The Bunstocking: How Not to Flaunt your ASSets

Girls wearing cobwebs and American royalty

There’s an awful lot of flaunting in the Hamptons. During the summer months, people flock from all over the world to the East End of Long Island, hopping from helicopter to flashy car to private beach party to boat to megamansion, girls dressed up in vivid, notice-me outfits hoping to be snapped by a photographer for the social pages or spotted by a billionaire who will invite them to a better party at a bigger house. It’s a flauntfest.

Last weekend, even more socialistas (as in socialites, not socialists) swarmed out east to celebrate Independence Day, Fourth of July, the actual date falling on a Thursday with revelry rolling on through Sunday. There were parties aplenty for girls to show up at in all their Independent Splendor.

The aesthetic on the scene is gaudy with busy patterns and popping colors. To dress minimalist or understated risks comments like, “You’ve got a 90s vibe going on.” Yes, someone said that to me.

For those unfamiliar with the Hamptons style, here are a few random pics that I found online from various lifestyle and society news sources:

Source: Daily Front Row

Source: Guest of a Guest

Source: Pure Wow

Last Saturday night, on Fourth of July weekend, my husband Danny and I sat on the porch of his family home in Southampton to eat hot dogs and hamburgers with his sister and a few friends. The air was sticky and soupy, unusual for July, but the weather is upside down all over the place nowadays.

That same night, one of Danny’s good friends invited us to a dinner party at his house. We agreed to swing by for dessert after our low-key meal at home, slightly concerned about the driving conditions: low visibility and a high chance of encountering an inebriated driver (Justin Timberlake?) behind the wheel of another car.

We decided to go, even though the house was far out in a forest, only accessible via spooky winding roads with no signs or street lamps. There is also no cell phone signal in the Hamptons, which is infuriating, especially for those billionaires.

Inclement weather didn’t deter; the roads were packed with partygoers in bumper-to-bumper traffic. After a slow but smooth drive, bats flying across our windscreen (no shit!) in the deep dark woods, the beacon of a lit-up Gatsbyesque party house emerged. We pulled into a driveway snaked with bumper-to-bumper parked cars.

Saturday night. Fourth of July weekend. The Hamptons were Bumpin’.

Inside the house, there must have been over 100 people. The girls were dolled up in skimpy party dresses and sky-high heels. I was underdressed in a backless black jersey dress and flats. The ratio of girls to guys was 8:1, so approximately 90 girls / 10 - 12 guys. Standard. I am pretty sure I was the oldest female there, in fact, I don’t think I saw a girl over the age of 30. As for the guys, their ages ranged between 40 and 55 years old.

We stayed for the lavish spread that was dessert before everyone started rallying their drivers and calling Ubers to crawl to the next party, a huge annual bash on the beach with the whole shebang (fireworks, rappers, models, and Leonardo DiCaprio, of course.) Danny and I didn’t want to deal with the traffic, fog, or all the hellos, so we called it a night and said our good byes.

As we made our exit, we saw her from behind waiting for her ride. Black wavy hair cascaded to her waist, barely there threads resembling a sparkly cobweb placed strategically over her bum, spiky stilettos at the base of her pins. Upon closer inspection—how could we not look?—her lithe person was sheathed in a completely transparent bodystocking, but the cobweb was the only visible detail of the whole sh-outfit. She might as well have been naked.

I didn’t catch a glimpse of her front, but I wish I had taken a photo of the sight from behind. I was too flabbergasted to think of it. I would have asked first, of course, something like: “Your outfit is amazing! Can I take a picture?”

I doubt Mademoiselle Web would have turned me down. I mean, if you’re going to wear something like that… Girl. You are screaming to be seen.

Back in the car, Danny turned to me and said: “You know what that girl was wearing? A bunstocking.”

I have to give him credit for calling it exactly what it was.

Don’t even bother Googling a bunstocking because it doesn’t exist—all that comes up is this and that’s not what it was. You will just have to use your imagination.

This is the best I could find to give you a visual:

Imagine that green bodystocking on the left but flesh-colored like the bodystocking on the right minus all the rhinestones.

Now imagine this cobweb as the focal detail—and that’s all.

Since Covid, I’ve seen shockingly scant attire on the streets; young girls forgoing tops waltzing around in bras, some wearing a pair of underwear or boxer shorts instead of pants (trousers for the Brits who call underwear ‘pants’). I see boys dressed as girls and vice versa, now so commonplace I don’t even look twice, but that’s on the streets of New York where anything goes. The Bunstocking was worn at a dinner party in The Hamptons.

When did young girls start baring their buns so publicly? I’m no prude—in my teens and twenties I often wore microskirts—and I will never forget my first grown-up designer dress: a short, tight black lace number with slashes down the sides to reveal my tiny waist. I thought it was so risqué at the time (late 90s), but it was demure and downright dull compared to The Bunstocking.

There is no making sense of these times we are living in. Celebrities like Bianca Censori and Julia Fox make headlines for baring their buns in public, but one is married to Kanye West and the other used to go out with him. Kanye is also responsible for the fashionable reinvention of his first wife, Kim Kardashian.

So is “Ye” to blame for the trend of going out virtually naked?

Kanye and his wife, Bianca.

Kanye’s ex-girlfriend, Julia Fox.

Kanye’s ex-wife. Indeed.

Kanye is one of the most controversial and talked-about people of the modern age, and let’s not forget, he was running for President in 2020. Given the last eight years in American politics, and the current insane situation, I wouldn’t be surprised if Mr. West was in the White House by 2028.

Or perhaps by then, democracy will be replaced with royalty, and the first monarch to be elected by the American people will be King Kanye I of the United States. Sounds mad, but the bottom line (excuse the pun) is that the new world is madder than ever, so nothing is off the table.

Kanye “still the king” West—(according to his latest lyrics)

Realistically, (is anything real anymore?) if there was to be an American monarch, I would bet on Miss Americana herself, you know, the one Kanye made famous (again, according to him):

All hail Queen Taylor.

Girls, this is how you do it.

At least she knows how to wear a cobweb appropriately.