It was a Tuesday afternoon and I was folding Phil’s underwear. That was the state of my life at forty-four. I stood at the high granite island in our kitchen, a glass of Chardonnay already poured at 4:30 PM, staring at a pair of grey, elastic-waist boxer briefs.

They were clean. They were functional. They were boring.

They were a perfect metaphor for our marriage.

Phil was a good man. He was a great provider, a decent father to our son who was now off at college, and he was kind. But kindness doesn’t make your pussy wet. Kindness doesn’t make you grip the sheets and scream until your throat is raw. We had been married for almost twenty years. Our anniversary was coming up next month. Twenty years of partnership, mortgages, parent-teacher conferences, and missionary sex on Saturday nights if we weren’t too tired from watching Netflix.

I flattened the grey fabric and stacked it on top of the pile. Typical. Predictable.

I took a long sip of wine and felt the cool liquid slide down my throat. I was bored. It wasn’t just the empty nest boredom everyone talked about. It was a physical itch. I felt like I was waiting for something to happen, but I was the only one in the waiting room.

The front door opened. I straightened up, instinctively smoothing my shirt. I wanted to look presentable. I always wanted to look good for him.

“Hey, Jess,” Phil called out. He dropped his keys in the bowl.

In the kitchen,” I said.

He walked in, loosening his tie. He looked tired. He walked right past me, gave me a quick peck on the cheek that barely registered, and headed for the fridge.

“Long day,” he muttered, grabbing a sparkling water. “Market is going crazy. I might have to hop back on the laptop after dinner.”

“Oh,” I said. I tried to keep the disappointment out of my voice. “I was thinking maybe we could go out? There’s that new Italian place downtown.”

He cracked the can open. “Not tonight, hon. I’m beat. Let’s just order in? Thai?”

He didn’t even look at me. I was wearing a new top, a cut that showed off my neck and a hint of cleavage. I had put on mascara. He looked right through me like I was a piece of furniture he had owned for two decades. Comfortable. Reliable. Invisible.

“Thai is fine,” I said.

He walked out of the kitchen to go change. I stood there with his underwear in my hand. I squeezed the fabric tight. I wanted to scream. I wanted him to grab me, throw me on the island, and fuck me right there next to the fruit bowl. But that wasn’t Phil. That hadn’t been Phil for a long time.

I needed to do something. I needed to wake him up. Our twentieth anniversary had to be big. I couldn’t just buy him a watch. He already had a watch. He needed to be reminded that he was married to a woman, not a roommate.

The idea hit me later that night. I was scrolling through Facebook in bed while Phil snored softly beside me. An ad popped up. Reclaim Your Fire. Boudoir Photography for the Modern Woman.

I clicked it. The photos were stunning. Women my age, looking powerful, sexy, and desirable. I looked over at Phil’s sleeping form. If I gave him an album of me, stripped down, looking like a sex object instead of a mother, maybe it would flip a switch. It would be a gift for him. That’s what I told myself. It was a selfless act to save our sex life.

I slipped out of bed and went into the master bathroom. I locked the door.

I turned on the bright vanity lights. It was brutal lighting, the kind that showed every flaw. I stripped off my oversized t-shirt and dropped my panties to the floor.

I stood there naked, staring at my reflection. I tried to be objective. I was forty-four years old. I wasn’t twenty-two anymore. But I wasn’t dead either.

I stepped on the scale. 135 lbs. I was 5’6”. I was down three pounds from last month thanks to the spin classes I forced myself to go to four times a week. I turned to the side. My stomach was flat. There were no stretch marks, just a little softness if I slouched. If I stood straight, I looked tight.

I cupped my breasts. They were a 36C. They had held up remarkably well after nursing one child. They were full. My nipples were a pale pink, hardening slightly in the cool air of the bathroom. I tweaked them. I liked the way they looked when they were hard.

I turned around to look at my ass. This was my pride and joy. I did squats religiously. It was high, round, and firm. I slapped it. The skin jiggled just enough to be sexy, not sloppy.

I ran my hands down my sides, tracing the curve of my waist to my hips. I had an hourglass shape. I looked good. Actually, I looked hot. I looked like a woman who should be getting fucked, not folding laundry.

“You’re a babe,” I told my reflection. “You’re a total MILF.”

