Mummy, what are you doing? I have something to show you!’ My six-year-old daughter Emi hammered on my bedroom door, which, unusually, I had locked in the middle of the afternoon.
“I’m…” my mind was buzzing. I stared at myself in panic. What was I doing?
I was actually taking a sexy photo for Eliot before he left for a month. At the time, I was half in, half out of an insanely expensive Agent Provocateur Basque that I had bought online without realizing how many snags it had. The bask was smaller than I thought – or I was bigger – so every time I got five of the hooks in the eyes, another five popped loose.
‘I’m busy!’ I said desperately to Emi.
‘Doing what?’
I was busy being a single mother of three and being the girlfriend of a handsome younger man – not that I could tell her that.
I had already vacuumed every part of the house today and cleared away the dirty bowls outside 15-year-old Hector’s room so the servant (me) could remove them. And now I had to take sexy pictures for Eliot.
Over the course of our relationship, Eliot and I had exchanged many photos; he had sent ugly/cute ones of himself from random angles, I had only sent him the most glamorous of mine, taken from above so gravity would erase my lines.
I have tried different positions. When I took a photo over my shoulder, more of my ass was in the shot (good) and less of my resting bitch face (also good)
Every now and then, when we said goodnight, I would send him topless pictures of me in bed – also from above. He never asked, but I enjoyed reminding him that I was here and on the phone.
Although the stereotype is that young men send unsolicited photos of themselves non-stop, Eliot is careful, respectful and quite shy. He wasn’t the type to send anything without being asked (and sometimes even refuse when he did).
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 homely life.
But while my previous photos taken during our sexting sessions may have been artfully shot from an angle, I had never taken a truly bona fide sexy selfie – one that required lipstick, stockings and heels.
There were no smartphones in the early 2000s, when I was last dating; I was married with small children by the time intimate photos started making the rounds – and by then my ex-husband Simon and I wanted to see each other less, not more.
Now here I was, in my late forties, in a Basque vehicle that looked more like a torture device, struggling with the right angle. Pieces of meat I didn’t know were bulging from the expensive ribbons running down my back. I couldn’t get the suspenders fastened, and my thighs were stained above the edge of the stocking.
I have tried different positions. When I took a photo over my shoulder, more of my ass was in the shot (good) and less of my resting bitch face (also good). I was surprised to see that my backside looked attractive.
After conquering the outfit, I could tell that the hourglass shape of the basque was flattering and that stockings are always sexy. I knelt on the bed and tried to pout. The pose was good; the pout terrible. I threw my head back, with a come-hither vibe. Better!
I pushed my breasts forward; also good. I tilted my head, opened my mouth, stuck out my tongue and tried to be playful. Not so bad… Okay, now spread the legs in a sexy authoritarian way – click!
It was quite exciting to be in my expensive basque outfit and put on my sexiest personality. Not at all like my normal life.
Over the next month, Eliot made many references to the photographs. It made our sexting more real and personal, and it was flattering that he loved them.
And in return, I asked him for a photo every time he came back from the gym. For me, Eliot in his workout gear is the equivalent of my lingerie; I like to see him in his shorts and vest, with the sweat on his forehead. I make him clench his muscles for me in the mirror, which look even bigger after a workout. 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 guy in our relationship, and he’s the young, beautiful thing. He loves me for my brains, my girl boss and juggling skills. And hopefully my ass too.
- Annabel Bond is a pseudonym. Names have been changed