Miscellany

Socks and the City

Yes, I’ve given a lot of thinking to socks. For years socks tended to be the most faithfully monochrome of all pieces of attire; men’s socks were almost invariably black except for sports where they were white. Fashion, however, ever plotting to propel the economy forward, has not ignored men’s socks and now clothing stores offer a great variety of color and design and thus make my own style at once easier, given the offer, and harder, given the variety.  Still, the self-effacing and boring socks hold sway among most men. The kilt-wearing Scots’ hosiery might count as an exception, as they wear tall socks and adorn them with some fancy garter. Yet, to my knowledge, not even kilt wearers deviate from the rule of symmetry.

An explanation for such obedience to lackluster fashion could be that, of all elements in one’s habillée, socks are the least sexy item. They are indeed not sexy at all, and so I wonder why socks manufacturers have not taken steps to change this situation; they need serious work in product image improvement. The reality is that socks are the least sexy of all items of men’s clothing, and the same would be true for the socks women wear under their boots (which have become de rigueur in Fall and Winter). Thinking in particular of garments that cling to the skin, underpants—men’s and some women’s—can also damp the erotic impulse, but surely those trim briefs (particular if they manage to show a desirous bulge in the happy male) can manage some arousal. Even the undershirts commonly known as wife-beaters look appealing over a fit torso. And as for women’s undergarments, they are all as provocative as can be: panties, bras (even sports bras), camisoles, chemises—all do it for me. And stockings. The exception might be panty hose, but that, I am afraid, is mostly due to a mechanical condition, the bother of their removal.

But not socks. Try as I may I can find nothing sexy about them, no matter how well formed the feet in them or how kissable the toes. There is nothing erogenous in socks, not even, alas, in those worn in the fashion I follow. ‘Tis a sad truth that there is no sex in socks. Can you imagine one of those languid shots in a movie’s erotic scene where two actors pretend to experience the ecstasy of love wearing socks, whether matched or not, and little else? Impossible! The humble sock would quickly divert the most determined arrow of the child-god. Socks are to be discreetly discarded before the act, and this might be the reason for the prevalence of the summer romance—the time of year when one goes about mostly sockless. In movies you often see a couple who have just met at a bar and rush to an apartment or hotel room and, barely inside the door, in their paroxysm of desire, they remove their clothes with the rash urgency of passion. Note how the camera prudently avoids their feet. A few shots later you see the couple in bed and, often, the camera pans to the floor where you see her stiletto-heeled pumps and some other items of clothing, perhaps her now languid stockings as in a postcoital slumber—but no socks! Yet if the camera shows you the feet of the couple in bed you can be sure the man will be wearing no socks. (TV censorship, by the way, forces women actors to be wearing a bra when shown in bed with a partner, no matter how desperately they might be supposedly held by the clutches of lust. TV assumes that showing a female nipple would lead to the unraveling of the moral fiber of American society if not worse disasters.) In the standard picture of erotic abandon the socks have vanished. Our society considers them categorically unsexy; one could even say it discriminates against them. I wonder why that might be. Could there come a time when the humble sock raises itself into the amorous imaginary of civilized societies? I hope so. Here is a challenge for the next innovative filmmaker. And also a challenge for the socks manufacturing lobby. As for me, I am trying to do my part.