I blushed at the word. It felt dirty even thinking it. But looking at my naked body, feeling the cool air on my skin, I felt a throb between my legs. I was a sexual being. Phil had just forgotten.

I put my t-shirt and panties back on and went back to the bedroom. I grabbed my iPad and went downstairs to the living room. I didn’t want Phil waking up and seeing what I was searching for.

I sat on the couch in the dark and typed “Boudoir Photography” into Google.

The results were a mixed bag. Lots of cheesy glamour shots with feather boas and soft focus lenses. That wasn’t me. I didn’t want to look “pretty.” I wanted to look dirty. I wanted to look like the kind of woman who would fuck her husband’s brains out.

Then I found a site called “Raw & Real Photography.”

The portfolio caught my eye immediately. The photos were black and white, high contrast, gritty. They were artistic, but they were filthy. A woman in a sheer bra, smoking a cigarette, looking at the camera like she wanted to eat the photographer alive. Another shot of a woman’s ass in a thong, bent over a chair, the lighting highlighting every curve.

This was it. This was the vibe.

I clicked on the “About the Photographer” page. I expected to see a woman, or maybe an older, artistic gay man.

The picture loaded. My breath caught.

His name was Connor. And he was definitely not an older gay man.

He looked to be about twenty-eight or twenty-nine. In the photo, he was looking away from the camera, brooding. He had dark hair that was perfectly messy. He was wearing a tight black t-shirt that clung to his chest and arms. Even in the photo, you could see the definition of his biceps. His arms were covered in ink sleeves of intricate black and grey tattoos. He had a strong jawline and eyes that looked like they could see right through your clothes.

He was gorgeous. He was the kind of guy who ruined women’s lives and didn’t even apologize for it.

I felt a flush of heat spread across my chest. My nipples hardened against my cotton t-shirt.

I scolded myself. Stop it, Jessica. He’s a child. He’s almost your son’s age.

But I couldn’t stop looking at him. He looked dangerous. He looked like sex.

I scrolled down to the reviews. I wanted to see if he was professional. If I was going to be half-naked in a room with a man who looked like that, I needed to know he wasn’t a creep.

The reviews were ... interesting.

Brenda, 42: “I was so nervous at first, but Connor has a way of making you relax. He handles you with such confidence. By the end of the session, I was doing things 1 never thought I’d do. My husband loved the photos, but I think I enjoyed the process even more.”

Sarah, 38: “Connor is a master. He knows exactly how to position your body to get the best reaction. He’s very hands-on, which helps so much. The tension in the studio was electric. Best afternoon of my life. I’ve already booked my second session.”

Unknown: “If you want to feel sexy again, go see Connor. He doesn’t just take pictures; he makes you feel seen. He pulled feelings out of me that had been dormant for years. He really knows how to open you up. Five stars. Will be back.”

I read that last one three times. He really knows how to open you up.

I knew what she meant. I wasn’t stupid. There was a subtext to these reviews that was screaming at me. These women weren’t just talking about lighting and camera angles. They were talking about him. They were talking about the way he made them feel.

I shifted on the couch. I was wet. I could feel the slickness between my legs. The combination of the late night wine, the mirror check, and the picture of this tattooed god was doing things to me.

I tried to rationalize it. I told myself I was reading too much into it. He was an artist. He was passionate. That’s why the women liked him. It was a professional service.

“It’s for Phil,” I whispered to the empty room. “This is for Phil.”

But as I looked at Connor’s picture again, imagining those tattooed arms holding a camera, telling me what to do, looking at my naked body, I knew I wasn’t doing this just for Phil.

I wanted Connor to look at me. I wanted a man like that to see my 36C tits and my firm ass and tell me I was hot. I craved the validation.

I clicked the “Contact” button.

A form popped up.

Name: Jessica Age: 44 Reason for Shoot: Anniversary gift for husband Message: Hi Connor. I love your portfolio. It’s exactly the kind of edgy, sexy look I’m going for. I’ve never done anything like this before, so I’m a little nervous. Are you available next week?

I stared at the screen. My finger hovered over the “Submit” button.

My internal mom-voice kicked in. Jessica, are you crazy? You are going to go to a private studio with a twenty-something guy who looks like a porn star? You are a wife and a mother.

Then I thought about Phil. I thought about the grey underwear. I thought about the peck on the cheek. I thought about feeling invisible.

