Mary: “Nobody says ‘pantyhose’ anymore.”

Me: “Then what do they say?”

So began my education into the differences between stockings, leggings, and tights. When Mary and I were walking though San Francisco recently, she pulled me close and pointed to a stylish, young woman. “Those are leggings.”

“Why aren’t they ‘tights’?”

Which meant every television show or trip to the store became a deep dive into hosiery 101. During the Polar Vortex, my wife pointed to the morning news anchor. “See, she’s wearing black tights.”

Of course, my interest is all in the name of research. I’m writing a character named Helen Chen. She’s obsessed with fashion. She’s also troubled that Boston’s Chinatown is nothing like what she remembers from childhood.

Tufts Medical is swallowing the neighborhood. The streets aren’t so crowded anymore, and it’s almost impossible to find dragon-eye—which is a sweet, eyeball-shaped fruit. There are fewer Chinese restaurants, and for that matter, there are fewer Chinese.

But this is a post about one man’s journey into stockings. Literally. And I must say it’s wonderful to be a writer who studies women’s legs for craft. The primary research, not so much fun…

I’m trying to figure out whether Helen Chen is sexier with or without stockings. It’s a question that’s been eating me. If you want to weigh in, I’d like to hear your thoughts.

I love book research. I get to obsess about things, and there’s a surprise around every corner. In this case, the best observation I’ve found about hosiery comes from a guy writing about the fishing community in Rhode Island.

I picked up Spartina to see how John Casey describes South County, the seaside area where Mary and I live. It’s a lovely book, and Casey is a master at spilling the sights, sounds, smells and, oh yes, the vernacular across his pages. Where else do people talk about “quahogs” or “tautogs” or the “big hairs” on Scarborough Beach?

In one passage about a crusty old fisherman’s reaction to a lending officer, Casey writes, “If she’d been slick, young, sure of herself, crossed her legs with a little scratch of nylon on nylon as she leaned forward, he might have blown up.”

My first reaction: What a talent!

Unable to contain myself, I bounded upstairs into Mary’s office. “Do stockings really make scratching noises when they rub together?”

“Sometimes. Depends on the type.”

Then I got it all: nylon versus Lycra; stockings versus tights; silhouettes; the agony of control tops; how women pay attention to the way their clothes sound; the whole shebang.

If I hear another word about Spanx, I'll scream.

I wanted more about the stockings. “Is it really a scratchy noise, like scritch, scritch? Or is it more of a rustling sound?”

With that, Mary disappeared for a moment and, you guessed it, returned with a pair. “Go ahead.”

“No way.”

“How will you ever describe the sound if you don’t make it yourself?”

Now you know the rest of the story. But let’s be clear. I only pulled them up to my calves. And I didn’t like it. Which, I know, I know, sounds like, “I didn’t inhale.”

But, trust me, I don’t have what it takes to be a cross-dresser. (You can see the run courtesy of my toenail.) Putting on stockings feels like stepping into a hot, itchy, too-small plastic bag. When I took them off, I wanted to claw gullies into my shins.

I still don’t have the right words to describe that “scratch of nylon on nylon.” I’m struggling with how to play it on paper. It’ll come. But I think there’s a bigger, maybe prurient question here:

How far have you gone to get the details right?