Breast Petals and Other Marital Secrets

I bought this dress to wear to a party with my husband's law partners:

And because some of you have two X chromosomes, I know you need to see the back:

Because the party was in the nebulous realm of "engagement party at a private residence," I was confused about the dress code. I should wear a dress, but not too dressy of a dress. I don't work with these people, so I don't need to them to respect me on Monday by wearing a suit or jacket. Also consider that I like to play up the role of Hot Second Wife so it needs to be tight.

BCBG Max Azria obliged me with this fitted cotton jersey dress, knee-length so I don't look like he picked me up from a trailer park, beige so I blend in, tight so I don't.

The only trouble with a tight jersey dress in beige is nipples.

"Nipples are a problem?" you ask (if you have a Y chromosome).

Yes. Not only do they like to poke out and say "Well, Hello and Howdy Doo!" especially while under the influence of air conditioning, they also show through any light-colored or sheer material. While I enjoy my role as Hot Second Wife, I don't want to look like Trashy Third Wife, okay?

For some of you amateurs, the solution seems simple: Wear a bra you, hippie.

To you I would say: You can't wear a bra under tight cotton jersey, you fashion nitwit. I have worked out with a personal trainer at 6:00 a.m. for a year so I don't need to wear foundation garments, okay? I don't want anything poking out. Not my nipples. Not my underwire bra.

As I saw it, I had two choices:

Breast petals. Yes, those are flower-shaped band-aids women put on their nipples.

Or:

Chicken cutlets. Yes, those are adhesive silicon boobs women stick on their chests.

My first instinct was to go with the breast petals. I did try them on with the dress and they did work. But the dress is so simple and the top does nothing to help a girl out in the Busty McGhee department. I felt I needed a little extra "oomph" to balance out the rest of the dress.

Though I had some concerns with the adhesive chicken cutlets. I had a dance floor incident a number of years ago. Suffice it to say: Hot summer night + Sweaty dancing = Chicken cutlets on the dance floor. Fortunately I had mastered The Bend and Snap from repeated viewings of Legally Blonde, so I knew how to retrieve my cutlets with panache.

Or so it seemed after a few martinis. For all I know I am still a legend at that club. Upon further reflection, I think "Chicken Cutlets on the Dance Floor" should be Lady Gaga's next hit song.

Since I knew there would be no sweaty dancing at the law partner house party, I slapped a pair of chicken cutlets under the dress and enjoyed the evening. As it turned out, I was appropriately dressed and the husband was appropriately appreciative. Business and marital success, now that's a hard-working dress.

After the party, my husband I went out because you don't go home when you have a babysitter. You go out to dinner and gaze at each other across a table for a few more hours. So you're in the mood to make another baby, duh.

He looked hot with the salt-and-pepper flecks in his hair complementing his gray suit. I have a gray hair and man-in-a-business suit fetish so this was practically porn to me. I noticed that he was staring at my chest throughout dinner and presumed it was because I looked hot.

"So tell me. What do you have in your bra?" he asked.

"Excuse me?" I looked at him, affronted.

"Did you put something in your bra?" he paused. "I mean, I noticed you're looking 'fuller,'" he said, opening and closing his hands.

"You can't ask me that!" I said, my voice getting higher.

You see, my husband and I have an understanding. Or so I thought. We believe in marital secrets. We believe in marital secrets such as shutting the bathroom door. We believe in not enacting bodily functions within each other's earshot or airspace. We believe in pretending that none of that unsavory stuff even happens. At all. Hell, we each pretend that we're the only people we've slept with even though to believe so is to believe in at least four immaculate conceptions. But we're fine with that. Anything to keep romance alive and mystery is a great friend to romance. Familiarity is not.

"Why not? I'm your husband. I want to know. What do you have going on in there?" He waved his hand in my chest's general vicinity.

I thought it over. Though I was compelled to comply with my husband's wishes and I do agree with complete transparency in our relationship when it's requested, I was hesitant to invite him behind the green curtain of Mandy's Cosmetic Tricks and Witchery.

I had just recently bragged to friends about how my husband had no knowledge of my use of Spanx® or chicken cutlets in seven years of attending black tie events together. Despite the fact that he would routinely remove my clothes upon our return home, I was cagey enough to have slipped the chicken cutlets and the Spanx into my purse before leaving any venue. Yes, I am that premeditated when it comes to sex. Besides, whose going to notice one lady losing a cup size by the end of a wine-soaked fundraising event?

"It's a chicken cutlet," I finally admitted with a sigh.

"Is that like a rubber thing you put in your bra?"

"Yes. Sort of." I stared at the Romance-Slayer to see what he would say next.

"You should have let your nips out. That would've been hotter." He looked at me, amused, and went back to eating his dinner. I stared at him and felt the shame that only a woman with a pair of silicon breast decoys sticking to her chest can know.

Okay, not really. But I still slipped them off in the car on the way home.