Childhood Whispers of Lace

A teenage underwear curiosity leads to adult fetish

The air in the Willow Creek Mall was thick with the scent of popcorn from the food court and the faint, synthetic buzz of arcade games echoing from the far end. Tommy Reynolds, all of eleven years old, pedalled his BMX bike to the mall with his buddies—Jake, Mikey, and Pete—trailing behind like a pack of wild pups. The early 90s were a simpler time: no cell phones to tether them to parents, just the freedom of a Saturday afternoon and a few bucks scraped from allowance jars. Tommy's mom had dropped him off with a stern warning to "stay out of trouble," but trouble was the last thing on his mind. He was more concerned with scoring the latest Ninja Turtles action figure or maybe flipping through the cassette tapes at Sam Goody.

The group burst into the toy store first, KB Toys, with its aisles crammed full of colourful boxes and the faint whiff of plastic. Tommy eyed the G.I. Joe section, but after twenty minutes of debating which vehicle was coolest—the AWE Striker or the Cobra Rattler—they grew restless. "This stuff's for babies," Jake grumbled, tossing a rubber snake back onto the shelf. Mikey nodded, his freckled face scrunched up. "Yeah, let's hit the music store. I heard they got the new Pearl Jam album."

Sam Goody was a haven of posters and booming speakers, blasting out tracks from Nirvana and Dr. Dre. Tommy flipped through the racks, mesmerized by the album covers—grungy bands with long hair and attitude. But even that lost its shine after a while. The boys slouched against the counter, sharing a bag of gummy worms, when Pete, the joker of the group, piped up with a mischievous grin. "You guys bored? Let's go to that lingerie store. Y'know, to feel the bras or something."

The words hung in the air like a bad fart. Jake's face turned beet red, Mikey choked on a gummy worm, and Tommy felt his cheeks heat up. Lingerie? That was girl stuff. Tommy had a vague notion of what bras were—those stretchy things his mom hung on the clothesline sometimes, or the ones his older sister, Sarah, who was fifteen, had started wearing under her shirts. She'd yell at him if he ever barged into her room while she was changing. But to Tommy, it wasn't about anything dirty. Sex was still a fuzzy concept, something from whispered playground rumors or late-night TV he wasn't supposed to watch. No, this was pure curiosity, like poking a dead frog with a stick or sneaking into the abandoned house on Elm Street. "You're crazy, Pete," Tommy muttered, but there was a spark in his eye.

Pete shrugged, his braces glinting under the fluorescent lights. "C'mon, it'll be funny. We can pretend we're lost or something." The others exchanged glances, the embarrassment fading into that boyish dare-you energy. Before they knew it, they were shuffling down the mall corridor, past the fountain with its fake palm trees and the Orange Julius stand. The lingerie store loomed ahead: Victoria's Secret, with its pink-striped bags and window displays of mannequins in silky robes. Tommy's heart pounded a little as they crossed the threshold, the air inside cooler and perfumed with something floral and mysterious.

They entered a foreign land. Racks of lacy things in pastel colours—pinks, whites, lavenders—hung like exotic birds. The boys scattered like scouts on a mission, trying to act casual. Jake ducked behind a display of nightgowns, Mikey pretended to examine a bin of socks (which were actually thigh-highs), and Pete wandered toward the back, snickering. Tommy roamed the aisles, his sneakers squeaking on the polished floor. He avoided eye contact with the saleslady, a middle-aged woman with big hair who glanced their way but said nothing—probably assuming they were waiting for moms or sisters.

Everything felt soft and forbidden. Tommy brushed his fingers against a rack of panties, the fabric slippery like the inside of a banana peel. He didn't know why it fascinated him; it was just different from his plain white briefs. Then, in the corner, he spotted it: a mannequin perched on a pedestal, dressed in a simple cotton bra and panties set. This was the early 90s, so nothing too flashy—no push-ups or thongs like he'd see in catalogs later. Just soft white cotton with a bit of delicate lace trimming the edges, like the frosting on his grandma's cakes. The mannequin's blank face stared out, its plastic body curved in ways Tommy's wasn't. He stood there, transfixed, the world narrowing to that spot. What did it feel like? Softer than his t-shirts? His hand inched forward, curiosity overriding the knot in his stomach.

"Tommy!"

The voice sliced through the air like a whip. He froze, hand mid-reach, and whipped around. There, arms crossed and eyes narrowed, stood Sarah. His sister, shopping bag in hand, looking every bit the annoyed teenager in her acid-washed jeans and oversized sweater. Tommy's stomach dropped. What was she doing here? Of course— she was fifteen, old enough to shop for this stuff herself. His friends? Gone. They'd bolted at the first sign of trouble, leaving him high and dry.

Sarah marched over, her ponytail swinging. "What the heck are you doing in here? This is a girls' underwear store!"

Tommy glanced around wildly, hoping for an escape route. No Jake, no Mikey, no Pete. He swallowed hard, his voice coming out small. "I... I got lost."

She rolled her eyes, but there was an edge to her sigh. "Lost? In a lingerie store? Do I need to tell Mom and Dad about this? They'll ground you for a month."

His eyes widened, shaking his head so fast his hair flopped. "No! Please, Sarah. I promise I won't do it again. Ever."

She studied him for a moment, then softened just a tad. "Fine. But if I catch you again, you're toast. Now get out of here before someone thinks you're a weirdo."

