay for.' Or was it as the Judge told Train Robber Ronnie Biggs, 'You pay for what you get?'
