Friday morning, I drive out to an older suburb of Kansas City, nursing the last dregs of my Panera dark roast, half-calf, pull up to a modest blue ranch and park. My grandmother lived only about a half-mile from this cute little house with the cheerful Easter wreath on the front door. She’d flip in her grave if she knew what I was about to do.

Or, maybe not. My grandmother, Jeanette, was plenty feminine.

I’ve dressed up today because I want to spark the vibe. To signal to my inner self and my body — hey girls, we’re teed up to have some fun.



I’m wearing black skinny jeans, a red flouncy top under a cropped, faux-leather bomber and my Manolo snakeskin sling-backs with the rhinestone buckles. Glam. Except, I’m not wearing makeup because, soon, it will be applied for me.

From the back of the house emerges the photographer, Leah, barefooted, wearing distressed boyfriend jeans, a black Boss Babes t-shirt and her trademark pink hair is pulled into a low pony tail. (Photographer link below).

She’s ready. I’m ready. I step into her tidy studio. Strains of Kings of Leon murmur in the background from a speaker. Makeup lines a neat table just inside the front door. Racks of jewelry hang on the wall behind the makeup chair. Two or three sparkly crowns are stacked beside the makeup.




Go back and read that. I said, crowns!  Oh yeah, this is going to be fun.

And, honestly, I’ve not been focused on pure, girly fun for awhile. I’m trying my best not to let the dreary winter, puffer coats and cold get the best of me. It’s April. I’m still using my fireplace. Trees remain bare. My sexy pilot light is just about out.

Which, is why I’m here today, my sparkle dance bag stuffed with three outfits to wear for a boudoir shoot.

Leah takes the bag and hangs the outfits on a clothes rod, suggesting jewelry from her stash for each ensemble, as my hair is styled and makeup applied by her assistant.

The place is goddess heaven. Candles, plants, sheer drapes, sofas shrouded in velvet, silk and soft, fluffy pillows. And, of course, the crowns!

This is going to be good.



And, it is. Within forty minutes, Leah’s snapped poses in all three outfits. It’s easy, fun and not the least embarrassing or awkward. Although, I do find myself worrying like a mother waiting for a teenager past curfew as Leah cat pounces all over her furniture to get the best shots.

Please don’t fall, I say about a hundred times, like she’s never done this before!

She has and I have and it’s all fab.

The first time I had boudoir photography, I was 53. Today, I’m 61. Um, things have shifted. I’m not wearing a skimpy bra and panty set for this one. I’m a bit more modestly draped. Until, I strip down and shimmy into a sparkly, see-through bodysuit. Oh my.

When I see the images, I tear up. I can’t believe my body has served me this long and looks, like… well, like that… the way it does, right there in front of me, projected on a huge TV. Unedited. The crown adds just the right touch of royalty!



Girls, if you’ve never indulged. Get thee to a boudoir photographer. Even if the thought scares the masculine out of you — that’s the idea. Just wear a trench coat with nothing under. Or, some jeans, unzipped with a tank top, if you’re not ready for full exposure.

Just like our sexy has a dial, so do boudoir shots. It’s all up to you. To see yourself looking so unlike your regular self, is a power you can’t access any other way. Well, possibly, stupefying sex. But this is private. Just for you. Delicious and, actually, pretty moving.



Sunday, I’m having coffee with a new male friend and he goes, “oh, I noticed on your Facebook you were having boudoir shots taken,” Then, he harrumphs a little. “Isn’t that,” he clears his throat, “isn’t that a little… you know?”

I stare back at his corn-fed, Midwestern visage. Yeah, it is a little, you know! So what? I gently explain the spectrum of boudoir. It’s not all pin-up girl territory. