Anytime someone else took a stab at it, I ended up looking like somebody else.
“Boudoir photos,” Sophia announced yesterday, springing the details on me like a confetti cannon. “It’ll be so good for you, darling. Not to be rude, but for someone who gives sex seminars for a living, you’re clearly not very comfortable in the bedroom.”
Wrong. I was nice and comfy in there because I used it for its intended purpose—to sleep. “It was asafesex seminar, and that’s not my job, you know.”
Whether she knew or not remained a mystery, as she was too busy reminding me to shave my legs and offering up the number of a good waxer who specialized in Brazilians.
I also assured her I could drive myself in my very own car, but she insisted on coming along since she wanted to say hello to her photographer friend and needed to run a few errands in the greater city anyway.
“Plus, we don’t want you getting cold feet,” she’d insisted.
“If I’m doing a photoshoot in my underwear,” I’d deadpanned, “it sounds like that comes with the territory.”
But in the here and now, standing on the sidewalk outside a studio that specialized in sensual glamour shots, the jokes that usually came easily weren’t enough to combat my anxiety. Everyone’s about to discover I’m not cool under pressure, simply speedy at conjuring problems and solutions.
Sophia reaches around me, hauling open the door, even though I’m not ready and never will be.
One of these days, I’d win a power struggle against the Cronies.
But today was not that day.
The woman seated behind the desk cheerily greets us, and Sophia introduces me to Eniola, the owner and photographer in her thirties with shorn, bleached curls and a bejeweled, lotus septum ring that gleams against her ebony skin. They launch into a discussion that makes it clear they have Plans with a capitalP, and then we’re guided to a room with lingerie for purchase in every amalgamation of silk, lace, and pleather. There’s also a section of borrowable accessories like spiked heels and thigh-high boots, feather boas, necklaces, collars, and bling.
This is where I’m informed the rest of the grannies will be joining us via FaceTime. Let’s just say it’s the first time I’ve ever been more conversative than them.
Soon my arms are piled high with gauzy fabrics, corsets that cinch the waist and create the illusion of boobs, and teeny-tiny panties that intend on giving me a wedgie. Our cheery guide skips off to get the makeup artist, and the mirror on the nearest wall reflects my shellshocked expression.
Sensing I’ve hit my overstimulated limit, Sophia informs the rest of the vintage voyeurs she’ll check in with them later. She disconnects the call, slipping her phone into her cherry red Dior bag to clasp both of my shoulders. “Listen, we tease about taking over your life and making you truly live it, but this photoshoot is about more than that.”
I want to argue that I was living my life plenty before they got a hold of it, but the resolve hardening her features advises me to let go of what I can’t control and do what she’s asked— listen.
“Yes, the idea came as a flash of lightning, but this is an experience, not a task to rush through and cross off the list. You’re not living out a regret of mine, I’m sharing one of my most fulfilling, empowering experiences. This is a gift from me to the woman you are now, to the one you’ll be at our age, and every stage between.”
Such lovely intentions, yet old hurts drift to the surface. For once it’s not about my mother but my ex-boyfriends, which is at least a nice change of pace. Given the setting, it feels like I can’t keep it in any longer. “It’s a beautiful sentiment, but I don’t really have a sexy side—it’s just not me.”
I’m shaking my head, glancing for a place to set the pile of gathered unmentionables, which I totally don’t mind returning to racks so the staff won’t have to deal with them. Also so they know everything’s still hermetically sealed, even though the Cronies insisted the “outfits” be their treat, with commentary about putting on a fashion show for the doctor.
Whom I refused an offer of a nightcap from last Saturday after our semi-coerced dinner, using the excuse I knew he wouldn’t question—that I had too much work.
Five toss-and-tumble nights of overanalyzing my every interaction with him versus every interaction with Noah hadn’t helped, and where was I again?
Oh yeah. Being a realist.
“That’s not to say I don’t bring a lot to the table,” I tell Sophia. “I’m reliable and efficient and can recall information like a master librarian hangs out in my brain. No one hustles harder—I go, go, go at a problem from every angle, until I find a way through.”
“You’re right,” Sophia says, her nose so crinkled I’m surprised her frames remain in place, “that’s not very sexy. Sounds like you’re describing an automobile, and not one I’d want to have sex in.”
Okay, that was on me, although I wouldn’t say I exactly asked for it.
“Reliable.” Her lip curls as she spits out the word. “That’s what my Fred called our Oldsmobile that required pumping the accelerator to prime the engine, and it never got fully going, either.”
My jaw drops as I juggle the unwieldy bundle of lace and silk in my arms. “I never said I couldn’t get there.”
From the depths of Sophia’s bag comes a muffled voice. “Is now a good time…tell you…Sophia didn’t…hang up?”
“I can’t hear anything.” Okay, that’s definitely Gertie, and the speaker hits us full blast as Sophia lifts her glowing phone from the depths. “Did she say she’s never had an orgasm?”
Perfect. I love this for me and everyone in the studio.
