What Happened When One Vogue Writer Wore the Kendall + Kylie Latex Dress on a Date

Forget everything you’ve ever heard about latex. No longer is it reserved for underground S&M parties and fantasy role-play: Lately, latex has become a bona fide fashion sensation, with designers from Acne Studios to Vetements sending out iterations (and lots of them) in recent seasons. And thanks to a slew of latex-loving celebrities—Kim Kardashian West, Bella Hadid, and Rita Ora among them—it has shed its fetishistic associations and begun percolating in the mainstream. But while the trend is rampant on runways and red carpets alike, things get, um, slippery when it comes to wearing the look in real life. Put simply, could someone who has never owned a scrap of latex (let alone been covered in it) pull it off? In an attempt to find out, I test-drove a racy and rubbery look from Kendall and Kylie Jenner’s eponymous label on a recent Saturday night—and on a date, no less.

It bears noting here that my personal style is about as un-Jenner-like as it’s possible to be. Sure, I work in an office where pretty much anything goes—hell, even latex—but my wardrobe tends to revolve around sweet printed dresses and tailored jackets. At least the sisters offer two latex pieces to pick from: a black demi-cut bra and a bustier dress done in a traffic cone–orange hue. In the campaign images, Kylie styles the bra with a knit high-waist skirt, while Kendall wears the dress with a baseball cap for a sexy-sporty twist. Neither were made with shrinking violets in mind, but I go with the Kylie-approved bra-and-skirt combo, rationalizing that a (relatively) subtle use of latex will go a long way on a newbie such as myself. Little did I know that even the smallest stretch of latex requires substantial know-how. For starters, my bra is shipped out to me with a full page of detailed instructions outlining how to wash, powder, store, and condition the latex in order to maintain its next-level shine. The one-sheeter also calls for a dressing aid known as Pjur Cult—a synthetic lubricant designed to help you get into your latex comfortably and also keep it glossy after each wear. (Not to be confused with Pjur’s personal lubricant, this harder-to-find formula is meant for latex clothing exclusively.)

Heedless of what turned out to be a crucial first step, I decided to give it a dry run. I began zipping into the skirt and snapping into the bra just like I would any other underpinning—by turning it upside down, securing the clasp in front, then twisting it around my rib cage before pulling up the straps. This lifelong method of getting dressed, I quickly discovered, is of no use when working with latex. While slick to the touch, the material refuses to slide, no matter how hard you pinch, pull, or tug. The initial blow to my sense of dignity notwithstanding, I finally managed to get it on, and suffice it to say, I was hooked. When styled with the skirt, my latex bra looked hot yet elevated. What’s more, the ensemble still felt true to me—or, at least, this newly uninhibited version of me. All of a sudden, the non-latex portion of my closet felt oddly conservative, and thanks to the super-strength grip, there was no chance of a wardrobe malfunction, so long as I had the right lubricant.

After calling several of the city’s more fashionable adult shops, including The Pleasure Chest (of Sex and the City fame) and coming up empty-handed, I found what I was looking for at The Baroness Latex—a latex-only boutique in the East Village where celebrities like Lady Gaga, Nicki Minaj, Madonna, Katy Perry, and even Kylie Jenner have all turned to for their various latex fashion needs. An expert in both design and fit, The Baroness, as she is widely known, designed the lemon-yellow stirrup hose Solange Knowles wore to the 2016 Met Gala, and was also consulted to fit Beyoncé’s Givenchy latex dress the same night. There, on 13th Street between Avenues A and B, was a sidewalk sign that read “YOU WANT LATEX” in big block letters. I rang the doorbell, expecting The Baroness to answer, but instead it was a young salesgirl. (She wasn’t wearing latex, but rather street clothes.) Inside, the sharp chemical odor was immediately recognizable, emanating from racks upon racks of latex dresses, trenchcoats, leggings, and the like. “You always need to put on a shining product,” said the girl, gesturing to a stack of French-cut briefs and 1950s-style high-waisted knickers in their original matte state. “Some people find that they need to reapply it to certain areas over the course of the night, like your butt—but that’s really only if you’re going to be sitting in a chair.” I certainly hadn’t planned on standing the entire evening, but because I had (thankfully) chosen a bra and not that dress, I was free to lounge comfortably without worrying about running to the bathroom for touch-ups.

