Mummeeee what are you doing? I need to show you something!’ My six-year old daughter Emi was hammering on my bedroom door, which, unusually, I’d locked in the middle of the afternoon.
‘I’m…’ my mind was whirring. I stared at myself in a panic. What was I doing?
I was actually in the middle of trying to take a sexy photo for Eliot, before he went away for a month. At that very moment, I was half in, half out of a madly expensive Agent Provocateur basque I’d 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 got five of the hooks into the eyes, another five popped undone.
‘I’m busy!’ I said to Emi desperately.
‘Busy doing what?’
I was busy being a single mum-of-three and a girlfriend to one hot younger guy — not that I could tell her that.
I had already hoovered every part of the house today and tidied up the dirty bowls left outside 15-year-old Hector’s room for the servant (me) to remove. And now, I had to take sexy photos for Eliot.
Over the course of our relationship Eliot and I had exchanged lots of photographs; he’d sent ugly/cute ones of himself from random angles, I’d sent him only the most glamorous of me, taken from above so that gravity erased my lines.
I tried different poses. If I took a photo over my shoulder, more of my bum was in shot (good) and less of my resting bitch face (also good)
Occasionally, if we were texting goodnight, I’d sent him topless pictures of me in bed – also from above. He never asked for them, but I liked doing it to remind him I was here and hot on the end of the phone.
Although the stereotype is that young men are sending unsolicited pictures of themselves non-stop, 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).
But he was beautiful and sexy, and I loved to look at him when we weren’t together – which was often. Exchanging pictures made us feel closer, and added spice to my otherwise domestic life.
Yet while my previous photos taken in the midst of our sexting sessions may have been artfully angled, I’d never taken an actual bona fide sexy selfie – one requiring 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 were doing the rounds – 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, in a basque that was more like an instrument of torture, struggling with the right angle. Bits of flesh I didn’t know I had bulged out between the expensive ribbons that ran up and down my back. I couldn’t get the suspenders to fasten, and my thighs were mottled above the stocking rim.
I tried different poses. If I took a photo over my shoulder, more of my bum was in shot (good) and less of my resting bitch face (also good). I was surprised to see that my rear looked appealing.
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 a pout. The pose was good; the pout terrible. I threw my head back, with a come-hither vibe. Better!
I pushed my boobs forward; also good. I tilted my head, opened my mouth, stuck out my tongue, trying to be playful. Not too bad… OK, now standing legs apart in sexy authoritarian manner – click!
It was quite thrilling to be in my expensive basque, conjuring up my most sexy persona. Not like my normal life at all.
Over the next month, Eliot referenced the photos a lot. It made our sexting more real and personal, and it was flattering that he loved them.
And in return, every time he got back from the gym, I asked him for a photo. For me, Eliot in his workout gear is the equivalent of my lingerie; I love to see him in his shorts and vest, sweat on his brow. 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, it’s me who is the drooling middle-aged man in our relationship, and he who is the young beautiful thing. He loves me for my brains, my girl-boss life-juggling skills. And hopefully my bum, too.
- Annabel Bond is a pseudonym. Names have been changed
