The G-string mystery

UNCOVERING THE TRUTH BEHIND THE SEDUCTIONS OF LINGERIE.

"Oooh, I like that G-string," said Sallie. We were being girlie-girls, standing in our underwear in her spacious London bathroom -- dabbing on eye makeup, trying out each other's hair gel, discussing with pointed skepticism why MAC had sneakily inserted a "sell-by" date on their lipsticks. "Now, where did you get that?" She snapped the satin cord that stretched above my hip.

"At Victoria's Secret," I said with some shame. "This was before all the Tyra Banks and Stephanie Seymour television commercials that make any woman -- unless she's a complete masochist -- think twice before venturing into a Victoria's Secret ever again." I rubbed one of her lipsticks on my hand. It produced a bluish-red smudge, similar to a bruise.

Sallie glanced over and we wrinkled our noses in unison. "I don't know what that is, Victoria's Secret," she said. "A knickers store, yes?"

"Sort of the Gap of lingerie. Phew." She was trying a hair gel of mine that had the unfortunate smell and consistency of sperm. "As disgusting as that product may seem, it really is great," I said. "It seriously changed my life."

I sat on the bathtub and watched her preen. She was dressed in a satin claret-colored bra and matching G-string, a version of which she wore every day -- confirming again my belief that British women are more visually sexual than their American sisters. "Do you wear a G-string all the time?" I asked, thinking of my own myriad collection, which has plenty of G-strings but also its fair share of five-for-one specials, Costco all-cotton fullbacks and those wonderful Baby Huey semi-diapers worn only when the laundry situation is on red alert.

"Why ruin a wonderful pair of Prada trousers with visible knicker lines?"

"What does Trevor think about your sexy knicker and bra sets?"

"Well, I don't know." She paused, about to wipe off some eye shadow that made her look as if she'd gone a few rounds with Mike Tyson. "Ask him."

Now clearly, Sallie is an exception -- she seems to wear lingerie for her own purposes, and not as a prelude for sex. My drawers are full of silk teddies, lacy get-ups and other impractical items received from various boyfriends over the years. I never wear any of it unless I have something very specific on the agenda, namely getting laid. Left to my own devices it's the all-cotton jobbies or simply ... nothing.

Could women really enjoy wearing sexy lingerie for its own sake, and not as a facilitator? And do men really find it as visually stimulating as we are led to believe?