It’s been said women love a man in uniform. The saying doesn’t come with any qualifications, so it’s clear enough that the allure of the uniform transcends sexual preference: if you are a woman, rest assured that you love a man in uniform. It’s easy to see why: a uniform radiates an aura of power. There’s something deeply arousing about being with a man who has been appointed to exercise the state’s monopoly on legitimized violence to coerce and control the behaviour of other individuals, whether said individuals are considered to be members of that political community on behalf of whose leaders the body of authorized agents of the monopoly on force are acting, or if said individuals are considered to belong to a foreign political community. The key is that the man in uniform gets to kill people, which is hot.
For men, as much as for women, the sartorial signifiers of professions are imbued with deep eroticism. Men seem to have a thing for women in uniform, whatever the vocation: cheerleader, French maid, nun, bunny, pirate — and who could forget nurses. What could be sexier than a set of scrubs: a no-nonsense top and loose-fitting trousers with a drawstring waist, easy to launder, made of inexpensive pale blue or green fabric, perhaps speckled with the blood and vomitus of other patients. But for me, it doesn’t get better than the toxic waste cleanup worker in her hazmat suit. It says to the world, I’m sassy and open-minded, adventurous and up for anything, but I have a sensitive side and I like to pamper myself a bit.