world.
I was even foolish enough to think I could hide it from my husband. One day, on a good day, I decided to think positive, look the world in the eye, rise above my condition and do something outrageous. I went to a professional photographer, and had glamorous photos done. I was stark naked, sitting coyly in a wooden chair draped with a sheepskin rug, and though I say so myself, I thought I looked bloody hot.
The photographer thought so too, because even when she didn’t have to look at me through her lens, she still kept looking at me. I could see that easily, even though I wasn’t wearing my glasses.
I got one framed for Dominic, and gave it to him for his birthday.
‘Ooh, I say!’ he said suggestively as I struggled to get this huge package out of the wardrobe. ‘Is it socks?’
He wanted to help me, I could see he was straining to take a corner, because he knew the act of lifting it was sending searing tendrils of hot lava pouring into my arms and legs, but he also knew that I wanted to – that I had to – do this myself. So he waited patiently for an age as I inched his birthday present to where he lay under the duvet.
I leaned over him and nibbled his ear – just the way he likes it – and I watched with almost carnivorous interest as his hands slipped in the seam of the wrapping paper and glided along the edge, separating the tape from the paper.
He pulled it back to reveal me, cross-legged on the chair, one arm up, clutching the sheepskin blanket over my shoulder, the other arm down, elbow bent low, pushing my breast into my body and half-concealing a cheeky nipple.
There you go, tiger
, I thought.
That’s me, baby. Your hot-to-trot girl. Come and get me.
But he looked up, smiled, and thanked me, and when he guided me down and planted a kiss on my forehead, he let me go almost immediately.
He kept his smile fixed on his face as he opened the rest of his cards, like he’d bought the grin from a joke shop. I didn’t know what I’d done wrong. He looked disappointed somehow and it broke my heart. He certainly didn’t mind me being slutty in the past…
Had I been reclassified as an invalid, in his eyes? Was I not supposed to wave my bits in his face like I used to? Was I just supposed to become a smiling sexless creature, and sit, and take it easy, and have cups of tea made for me for the rest of my life?
He opened his cards and his other presents, but his eyes didn’t rest on the picture again.
It was only after he’d gone to the bathroom, and I was left alone with the picture, that I realised. It was sitting on the floor, leaning against the wardrobe, aimed in my direction. It was like a magic picture, the ones where you stare at lots of coloured blobs, and suddenly you see a leaping dolphin.
I saw what Dominic saw. I saw me, in my nudity. I saw my legs, my breasts, my thighs, but most of all I saw the pain in my face, the unnaturally dark crow’s feet from the sleepless nights showing through too much make-up. The eyes open slightly too wide, fighting the weariness, fighting to look like I’m really enjoying sitting in this awkward position, fighting not to show the agony it was causing me.
I felt sick.
It looked like an ugly photo in some paedophile’s collection; where the provocative nakedness of the body was juxtaposed with a face that looked like it didn’t want to be there.
The following morning, when he went to work, I got Agnieszka to put it in the attic. It’s stayed there ever since, and Dominic has never asked about it.
It’s always been our little secret.
So I was intrigued enough to allow Niall to drive me to a pub, The Westbourne, and let him buy me a drink. He plonked down a sparkling water and a tomato juice on our table.
‘Thanks.’
I appraised him out of the corner of my eye. Men think they’re the only ones who do that. They’re wrong, of course. He was still wearing a lot of lycra, shorts and top, but not in a look-at-me kind of a way. But even
I was even foolish enough to think I could hide it from my husband. One day, on a good day, I decided to think positive, look the world in the eye, rise above my condition and do something outrageous. I went to a professional photographer, and had glamorous photos done. I was stark naked, sitting coyly in a wooden chair draped with a sheepskin rug, and though I say so myself, I thought I looked bloody hot.
The photographer thought so too, because even when she didn’t have to look at me through her lens, she still kept looking at me. I could see that easily, even though I wasn’t wearing my glasses.
I got one framed for Dominic, and gave it to him for his birthday.
‘Ooh, I say!’ he said suggestively as I struggled to get this huge package out of the wardrobe. ‘Is it socks?’
He wanted to help me, I could see he was straining to take a corner, because he knew the act of lifting it was sending searing tendrils of hot lava pouring into my arms and legs, but he also knew that I wanted to – that I had to – do this myself. So he waited patiently for an age as I inched his birthday present to where he lay under the duvet.
I leaned over him and nibbled his ear – just the way he likes it – and I watched with almost carnivorous interest as his hands slipped in the seam of the wrapping paper and glided along the edge, separating the tape from the paper.
He pulled it back to reveal me, cross-legged on the chair, one arm up, clutching the sheepskin blanket over my shoulder, the other arm down, elbow bent low, pushing my breast into my body and half-concealing a cheeky nipple.
There you go, tiger
, I thought.
That’s me, baby. Your hot-to-trot girl. Come and get me.
But he looked up, smiled, and thanked me, and when he guided me down and planted a kiss on my forehead, he let me go almost immediately.
He kept his smile fixed on his face as he opened the rest of his cards, like he’d bought the grin from a joke shop. I didn’t know what I’d done wrong. He looked disappointed somehow and it broke my heart. He certainly didn’t mind me being slutty in the past…
Had I been reclassified as an invalid, in his eyes? Was I not supposed to wave my bits in his face like I used to? Was I just supposed to become a smiling sexless creature, and sit, and take it easy, and have cups of tea made for me for the rest of my life?
He opened his cards and his other presents, but his eyes didn’t rest on the picture again.
It was only after he’d gone to the bathroom, and I was left alone with the picture, that I realised. It was sitting on the floor, leaning against the wardrobe, aimed in my direction. It was like a magic picture, the ones where you stare at lots of coloured blobs, and suddenly you see a leaping dolphin.
I saw what Dominic saw. I saw me, in my nudity. I saw my legs, my breasts, my thighs, but most of all I saw the pain in my face, the unnaturally dark crow’s feet from the sleepless nights showing through too much make-up. The eyes open slightly too wide, fighting the weariness, fighting to look like I’m really enjoying sitting in this awkward position, fighting not to show the agony it was causing me.
I felt sick.
It looked like an ugly photo in some paedophile’s collection; where the provocative nakedness of the body was juxtaposed with a face that looked like it didn’t want to be there.
The following morning, when he went to work, I got Agnieszka to put it in the attic. It’s stayed there ever since, and Dominic has never asked about it.
It’s always been our little secret.
So I was intrigued enough to allow Niall to drive me to a pub, The Westbourne, and let him buy me a drink. He plonked down a sparkling water and a tomato juice on our table.
‘Thanks.’
I appraised him out of the corner of my eye. Men think they’re the only ones who do that. They’re wrong, of course. He was still wearing a lot of lycra, shorts and top, but not in a look-at-me kind of a way. But even
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