Tommy didn't need telling twice. He scampered out, heart racing, the image of that lacy cotton burned into his brain. His friends were waiting outside, laughing their heads off. "Dude, your sister's scary!" Pete howled. Tommy punched him in the arm, but deep down, the embarrassment mixed with something else—a secret thrill he couldn't quite name.

Ten years later, in the fall of 2003, Tommy—now Tom Reynolds—was a different person. At twenty-one, he was a junior at State University, majoring in computer science. The world had changed: the internet was exploding, dial-up modems giving way to broadband, and online shopping was a thing. Tom lived in a cramped dorm room, posters of bands like Radiohead and The White Stripes on the walls, his laptop humming with code and late-night chats. But that innocent curiosity from the mall hadn't faded. It had twisted, grown, mutated into something all-consuming: a fetish for women's lingerie.

It started small. In high school, he'd sneak peeks at catalogs that came in the mail—Sears, JCPenney, even the occasional Victoria's Secret. The fabrics, the designs, the way they hugged curves... it stirred something in him. By college, with his first part-time job at a campus bookstore, he had disposable income. Tuition and rent ate most of it, but the rest? Bras and panties. He'd order them new from sites like Amazon or eBay, stashing them in a locked box under his bed. Cotton sets with lace edges, just like that mannequin. Silk ones that whispered against his skin when he tried them on in secret. But soon, new wasn't enough. He craved the used—the personal, the intimate. Forums and classifieds sites became his hunting grounds. Using fake names like "Alex Thompson" or "Mike Harris," he'd buy from girls online, paying via PayPal for discreet packages.

It wasn't about sex, not entirely. It was the thrill of the forbidden, the softness, the secrecy echoing back to that mall day. He'd tell himself it was harmless, just a quirk. But it consumed him. He'd skip meals to afford a particularly nice pair, lie to roommates about where he was going when packages arrived.

One evening, scrolling a niche forum—UnderwearExchange.com—he spotted a listing: "Selling gently used cotton bras and panties. Size 34B, white with lace trim. Local pickup preferred. $20 each." The description hit him like a nostalgia bomb. The seller, "Lacy92," lived nearby, in the next town over. Heart pounding, he messaged her under his alias: "Interested. Can we meet up?" They chatted briefly—anonymous, flirty on her end, businesslike on his. They agreed on a park bench in neutral territory, a quiet spot by the university's edge. Saturday at noon.

The day arrived crisp and autumnal, leaves crunching underfoot. Tom sat on the bench, glancing at his watch every few minutes. 12:05. 12:10. Doubt crept in. Was this a scam? He'd wired the money already—stupid, but excitement overrode caution. Or worse: what if she was undercover? Buying used underwear wasn't illegal, but the shame if word got out... He fidgeted, adjusting his hoodie.

Then, footsteps. A girl approached, familiar in a way that made his blood run cold. Long brown hair, now in loose waves instead of a ponytail. Jeans and a sweater, casual. Sarah. His sister, twenty-five now, working as a graphic designer in the city but visiting family often.

"Oh, hey, Tommy!" she said, surprised but smiling. "What are you doing here?"

He stood, forcing a grin. "Sarah? Uh, just... waiting for someone. You?"

"Same. Meeting a buyer for some stuff I'm selling online." They hugged awkwardly, the sibling kind—quick and pat-on-the-back.

A beat. Then, realization dawned like a slow-motion train wreck. "Wait," Tom said, voice cracking. "You're... Lacy92?"

Her eyes widened, colour draining from her face. "And you're... Alex Thompson?"

The bag in her hand—pink-striped, like the ones from that store—suddenly felt like a bomb. She dropped it on the bench, stepping back. "Oh my God, Tom! You're buying my underwear?"

Embarrassment hit him like a tidal wave. "I didn't know it was you! Fake names, remember?"

She crossed her arms, face flushing red. "Why are you even buying used panties? And you lied to me! Back in the mall, you promised you'd never touch girls' underwear again!"

Tom's mind raced, excuses tumbling. "That was kid stuff! I was curious, okay? It just... stuck with me."

Sarah's anger simmered, her brows furrowed. But then, something shifted. A twitch at the corner of her mouth. A snort escaped, then a giggle. She covered her mouth, but it burst out—full, uncontrollable laughter. Tom stared, confused, as she doubled over, tears forming.

"What's so funny?" he demanded, though relief flickered.

She gasped for air. "Me! Yelling at you for this, when I'm the one selling my old bras and panties online. To make extra cash for rent. It's hypocritical as hell!" She wiped her eyes, still chuckling. "God, we're both weirdos."

Tom hesitated, then chuckled too. The tension broke like a dam. They sat on the bench, the bag between them like an awkward third wheel. "Look," she said, sobering a bit. "This is messed up. But... you're an adult now. Just be careful, okay? And maybe don't buy from family."

He nodded, sheepish. "Deal. And, uh, can I get a refund?"

She smirked, handing him the cash from her pocket. "Only because you're my brother. But next time, stick to new stuff."

As they walked away—her to her car, him back to campus—the encounter lingered. For Tom, it was a wake-up call. The fetish didn't vanish overnight, but the hypocrisy of it all made him pause, reflect. Maybe therapy, or at least dialling it back. For Sarah, it was a story she'd tease him with at family dinners, minus the details. Siblings, after all, shared secrets—some lacy, some laughable.

In the end, that mall curiosity had come full circle, from innocent touch to adult absurdity. And in the crisp fall air, Tom felt a weight lift, the lace of the past loosening its hold.