“I always knew stockings were ‘sexy,’ but before dating guys, I had no idea their obsession with them could be so ‘integrated.’ I felt a subtle discomfort with my boyfriend’s fetish for tearing the crotch of my stockings. At that moment, it felt like a part of me was being torn too.”
01
Stockings seem to be a lifelong companion for women.
As young girls, we wear white tights that aren’t see-through, paired with fluffy skirts.
I liked fluffy skirts, but I never really liked those stockings. After wearing them more than twice, yellowish footprints would appear on the soles, never quite returning to their original whiteness even after washing. Wearing them again felt untidy and uncomfortable.
Moreover, stockings are very fragile. Just running around and playing outside would result in mysterious holes, not to mention the inevitable knee rips after a fall.
In my childhood, to maintain a presentable appearance, I had to be extra cautious, feeling a layer of restraint.
But stockings also seemed functionally necessary: in the cold of spring and autumn, wanting to wear skirts without catching a cold meant pairing them with white stockings (whose warmth was equivalent to long johns).
02
Before I developed an “aesthetic” appreciation for stockings, their functionality had already burdened me.
Unlike regular socks, stockings are less comfortable.
Stockings have strong elasticity, with pressure accumulating at the toes, which is naturally uncomfortable. My round, soft toes were squeezed tight, forced to curl up. By the end of the day, my toes and soles, compressed in the small space, would end up stiff and achy.
Another inconvenience is that stockings don’t absorb moisture or wick away sweat, acting as a mesh petri dish perfect for brewing a “sour” smell.
Smooth stockings lack anti-slip capabilities too. Each step creates a disconnect between foot and shoe, with the stockings acting like a traitorous mediator hastening their separation.
If you’re unlucky enough to pair ill-fitting high heels with stockings, congratulations—you’ll spend the day relying on your toes to prevent slipping, creating a minor miracle of foot mechanics.
Flaws aside, I do acknowledge the aesthetic power of stockings, especially black ones. The “white through black” effect makes legs appear slimmer. When wearing skirts, stockings provide a reasonable and attractive pairing.
03
I always knew black stockings were a symbol of sexiness, but “sexy” was just an abstract concept. As a woman without a fetish for black stockings, I had never felt “sexually aroused” by them. “Sexy” was an abstraction seen through the male gaze, something I understood but didn’t internalize.
When I started dating a boyfriend in my third year of college, black stockings suddenly became “Sleeping Beauty waking up.”
He liked black stockings so much his eyes would glaze over.
In my lover’s passionate admiration, black stockings transformed from regular attire into an intentional seduction, a lively reward, an unfailing sexual attraction, and an irresistible necessity.
My understanding of men’s “stocking fetish” was limited to having women wear stockings to touch and admire, with the most “extreme” scenario involving some heavy petting.
Caught up in the fervor of new love, I indulged his preferences, but every “date” left a pair of stockings “battle damaged.”
As spring approached, my wardrobe was quickly depleting, and this extravagant indulgence felt excessive for a financially strapped college girl like me.
So, I urgently ordered twenty pairs of cheap stockings at single-digit prices, enlisting them as my first batch of disposable soldiers.
Tear away, as long as they’re cheap, I’d feel less heartache.
The first batch of soldiers quickly perished, but simply “tearing stockings” couldn’t fully satisfy my boyfriend’s fetish.
He asked, “Baby, there are those bodysuit, erotic stockings that look amazing. I’d love to see you in them.”
In my understanding, black stockings were within aesthetic boundaries, but bodysuit black stockings tread into the dual black holes of aesthetics and fetishism.
Though I didn’t fully get it, my principle was to respect every kink, so I bought the bodysuit stockings.
The most daunting part was their packaging. The hard cardboard featured explicit, large-scale model images, too conspicuous to hide in any corner of my crowded dorm, blatantly exposing the fetish. The shame was overwhelming.
Only after lights out could I, like a bomb squad member on a special mission, sneakily remove the packaging and stuff the bodysuit stockings into my underwear drawer. The dozen or so provocative cardboard pieces were discreetly buried at the bottom of the communal trash can, too scandalous for even the cleaning lady to reclaim.
04
Did wearing black stockings lead to a qualitative change in our sex life?
On the surface, yes. My boyfriend’s excitement soared. Those legs seemed no longer mine but the top-tier product of a sex doll.
Seeing his satisfaction comforted me, and apart from enduring the aesthetic black hole of the bodysuit stockings, I could bear it as long as I avoided mirrors.
But gradually, the deliberate crotch opening of the bodysuit stockings and the moments when my boyfriend tore my regular stockings started to feel like a thorn in my side.
The “open crotch” of stockings left me somewhat at a loss.
Covering everything else while exposing my butt? This style clashed with humanity’s ingrained sense of modesty and aesthetic.
Moreover, the crotch opening gave me a sense of incompetence, as if I couldn’t control my bodily functions. Wearing them as an adult felt like a psychological reminder of being “underdeveloped.”
The crotch opening was simply aesthetically displeasing, but the act of tearing open the crotch felt even more humiliating.
Tearing stockings, just for the sake of fun, seemed too much. Wasn’t I being overly sensitive?
At first, I accepted it this way, but as he tore through the tenth, the twentieth pair of stockings… the torn black nylon, bundled up with the used condoms in the trash, this routine repeated so often that “wrapping myself in one cover and my partner in another” became muscle memory.
Initially, there was some anticipation for the “shell breaking” moment, but I gradually began to fear the sharp sound of nylon fibers snapping, like the final scream before doom.
Stockings, so close to the skin, wrapped around me, absorbing my body heat, only to be violently torn apart. It was hard not to feel a physical shiver at this destruction.
If stockings could be torn, they seemed more like the packaging for a chicken leg snack—designed to showcase the chicken leg’s allure, easy to tear open for access to the “edible part,” and discarded after consumption.
I had a complete body, though not perfect, but to increase attractiveness and allure, I had to offer my partner the right to destroy it, to make myself more accessible and submissive, making the process more exciting and indulgent.
Although I couldn’t see the tear while “busy,” the chill of that tear kept staring back at me.
If thigh-high stockings could serve the “practical function” without being destroyed, I wouldn’t have these distressing feelings. But the moment of tearing indeed spread an invasive, destructive discomfort from my most intimate areas, as if part of my integrity was being shredded.
To him, the tear was extra sexy; to me, the act of tearing stockings carried an unwelcome sense of objectification, of being used and discarded without care.
05
I didn’t like having my stockings torn, but I never expressed this dislike.
On one hand, I was deeply in love at the time, and “love is patient.” This stocking fetish, not involving any principles, seemed a small concession for his kink. On the other hand, he was more assertive and articulate than me, and I could already foresee his loud questioning that would leave me speechless: “You’re a sex blogger, constantly reviewing toys, yet you won’t even wear stockings for me?”
We eventually broke up, for reasons far more serious than tearing stockings. While packing up, I threw away all the unopened, cheap stockings I had bought just to please him.
Stockings returned to being regular attire for me. I only bought sturdy, high-quality ones that could be worn repeatedly, ones that wouldn’t tear or snag, avoiding any potential embarrassment.
I still recognize that stockings can be beautiful and sexy. Coincidentally, none of the guys I’ve dated since have requested to tear my stockings.
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