Miss Cherry Red

Motherhood. Love. Life. And everything in between

I feel sick.

I agreed to help out with someones swanky new project and I’m sick with nerves about it.

Ok.  Some background:

To commiserate celebrate me turning 30, my friends clubbed together and bought me a make over session.


Just so we’re clear.

But, I couldn’t just rock up in all my finery.  Oh no…. the session was aptly titled ‘Pour Femme’ and during my what-to-expect chat with the photographer he chose to enlighten me that a Pour Femme session would involve me being photographed in my underwear.

No, no, you read read right.  My underwear.

Uh huh.

Can you understand why for a brief moment I thought my friends actually hated me?  Who buys someone a photo shoot where they have to expose their semi naked body in front of a man who is not The Hot Geek???  And worse still, he’s armed with a camera.


Now, I’m not super skinny.

At all.

I mean, I birthed a child for christs sake.

Any mother will tell you that pregnancy is a bitch.  Sure, you get a perfect bundle of joy out of it but your body isn’t the same: you get stretch marks, you can’t exercise so you end up with cellulite everywhere and any chance of getting back into shape afterwards are pissed out the window when you realise that you’re no longer an individual and treadmills aren’t equipped for mother and baby.

Basically, you’re fucked.

More, I was fucked.

I remember scrambling about, sorting through my knicker draw and tossing everything aside as shite.  Nothing I had had that take-nme-to-bed factor.  You know, all Moulin Rouge boudoir sexy.

Nope:  my knicker draw was full of comfy-time-of-the-month-pants.  Not a single thong or half boxer in sight.  Nothing lace.  Cotton.  Black and white.

How was I continuing to have a sex life?  Oh yeah, with the lights out so The Hot Geek couldn’t see my disgraceful excuse for pants.

So I shopped.  Furiously.  I bought a black and pink basque, hot pink french knickers, lace basques, boned basques, nice pants.   Oh and shoes, lets not forget the shoes: high heeled, bowed sandals.  One pair black and one pair pink.


Photo shoot day arrived.

I was hurried into hair and make up.

30’s curls, glamour and peach coloured cheeks.

My cheeks were that perfect shade of I’ve-just-had-great-sex.

First few shots are the obligatory jeans and black top.  He called those ‘test shots’.

20 minutes in and he’s all ‘right, put on that basque and heels and lets get this thing going’.

Er….. OK.

Took about 20 minutes for me to start to feel relatively comfortable.  Thank God for mood lighting is all I can say.

I’ll admit it:  it was kind of liberating to be photoed in the underwear equivalent of Sunday Best!

Until he asked me take EVERYTHING off and let him photo me: in the nude.


I have a tattoo.  A rather large tattoo.  Cherry blossoms and butterflies snaking down my back.  Shoulder to hip.  He said it would make an awesome photo and that I shouldn’t be shy because he’s seen plenty of boobs and bums.



I must have been high because I did it.  I took off The Hot Geeks shirt that I’d been parading about in and did it.  Naked.  In front a complete stranger.

I know.  I was shocked too.

Bloody liberating though!

So.  Here I am.  Over a year on and the same photographer is doing a major campaign to get more women to buy these sessions.

And he’s called me.

Asked me outright to model for it.

I laughed.

He was serious.

We’re chatting about it tomorrow night.

The shoot is booked for Monday 25th January.

I better be air brushed to look magazine fabulous.

Categories: life

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