Okay, so I recently did a post about all the ridonkulous designey vagineys out there, but I’ve got something else to get off my (seriously flat) chest. What is with these boudoir photo shoots? As with the vajazzling, I have written a lot of LivingSocial deals for the boudoir photo packages. Don’t get me wrong — they are so much more fun to write than getting half off an oil change, but it always left me wondering — who is doing these things, because it sure as hell ain’t me.
Last year, I did a photo shoot — oh yeah, I’m nothing if not glamorous — to have a few photos to use for my blog. It was a blast, although it does feel weird taking pictures by yourself. My photographer and her designer helped me with my wardrobe changes and, in the middle of it all, they suggested I try out a boudoir photo shoot. Honestly, I love my photographer (she may even be reading this), but was she seeing what I was seeing? I’ve got back fat for days, yo, and saggy boobs that were sucked dry for over a year by my second son, who decided he was too good for bottles — entitled little bastard. If I’m being honest, my boobs were never anything to ogle, but they didn’t look like two sad flapjacks that have been run over by a Mack truck (and then backed up and run over again).
So I guess you’re supposed to send these things to your husband or boyfriend then, right? Or so I hear. But I can’t help but think my husband would just laugh (and laugh and laugh) if he got this as a present. “Where’s my gift card to REI?” Seriously, what is he supposed to do with that shit, as I know it’s not going in his spank bank with Scarlett Johansson and Megan Fox. My photographer is good, but she can’t perform miracles, at least as far as I can tell.
“Look, honey, here I am in some lingerie! Don’t you love it? I thought you’d like it since I usually only wear coffee stained maternity clothes to bed, or that one tee shirt I got for free at the Padres game.”
Blank look. *Crickets.* Are those tears because he’s so moved or are his eyes actually bleeding? You can’t unsee that shit, that’s all I’m saying.
Let me just explain the naked time in our house. It’s not a leisurely walk to the closet while admiring myself in the mirror. It’s a full-out Olympic sprint where I do that squinty thing to my eyes where my reflection could be anything — A tree. The smoke monster from Lost. A scary clown. I could totally be a firefighter because it only takes me like 3.2 seconds to get dressed. I’m only a few steps away from being a never-nude, showering in my jean shorts like Tobias Funke.
I guess what I’m trying to say is there is a boudoir photo shoot window. If you’re in that range, I say go for it. It’s probably super hot and will lead to lots of sexy time. But unless I find a genie in a bottle and use my three wishes for less back fat, new ta tas, and a tummy tuck, my boudoir window is sealed tighter than Kim Kardashian’s ass.