Mummeeee what are you doing? I need to show you something!’ My six-year-old daughter Emi was banging on my bedroom door, which, unusually, I had locked in the middle of the afternoon.
‘I am…’ my mind was spinning. I looked at myself in panic. What was he doing?
In fact, I was trying to take a sexy photo for Eliot, before he was gone for a month. At that very moment, I was half in, half out of a very expensive Basque Agent Provocateur that I had bought online without knowing how many hooks and eyes it had. The Basque was smaller than I thought, or I was bigger, so every time I put five hooks in the eyes, another five fell apart.
‘I’m busy!’ I told Emi desperately.
‘Busy doing what?’
She was busy being a single mother of three and girlfriend to a younger, more attractive guy, not that I could tell him that.
Today I had already vacuumed every part of the house and organized the dirty bowls left outside 15-year-old Hector’s room for the servant (me) to remove. And now he had to take sexy photos for Eliot.
Throughout our relationship, Eliot and I exchanged many photographs; he had sent ugly/cute photos of himself from random angles, I had sent him only the most glamorous ones of me, taken from above so that gravity would erase my lines.
I tried different poses. If I took an over-the-shoulder photo, it showed more of my butt (good) and less of my resting bitch face (also good)
Occasionally, if we texted each other goodnight, I would send him pictures of me topless in bed, also from above. He never asked for them, but I liked to do it to remind him that I was here and on the other end of the phone.
Although the stereotype is that young people constantly send unsolicited photos of themselves, Eliot is careful, respectful and quite shy. He wasn’t the type to send anything without being asked (and sometimes refused even when he was asked).
But he was beautiful and sexy, and I loved looking at him when we weren’t together, which was often. Exchanging photos made us feel closer and added spice to my otherwise domestic life.
However, while my previous photos taken in the middle of our sexting sessions may have had clever angles, I had never taken a genuinely sexy selfie—one that required lipstick, stockings, and heels.
There were no smartphones in the early 2000s, when I last went out; I was married with young children when the intimate photos started circulating, and by then my ex-husband Simon and I wanted to see less of each other, not more.
Now here I was, in my late 40s, with a basque that looked more like an instrument of torture, struggling with the right angle. Chunks of meat I didn’t know there were protruding from the expensive ribbons that ran up and down my back. I couldn’t fasten the straps and my thighs were mottled above the edge of the stockings.
I tried different poses. If I took an over-the-shoulder photo, it showed more of my butt (good) and less of my resting bitch face (also good). I was surprised to see that my butt looked attractive.
Having conquered the outfit, I could see that the hourglass shape of the Basque was flattering and stockings are always sexy. I knelt on the bed and tried to pout. The pose was good; the terrible pout. I threw my head back, with a come-here vibe. Better!
I pushed my breasts forward; also good. I tilted my head, opened my mouth, stuck out my tongue, trying to be playful. Not so bad… Well, now with your legs spread in a sexy and authoritative way: click!
It was very exciting to be in my expensive basque, evoking my sexiest personality. It’s nothing like my normal life.
Over the next month, Eliot made many references to the photos. It made our sexting more real and personal, and it was flattering that he loved them.
And in return, every time he returned from the gym he asked for a photo. For me, Eliot in her sportswear is the equivalent of my lingerie; I love seeing him in shorts and a vest, with sweat on his forehead. I make him squeeze his muscles in the mirror, which look even bigger after working out. He flexes his biceps, shows me his lats, pumps his chest. It’s exciting to know that a boy like him is mine.
If I’m honest, I’m the drooling middle-aged man in our relationship, and he’s the beautiful young woman. He loves me for my brain, my girl-boss juggling skills. And hopefully my butt too.
- Annabel Bond is a pseudonym. The names have been changed.