Maxie Langford stood in front of her mirror in what could only be described as defeat-woven cotton sadness. Her underwear, once white, was now a depressing shade of "expired yogurt," and her bra had enough stretch to double as a hammock for depressed squirrels.
She flipped open The 100 Steps to Sexual Enlightenment, hopeful that today's command would be something manageable. Like lighting a candle. Or smiling at a man without imagining his browser history.
Instead, she was greeted by:
> "Let thy clothing cling like desperation at last call. Let fabric be thy flirtation. Let not a hemline fall without intention. For when thy hips speak, the world shall listen."
Maxie stared at it. "So… basically wear something slutty."
She drained her lukewarm coffee and texted the one person who understood the divine language of slutwear.
MAXIE: Need an outfit that screams "sex goddess," whispers "I'm emotionally unstable," and breathes "comfortable enough to run away if needed."
GINNY: Say less. Slaywear. 2 p.m. Don't wear beige.
---
Slaywear, as it turned out, was not so much a lingerie boutique as it was a fever dream designed by a bisexual fashion demon on Adderall. Everything glittered. Nothing was breathable. There were thongs with chains, bras that looked like chandeliers, and a suspicious number of mannequins posed in bondage yoga.
"Welcome to Slaywear," said the employee at the counter, a teenage goth with half-shaved hair, a pentagram necklace, and the dead-eyed stare of someone who'd seen too much lace.
"Hi," Maxie said, clutching her purse like it might save her. "I'm looking for… I guess, lingerie?"
The goth girl—her name tag said MORGUE in glittery Sharpie—gestured toward a wall labeled Sinister Silks.
"What's your vibe?" Morgue asked, monotone. "Fantasy forest domme? Softcore sorceress? Divine thigh witch?"
Maxie blinked. "I—uh—what's something that says 'I'm confident and down for anything but also slightly allergic to latex?'"
Morgue handed her a black lace teddy with a plunging neckline, side slits, and sleeves made entirely of mesh and broken dreams.
Maxie took it. "Does this come with a panic button?"
Morgue grinned for the first time. "No. But it comes with power."
---
One hour later, Maxie was standing in her bedroom, wearing the teddy.
And nothing else.
Her boobs had never looked perkier. Her thighs looked like they could crush a watermelon or at least a man's fragile ego. The mirror didn't scream "What are you doing?" for once—it whispered, "Damn, girl."
She spun. She posed. She felt the distinct thrum of power rising in her chest.
And then the doorbell rang.
"NOPE."
She dove for a robe, stubbed her toe, and accidentally pulled a muscle in her thigh—probably the one responsible for confidence. She yelped, hobbled to the door, and opened it half-dressed.
It was Mrs. Delacroix, her eighty-year-old neighbor, holding a Tupperware of meatloaf and looking vaguely scandalized.
"Oh," the old woman said, glancing at Maxie's exposed thigh. "Is this... a bad time?"
Maxie, mid-panic and dressed like a villain's mistress, nodded. "Just doing laundry. Really aggressive laundry."
Mrs. Delacroix handed over the meatloaf, sniffed, and muttered, "You always smelled like ambition."
And then she left.
Maxie closed the door and screamed into a pillow for a solid twelve seconds before collapsing in giggles. She was already sweating. The teddy pinched in places no one should be pinched. But damn it, she felt alive.
---
That evening, with nothing better to do and absolutely nowhere to wear lingerie alone, Maxie decided to run to Whole Foods to buy overpriced grapes and a sense of normalcy.
She threw on a slinky wrap dress over the teddy—still channeling her Step Four energy—and left.
The problem was that the wrap dress had no business being in public. It clung, clutched, and whispered "I might blow open at any moment." Which, of course, it did.
At the checkout line, while reaching for her debit card, the dress betrayed her.
The tie slipped. The wrap flapped.
And suddenly, Maxie Langford was standing in front of a nun buying celery, a child holding gluten-free muffins, and a priest who had just asked for paper instead of plastic—with one boob on full display.
Everyone froze. The nun dropped her celery. The child blinked. The priest gasped so hard his collar popped.
Maxie slowly re-tied the dress, maintaining eye contact with no one and praying to every deity, ancient and modern.
"Have a blessed day," she whispered, and bolted out of the store like her life depended on it.
---
Back at home, panting and half-horrified, she flopped on the couch and opened the book again.
There, written under Step Four in tiny italicized text, was something she hadn't noticed before:
> "Do not fear the gaze. For when you are seen, truly seen, you are powerful."
Maxie exhaled.
Maybe today wasn't a failure.
Maybe, just maybe, flashing a priest was part of her path to enlightenment.
And if not?
At least she had grapes.