She handed me a similarly didactic set of care instructions, along with my newly purchased bottle of Pjur Cult, right as The Baroness herself breezed in—and also not wearing any latex to speak of. When I tell the latex doyenne about the look I have planned for the date, she doesn’t glide over the issue: “It sounds to me like you really don’t have enough latex,” she said matter-of-factly. “It’s a very different experience—when people think about latex in terms of a garment, versus when they think about it in terms of something sexy.” The sexy things, she explained, are just that. “You’ll feel sexy because you’re wearing sexy clothes, but latex is way beyond sexy.” According to The Baroness, the more latex you’re wearing, the more people can interact with it—not least of all yourself. “You’ll be amused when you go to the bathroom, pull up your skirt, and the latex goes, snap, snap, snap,” she said, mimicking the distinctive sound latex makes when stretched across bare skin with a rapid-fire flicker of her lips. “It appeals to all five senses.”

The good news, I was told, is that latex in every form is a conversation piece, and I should expect to receive a fair amount of attention from admirers—including bouncers and door guys. “We have a customer we sold a few pieces to, and he came back and was like, ‘I’ve gotten in free to so many places!’ ” The Baroness recalled. “It’s like an all-access pass.” When a shopper is brand new to latex, the first thing The Baroness asks is what they’re going to do with it, followed by where they’re planning on wearing it. “If you’re going to go home and have sex with your boyfriend, it’s obviously going to be different than if you’re going to the opera,” she said, thumbing through a rack of latex LBDs. “If you’re going to dinner, you want something that looks good on top, which you have.” I felt even more assured when I learned that Kylie Jenner, too, apparently took special care when purchasing 12 pairs of latex leggings. “Of course, they all had to be black,” The Baroness said. “She needed one for every different occasion.”

As it turned out, finding the right restaurant for the look proved infinitely more challenging than finding a shop that sells latex lubricant—or finding a date, for that matter, which in my case was a 20-something banker (I’ll call him Jake) whom I’d recently started seeing. You see, latex won’t tolerate sunlight, and it also doesn’t breathe like most fabrics do, making heat and humidity a recipe for disaster. Latex is also high-maintenance in that it demands an ultra-sexy atmosphere. No one wants to be That Girl who shows up at a family-style restaurant in head-to-toe latex. So when Jake suggested we go for sushi at a casual spot serving hand rolls under bright lighting, I strategically proposed a Lower East Side boîte called Beauty & Essex instead—not for its directional tapas, but for its dim mood lighting. In short, it just went better with my outfit.

When it came time for the date, I was unwilling to brave the sweltering city subways in my newly lubed latex, for fear of showing up like a hot mess. So I called an Uber, who dropped me off a few blocks away from the restaurant—and just as The Baroness predicted, it seemed that me in latex demanded significantly more attention than, well, me not in latex. The stares I got were varied: some were slack-jawed, others were of the side-eye sort, and one blatant bout of ogling was accompanied by an unnecessary (albeit flattering) catcall made in reference to my backside. In hindsight, I should have seen it coming, having left the house with no jacket to fall back on, and only my wits at my disposal.

The next best thing was liquid courage, so when I arrived early, I promptly made my way to the bar for a cocktail to take the edge off. The restaurant bar was packed, but two men immediately gave up their seats for me—just the sort of treatment The Baroness had led me to expect. My date texted me to inform me he had arrived. Eager to see if my latex had the same effect on him as it had on my neighbors, I hopped off the barstool to meet him. His reaction was not all that different than it was on dates one and two (this being our third). “Wow. You look great,” he said, giving me that proverbial up-and-down. When the hostess showed us to our table, I was pretty sure I felt him put his hand on my back. I prayed the Pjur Cult was fully absorbed, because God forbid he be left with some slimy residue on his fingers—or worse, a greasy smudge on his cute button-up shirt—before we’d even sat down.

When the waitress arrived with an appetizer, compliments of the chef, I wrote it off as just another latex-related freebie. In an ill-fated attempt to keep up the charade, I played it cool and instead inquired as to how Jake had spent his Saturday. “. . . And then I came to have dinner with you,” he said, “and this dress.” That’s when the latex took on a life of its own. Feeling virtually powerless to stop it, I told Jake all about my dirty little latex secret. His initial response: “I feel like you’re How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days–ing me.” Whether the offhanded comment was mired in male insecurity or that the mere mention of latex had all but turned this man to mush, I wasn’t totally sure. But Jake is a generous conversationalist, and he proceeded to ask copious questions about latex in general (and my outfit specifically). “Is it comfortable?” he wanted to know. “What’s it like wearing latex?” he wondered. And: “How did you get it so shiny?”

We spent the better part of the first course engrossed in a tête-à-tête about latex fashion, and I admitted it was the reason I nixed his original restaurant recommendation. Jake understood, and suggested we grab post-dinner drinks at a latex-friendly rooftop bar (where there was a cool breeze). My initial trepidation, and his, had turned into acceptance. In latex, as in life, it just takes time to lean into the shine, and by the end of the night, I was due for a polish.