I Sent My First Dirty Picture (And It Wasn’t to My Husband)

A step in self-love I didn’t know I was taking

I’ve been with my husband for 15 years. And in that time, we’ve done just about everything, and as far as I know I’ve fulfilled most of his wishes and sexual fantasies.

Except for one.

Mr. Austin knows how much I love to work a camera, so for more than a decade he has been suggesting that I take racy photos for him.

I’ve thought about it, but I just couldn’t bring myself to do it. Every year, our anniversary, his birthday, and Valentine’s Day go by without me snapping a single shot to entice and arouse him. The idea of getting undressed for the camera absolutely terrified me.

Until recently.

A few weeks ago, I started taking photos of my body in various states of undress. After years of wanting to expose myself but being too scared, I have finally done it. I took some nudes. And I sent them.

But not to my husband.

My Flirty Exchanges Became Visual

Becoming confident enough to send dirty selfies started with me receiving them.

My husband and I are polyamorous, and because of that, I’ve been enjoying a lot of guilt-free flirting with a man named Rob. Our dirty exchanges over email frequently got me hot and bothered, and I know it got Rob horny as well.

I know because he showed me.

Whenever our lip-biting conversations got steamy enough to arouse him, he’d let me know by sending me a picture to show me how hard I made his cock. Rob is nothing if not a true gentleman, so he kept sending them even though he knew I wasn’t ready to reciprocate with anything but complimentary emails.

On some level, I wanted to reciprocate. I love nudes. I have nothing but admiration for the people who sit for boudoir photo sessions or expose themselves for quick selfies. The people baring it all on Reddit, the camgirls and camboys broadcasting from their bedrooms, and the amateur pornstars who have turned undressing and fucking into an art form — they all make this world a better, freer, and sexier place.

Plus, I really appreciate their work. I love seeing everyone’s cocks, tits, and asses.

They all seem so empowered, and I envied how readily Rob could take his cock out for a photo, just for me. Why couldn’t I just whip out my boobs and do the same?

Well, truth be told, I know why. There are a big, long list of reasons (mostly the usual ones that make women uncomfortable with their appearance), but the one that’s at the very top and written in bolded, 72-point font is my father.

I won’t go over the whole story again, but my father had a way of consistently, constantly wearing away at my self-esteem, and he did so until it was almost non-existent. A lot of it had to do with my looks. He wanted a daughter he could be proud of, and that meant one who was pretty. And I was just always a little too plump or not enough of a girl next door.

I got the message early and often: I’m not pretty enough to be loved.

So, to say that rebuilding my self-esteem is going to take some work is a serious understatement.

If I even think of taking a photo — especially a naughty one — I start rehearsing some pretty gloomy stuff in my head.

I’m not hot enough to pull this off.

Anyone who sees this is going to focus on my flaws.

Who would even want to see this?

It’s hard to quiet that kind of talk. It’s wired in there pretty hard.

But recently, I managed to ignore it long enough to do something bold. I had spent most of the day writing and reading dirty, flirty emails. And yeah, okay, I was sent a few new photos to admire, too. I felt confident, but I was also pretty horny, which means I was feeling impulsive.

I was undressing for a shower and caught a glimpse of an image in the mirror that I didn’t hate. So, I grabbed my phone, played with the angles until I found a flattering one, and I took my first racy photo. Nothing X-rated, mind you — not in the same realm as the dick pics I had been receiving. I just had a plaid shirt with the buttons undone, no bra, and a peek of cleavage. I took a few shots until I had one I liked and then I held on to it. Because, truth be told, I was embarrassed. First, I was embarrassed that I was taking such a naughty photo of myself. But second, I was too embarrassed to send it because it wasn’t naughty enough. I let a lot of time pass between clicking the shutter and clicking the send button.

But I got there. I did it. I sent Rob a photo of my cleavage.

He replied almost immediately (always a good sign) with effusive praise. It was his first real glimpse at my chest and he was here for it.

I really appreciated the way he verbalized his enjoyment of my body, because I need a lot of reassurance. After growing up with someone who devalues me at every turn, I’m always on high alert for confirmation that I’m undesirable, unwanted, or ugly. I listen for the hesitation before a compliment, or any gaps in the nice things people say about me. My default is to assume that the person complimenting me is just being polite or outright lying (and it’s just my luck that I assume every insult hurled at me is true).

And after basking in the praise and enjoying the rush of validation (and being turned on by it), I decided to send the photo once again. This time, to my dear, patient husband.

Getting Dirtier and Dirtier — One Photo at a Time

Sending one photo emboldened me. Eventually, I took another, more revealing one. Then another. And another.

I started showing a bit of cleavage, but soon showed my breasts. I snapped a photo of my legs in the bath. I spread my legs and my pussy and took a very clear shot of it. (Still no shot of my ass, though. Getting comfortable with that is going to take time.)

Every time, I needed to take far more photos than I sent. Most got deleted, but a few got cropped, edited, and shared.

Doing it taught me that I could be vulnerable while still holding on to a good deal of control. I’m vulnerable in a lot of ways. I can’t control his reactions. I can’t control how he’ll make me feel. And I’m literally naked. But I can control the circumstances. I can control what I share and what I don’t. I can reveal only as much as I want to.

One of the reasons I never took nude selfies before is because I assumed it wouldn’t be validating. It didn’t feel like the real me — it was all smoke and mirrors. Precise angles. Pushing my tits up to force them to defy gravity. Adjusting the settings to make the image lighter (the worst thing about a bathroom selfie is the bathroom lighting). Cropping things out strategically. How could I feel validated by someone appreciating a fake version of me?

But now that I’ve taken and sent those photos, I know it’s not a fake version of me. I wouldn’t feel so exposed if it was a fake. But it is a controlled version of me. It’s a forced perspective.

It’s not the full me. It’s not me throwing open my bathrobe and not caring how everything looks. But it’s a baby step, and that counts.

The validation I’m getting is still real because it’s still me in the photos. And each time, I show a little more of myself and get even more validation. Maybe I don’t crop so narrowly next time. Maybe I’ll show a little more skin. Maybe I’ll take the shot my recipient wants, even if I don’t think it’s the most flattering angle.

With every photo I get closer to the “real” me, with all the parts that make me sigh when I see them in the mirror. And with every photo, I’m learning to love myself and my body one angle at a time.

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