Boudoir pour moi and no one else

Never did I imagine that at 20 years old I’d be standing in a stranger’s house wearing heavy makeup and no clothes. Well, I say no clothes but that’s only because the lace I was wearing could scarcely count as clothing.

This boudoir photography session that I was about to embark on was a birthday gift from a friend, the coupon for which had been collecting dust in my bedroom draw for a good six months before I finally booked it.  

The photographer threw herself onto a chaise lounge which was placed in one corner of the room, demonstrating how I should push myself as far back onto the seat as I could go, drape my legs over the seat back and ‘casually’ throw my hair back.

Even with my best efforts I looked less sexy in the end and more like a dolled-up used-car salesman who’d do anything for the sell.

When my turn to assume the same position came, I thought it would be simple. I was proved wrong. My hands were repositioned over and over again to get it just right. My legs were crossed and contorted so that in the final image, my robust thighs had visually lost about a stone each.

It felt like everything, down to each strand of hair on my head, needed to be positioned. The whole pose was about as artificial as a ‘candid’ image could get.

Next I was made to stand with one knee nonchalantly perched on a stool and a hand resting on the mirror of a dressing table. I was too tall to rest my knee in a normal fashion, so the high heels had to come off for that one, much to the disdain of the photographer. Even with my best efforts I looked less sexy in the end and more like a dolled-up used-car salesman who’d do anything for the sell.

I noticed that most of the pictures didn’t actually look like me at all. 

Finally there were some classic floor and wall poses. It wouldn’t have been a true boudoir photoshoot without flashing the photographer, and it was at that moment that my left nipple made a debut. By that point though I was past caring. I was too busy trying to get the poses right or place my hand correctly on my thigh to even care about being overexposed.

I hurriedly threw my clothes back on and left the perfectly lit den to view my sexy photographs. It was at this point that I noticed that most of the pictures didn’t actually look like me at all. My legs looked thinner, my waist looked more toned and every visible bone in my body was thrust out to make me look a bit more waif-ish.

They’re the same images which are plastered across advertisement campaigns. It’s almost like live-action Photoshop, contorting the body in such a way removes the need for any heavy editing; it’s a skill that lingerie models must be well-versed in. It then all made sense why my hands had been moved mere millimetres or I’d been told to arch my back just that little bit more.

Draped across the chaise lounge, I looked more like a passive victim than anything else. 

I also realised that part of the reason that I consented to the photoshoot in the first place was because I wanted to cultivate an inner strength and confidence. The experience did give me some degree of a confidence boost, but the images themselves weren’t evidence of this.

In every single one I looked vulnerable. Draped across the chaise lounge, I looked more like a passive victim than anything else. The final image that I chose to have printed was the one which I thought showed the most strength and the greatest presence.

The experience itself won’t cultivate self-acceptance; its best use is to get a good story.

Upon reflection, I don’t regret having my boudoir photoshoot. I felt a little pampered and I did feel attractive. When I showed my mother the final image copy she said, and I quote, that I was a “sexy bitch” which is a success.

I would still wholeheartedly recommend the experience to anyone. But before you go into the studio you have to realise that you are beautiful without the special angles. The experience itself won’t cultivate self-acceptance; its best use is to get a good story. If nothing else, I will soon have an image that I will repeatedly show my future children to the tune of “this is what your mother looked like before you ruined her figure”.