Remember a couple of months ago when I drunkenly bought myself a boudoir photo session? Here is the post that describes in detail how I agreed to get naked with a complete stranger and be photographed in my underwear. Clearly that decision involved wine ,because I would have never agreed to that had I been sober. Or without the help of Photoshop. Today, I give some love to Photoshop, because I think it’s gotten a bad rap lately. Clearly there are too many ads where boobs are made bigger, faces are made clearer and thighs are made nonexistent with the intention of selling women shit products they don’t need. My love for Photoshop comes from something deeper, that place in my heart where i never thought I was pretty enough to get pictures taken in lingerie. I’m not selling anything and I would never want to make someone feel bad about themselves by seeing a Photoshopped pic of me. (Disclaimer: I never fucking look like this, this is not real life.) But the photos I got back after my boudoir session made me feel pretty in a way I never had before in my life. Is it necessary to get nudes taken in order to like your body? No. Is everything in life about feeling sexy or looking good for your significant other? No. Here’s the deal though, the session and photos were amazing. And kind of torturous. Don’t we all deserve to experience those two things equally?
When I arrived for my photo session, I sat in my car wondering why I hadn’t spiked my coffee or stuck a flask in my yoga pants. Once inside, I started to feel even more unprepared. In all my awkwardness, I hadn’t brought a suitcase full of undies or a slew of porn star boots. My closet isn’t full of that shit, it’s full of cotton briefs and practical foot apparel. What I had brought was a corset that costs more than a nice steak dinner, a couple of thongs, a men’s white shirt and one pair of painfully tall, black stilettos. All purchased the day before at Ross, because even when I’m instructed to be classy I don’t know how. As soon as Miss M started the make up and hair process, I realized that I could never, ever be a gal who tries extra hard in the prepping to look good department. The makeup alone took 50 minutes and the hair, my short ass hair, took around 20 minutes. My usual routine is 30 minutes from the time I peel myself off the couch and saunter to the shower, to the moment I walk out the door. She did a smoky eye, which I would never attempt, and my hair eventually looked photo worthy. It was time to get dressed….undressed…redressed. Whatever, it was time to put on the sexy goodies.
Once outfitted in my hooker gear, Miss M began prepping the cameras and lighting and I began fidgeting and picking the wedgie out of my butt. I felt awkward standing in her apartment, looking like a street walker, while she nonchalantly meandered around me. When the camera started flashing, I reverted to my normal selfie face (mouth agape, eyes looking off to the side) and she had to coerce me into doing a “sexy face”. What is a sexy face? I’m still not sure. I had never made one in my life. Tilting your head, holding one position for minutes on end and trying to stay upright in stilettos is fucking hard. Hey models, I get it. Tough gig, bitches.
Halfway through our session, we took a much needed lunch break where I blankly ordered a sandwich in order to get to the part where I could order a beer. Or twelve. Miss M kept telling me how photogenic I was and how sexy these pictures were going to be and I kept thinking “Is she talking to me?” It was kind of an out of body experience. At one point during the photo session, we did a full nude. (No you can’t see it. Why the fuck would you want to?) There I was, standing in an large room with floor to ceiling windows while a woman photographed my mom belly and saggy boobs. Embarrassing? Yes, a little. But I also felt kind of pretty and dare I say, even sexy. I guess that’s the whole point, right?
When I received the photos back, it was clear that there had been some Photoshopping done. Not in a bad way, but in a “Thank god you cleared up my ass jiggle and got rid of that zit on my shoulder.” kind of way. The photos looked amazing and sexy and I was surprised that they were pictures of me. Very, very surprised. My husband wasn’t as shocked. “Oh, that’s you all right.” And it was, but with smokier eyes, smoother thighs and a rockin’ hot ass. These Photoshopped pics made me feel like a model, like a sexy wife, like a hot mama. Seeing myself in those images was a lovely distraction from what I usually look like, which is a mom in a dirty tank top and pajama pants. There is nothing wrong with that, but since I’m never going to be asked to trot my ass down a cat walk in NYC, this is the closest I will ever get to looking like a model. And it was nice. Thanks, Photoshop. I ain’t mad.
My photographer was amazing and if you are interested in feeling sexy or having a smoky eye, Melinda is the gal for you. Click here for a link to her website where you can drool over her portfolio and contact her for your own appointment.