I thought about Connor. I thought about his hands. I thought about him telling me I was beautiful. And telling me what to do.

“Screw it,” I whispered.

I pressed Submit.

My heart was pounding in my chest. I felt giddy, like a teenager sneaking out of the house. I had done it. I had reached out to the hot photographer.

I closed the iPad and sat back on the couch. I slipped my hand down the front of my panties. I was soaking wet. I rubbed my clit, closing my eyes and picturing Connor’s face. I imagined him walking into the room, seeing me on the couch. I imagined him telling me to spread my legs.

“You’re a bad mom,” I thought as I circled my clit. “You’re a bad wife.”

My hips bucked against my hand, and I realized I didn’t care. I wanted to be bad. Just for a little while. Just for the photos.

I came quickly, muffling my moan with my other hand so I wouldn’t wake Phil. It was intense. It was dirty.

I pulled my hand out and wiped my juices on my t-shirt. I’d have to wash it in the morning.

I went back upstairs and crawled into bed next to my husband. He didn’t move. I lay there in the dark, my body humming, waiting for Connor to reply.

I didn’t sleep well. The adrenaline from clicking “Submit” mixed with the guilt of masturbating to someone other than my husband kept me in a light, fitful doze. When the alarm went off at 6:30 AM, I felt ragged.

Phil was already up. I could hear the shower running. By the time I shuffled into the kitchen, he was pouring coffee into his travel mug.

“Morning,” he said, not looking up from his phone. “I’ve got a dinner meeting tonight with the partners. Don’t wait up.”

“Okay,” I said. My voice sounded small. “Have a good day.”

He was gone before I could even pour my own cup. The silence of the house settled around me. It was usually my favorite time of day, but today it felt heavy. I checked my email on my phone. Nothing.

I checked my spam folder. Nothing.

A wave of insecurity washed over me. Maybe he looked at my age in the form and decided I wasn’t worth his time. Maybe he thought a forty-four-year-old housewife was a waste of film.

I went to work. I worked part-time as a receptionist at a dental office. It was mindless work filling schedules and filing insurance claims. It gave me too much time to think.

At 10:15 AM, my pocket buzzed.

I pulled my phone out under the desk. A notification from Gmail.

From: Connor [Raw & Real] Subject: Re: Shoot Inquiry My heart raced. I looked around to make sure the hygienist wasn’t looking over my shoulder. I opened it.

Hi Jessica, Thanks for reaching out. I’d love to work with you. I have an opening next Thursday afternoon if that works.

I like to get a feel for my clients before the shoot so we don’t waste time on the day of. It’s better if we text. Faster communication. Shoot me a message at 555-0199.

- Connor I stared at the number. He wanted to text. That felt personal. A little over the line. I shouldn’t do it. I should stick to email. It provided a paper trail. It kept things professional.

But I wanted faster communication. I wanted him in my pocket.

I typed the number into my contacts. I saved him as “C - Photography.” Ambiguous. Safe.

Hi Connor, this is Jessica. From the email.

The response came thirty seconds later.

Hey Jessica. Glad you texted. Thursday work for you?

Yes, I typed. Thursday is perfect. It was my day off. Phil would be at work.

Great, he replied. So, anniversary gift? That’s sweet. Most of the women who come to me are doing it for themselves, even if they say it’s for their husbands. But we can pretend.

I frowned. That was bold. He was reading me already.

It really is for him, I typed back, feeling defensive.

Sure, he wrote. So, let’s talk wardrobe. What are you thinking? I don’t do costumes. No feathers. No stupid props. Just you and lace.

I liked his directness. It was commanding.

I have a few sets, I replied. Black lace. Some sheer stuff. A bodysuit.

Send me pics, he wrote.

I froze.

Pics of the outfits? I asked.

Pics of you in them, came the reply. I need to see how they sit on your body. I need to understand your lines so I can plan the lighting. If you show up in something that cuts into your hips or flattens your tits, we’re going to lose an hour trying to fix it. I want you to look your best.

The logic was sound. It made sense professionally. But the request made my mouth go dry. He used the word ‘tits’. He wanted to see me in my underwear before we even meet.

I’m at work, I typed.

Later then, he replied. Don’t be shy, Jessica. You’ve seen my portfolio. I’ve seen it all. It’s just anatomy to me. I need to do my job.