After the businesswoman, things went back to normal, only worse. I kept checking my phone for days, then weeks. She never called. She had said we should meet again sometime, but the silence was total. I didn’t dare reach out first. I had finally gotten what I secretly wanted for years — an older, confident, sexually direct woman — and now everything else felt empty. The younger readers were either too insecure or already married. The few older ones who came were plain, nervous, and usually not interested in anything beyond the photos. Every shoot left me with the same dull disappointment. The memory of her naked body, the way she had used me without hesitation, kept replaying in my head. Ordinary work no longer satisfied me. I felt restless and irritated most of the time.

Anna was 48, recently divorced. Her friend had given her my number after showing her the photos I had taken. She lived in a small, worn apartment in an old concrete block building on the outskirts of the city. Her husband had been the only one earning money; after the divorce she had almost nothing left. She was unemployed, rarely left the house, and spent most days alone. She still looked good — soft body, nice face, full breasts, little overweighted — but the divorce had worn her down. She felt unattractive and old. Her attempts at meeting someone through ordinary offline ways — putting up notices, going to boring singles events — had gone nowhere. Her own selfies made her feel even worse. She hesitated for a long time before calling me. She didn’t want to seem desperate, but she also didn’t know what else to do.

My phone rang while I was sitting at the kitchen table, editing old files. Unknown number. I answered in a flat voice.

“Yeah?”

A woman’s voice, already tense, came through.

“Hello ... is this the photographer? The one who did the reader photos for the magazine?”

“That’s me.”

There was a short, uncomfortable silence. She cleared her throat.

“My name is Anna. My friend ... she said you took some good pictures for her. I was thinking ... maybe I could get something similar.”

I exhaled through my nose, already irritated. Another awkward client.

“I mostly work through the magazine,” I said curtly. “And I’m pretty booked up right now.”

“I know, I’m sorry,” she answered quickly, her voice shrinking. “I don’t have much money. I just ... after the divorce I feel really bad about how I look. My friend said your photos helped her. But if this is a bad time...”

She sounded embarrassed, like she already regretted calling. I could hear the hesitation and discomfort in her voice. Part of me wanted to end the conversation right there.

I rubbed my eyes. The memory of the businesswoman’s naked body flashed through my mind again — confident, wet, wanting. And here was another woman who probably just needed some ego boost and would waste my time.

Still, something made me not hang up.

“Fine,” I said, my tone still dry. “We can meet and see. No promises. When are you free?”

She sounded surprised, almost relieved, but still nervous.

“Whenever suits you ... thank you. Really.”

I leaned back in my chair, already regretting that I hadn’t ended the call.

“What kind of photos are you thinking about?” I asked.

She hesitated again.

“I ... I don’t know exactly. Something nice. Maybe a bit more ... sensual than normal. Like what you did for my friend.”

I sighed quietly. “I need to see the place first. Can you send me a few pictures of your apartment? And maybe some recent photos of yourself so I know the lighting and what style we’re working with.”

There was a longer pause. I could hear her discomfort through the phone.

“I ... I don’t really have any good photos,” she said, her voice lower. “Only some crappy selfies I took with my phone. They look terrible. That’s why I’m calling you.”

“I get that,” I replied, keeping my tone flat. “But I still need something. Even bad ones. I need to see the rooms, the light, how much space there is. Otherwise I can’t plan the shoot properly.”

She exhaled. “They’re really bad. I look awful in them. I was hoping we could just meet and figure it out on the spot.”

“We can meet, but I still need reference. Send whatever you have. I’m not going to judge the quality. I just need to see the environment and your current look.”

Another silence. She sounded embarrassed but resigned.

“Okay ... I’ll send a couple. But please don’t expect much. I haven’t taken any proper pictures since before the divorce.”

I heard her moving around, probably looking through her phone.

“Sent,” she said after a minute.

I opened the messages. The photos were indeed poor — dim lighting, awkward angles, her face looking tired and self-conscious. The apartment looked small and plain: old furniture, faded wallpaper, a simple bedroom with a double bed and not much else. She was wearing a plain t-shirt in most shots. Still, her body looked soft and full. Heavy breasts, wide hips. Not bad at all.

“Got them,” I said. “It’s a small place. We’ll have to work with natural light mostly. When do you want to do this?”

“Whenever you can come,” she answered, sounding a little more relaxed now that the uncomfortable part was over, though still clearly nervous. “I’m home almost every day.”

We arranged a date and time. She thanked me again, quietly, before hanging up. I put the phone down and stared at her photos for a while. Another ordinary, slightly broken woman in a depressing apartment. I wasn’t particularly excited. But at least it was something different from the usual.

The photos were exactly as bad as she had warned. Dim lighting, awkward angles, cheap phone quality. In most of them she looked tired and defeated — graying hair pulled back messily, no makeup, wearing an old t-shirt that did nothing for her. Her face was puffy, her expression self-conscious. She wasn’t ugly, but she wasn’t attractive either. Just an ordinary, worn-out woman in her mid-forties with a soft, heavy body. Full breasts, wide hips, a round belly — the typical divorced stay-at-home mom who had been left behind. The apartment in the background looked small, old, and depressing. I could picture her evenings: sitting alone on the couch, watching Mexican soap operas, hoping some rich man would magically rescue her.

Nothing about her excited me. She seemed like exactly the kind of client who would be difficult, insecure, and ultimately disappointing.

A few days later my phone rang again. It was Anna. She sounded a little steadier than before, but still clearly nervous.

“I was thinking ... maybe we could meet first, just for coffee? Before doing any real photos. I’m still not sure about all this.”

I wasn’t in the mood, but I agreed. We set a time at a small, cheap café near her blockhouse. She arrived on time wearing a plain dark green button-up shirt and jeans. Her hair was wavy and a bit messy, falling over her shoulders. She looked tired, with visible lines around her eyes, but her body filled the clothes well — heavy breasts stretching the fabric, wide hips, thick thighs. She wasn’t ugly, but she had that worn, everyday look of a woman who had stopped trying. We sat at a small table by the window. The conversation was slow and forced.

“So ... my friend said you take good pictures,” she started, stirring her coffee.

“Yeah, usually models like my photos” I replied, not offering much.

She tried again. “I don’t really know what I want. Just ... something better than what I can do myself.”

I nodded. After a few minutes of stiff small talk about the weather and her friend’s photos, I took out my small, inexpensive digital camera.

“Can I take a few shots now? Just to test the light and see how you photograph.”

She tensed up immediately.

“Right now? Here?”

“It’s just a few,” I said.

She reluctantly agreed. I took ten or twelve pictures while she sat at the table. She was stiff, shoulders hunched, forcing awkward smiles. The photos came out average at best — decent body, but her face looked tense and self-conscious. Nothing special. We didn’t really connect. She seemed uncomfortable with my short answers and businesslike attitude. I found her nervousness tiring. We couldn’t agree on much — she kept saying she didn’t know what style she wanted, and I told her I needed clearer ideas if we were going to do a proper shoot. In the end I said, “I’ll edit these and send them to you. Then you can decide if you still want to continue.” She nodded, looking relieved the meeting was ending.

“Thank you,” she said quietly as we stood up. “I know I’m not easy right now.” I just shrugged. We parted ways without making another plan. Later that evening I looked at the photos again. Her body was soft and full in a very womanly way, but her expression was closed off. I wasn’t sure if this was going anywhere.

A few days after I sent her the edited photos from our first meeting, Anna called again. This time her voice was noticeably lighter.

“Hi ... it’s Anna. I just wanted to thank you for the pictures. They’re ... honestly the best photos anyone has ever taken of me. I can’t believe how different I look in them.”