Yes please to Valentines undies, but keep it real

Every Valentines Day I get into the same deeply divisive argument. No, it’s not whether V Day is just a capitalist construct designed to exploit my deeply ingrained societal insecurities and sacrifice my self-worth on the bloodied altar of consumerist dreams. (Of course it is. But that doesn’t make me want a giant diamond-encrusted teddy bear any less.)

It’s over whether men should buy their female partners lingerie for Valentines Day. And I do realise that some of you may be waking up today and warily eyeing last night’s gift of a pleather policewoman’s outfit. But just hear me out onthis...

Every year in February I either read/start/ overhear this conversation on the bus which begins, ‘‘You know what, men just just shouldn’t ever buy women underwear, Karen!’’ Karen nods wisely and the woman continues, arguing that it’s a selfish gift anyway, designed just so men can bend women to their tacky taste for red lace under the guise of ‘‘gift giving’’. The argument normally goes on for quite a while, getting progressively more passionate at all the years of being gifted something crotchless and PVC.

And I get it. Anything crotchless and PVC is traumatising, let alone when it comes tied up with glittery heart ribbon and the expectation that you then have to wear this at least twice to make your partner feel good about their gift-giving abilities. And honestly, going from my own experience, men don’t have the best track record of buying underwear for women. (What’s with the fascination with stretchy red lace, guys? We’re not backup dancers in a community theatre’s production of Moulin Rouge.)

But while I understand why there’s a lot of Spandex-y shared trauma around this, it doesn’t change that fact that I think men should buy lingerie for their partners. In fact, I absolutely want to be bought underwear for Valentines Day.

I’ve written before about how I’m a lingerie nut. I’ve got more of a fascination with all things tiny and shiny than a magpie moonlighting as a stripper. And that’s because, at its heart, lingerie is fun.

There’s no other piece of clothing where you get to go so absolutely bananas with rhinestones and feathers. And this makes it a great gift, because when someone picks excellent lingerie then you look and feel as feathery and fabulous as Big Bird in drag.

I also actually quite like the investment in my getting undressed process. So much of trying to be sexy relies on a hodge-podge of guesswork, ‘‘do they like these undies or were they just being polite’’ internal monologues and Insta-induced ‘‘I’m not as pretty as an influencer’’ shame. So much so that I’m always relieved to get any input into what I might look good in, pleather or not.

Naturally this does comes with the big proviso that you actually have the thoughtfulness to choose something your partner will look good in. Not something you think they’ll look good in, but something they’ll actually look good in because it’s pretty, well made, and a style they’re comfortable and confident in wearing.

So yes, my argument is made on the assumption that you will exercise good taste here. And if you don’t have good taste, and you prefer the aforementioned red lace, then admit your ignorance and just buy the closest thing you can find to her pre-existing sexiest pair of undies.

When someone picks excellent lingerie, you look and feel as feathery and fabulous as Big Bird in drag.

But the kicker for me is that I fundamentally consider it my right to be able to buy guys underwear. I find many aspects of male fashion mysterious. For instance, why do so many middle-aged white guys wear a thick gold chain around their neck but no other forms of jewellery? It’s a baffling display of moderate vulgarity, like seeing an oligarch in a Volvo. But no area of male fashion is more confusing than underwear.

It seems most men live by the rule of just to keep buying whatever your mum used to get you for under $10 at Kmart. Which at best is disappointing when it’s just a variety of black Bonds numbers, and at worst deeply disturbing when it’s 23 pairs of silk, jewel-tone boxers.

So for decades now, loving female partners have been stepping in to suggest alternatives to smuggle a man’s budgies. And in the spirit of fairness, if I want to keep intervening when things are getting a little too luminous or voluminous, then I have to acknowledge the right of my partner to do the same.

Ultimately nothing kills an amorous moment like a man revealing a pair of magenta silk bloomers. And if that means occasionally donning some PVC and pleather, then I’m prepared to wear that cost.