The linebacker jackets at Saint Laurent are mindblowing: girthy leather, hulking arms, massive shoulders, and the most whittled of waists. The outerwear reminded me of an article I wrote for Harper’s Bazaar about silhouettes, which included one of my favorite jackets, a short little succulent leather piece with a belt I cinched so hard, it looked like I had launched my spleen into my throat. It was like I had two powerful hands choking my midsection with every step I took. Like I had a man’s indented grip around my torso as I was looking for, like, Grape-Nuts at the local Key Food.

The Bazaar editor asked me to ID the jacket. Fat chance. I wouldn’t tell her the brand. I relayed that The Jacket was vintage, which was true. What I didn’t tell her was that I was gatekeeping out of respect. My friend, visual and art director Elizabeth Yowe, whom I met while working at Vogue and now resides in Paris, shared the name of the jacket brand with me years ago when we met for a drink in Pigalle. She wore a black leather jacket that seemed to pick up the city’s lights and savagely pinched her waist. The leather was Kevlar-strong, juicy, and impossibly smooth. The zipped-up collar was protective, but also regal like a bitchy, tough ruff. I begged her to tell me who made the jacket, and she eventually told me, on the premise that I would not reveal it.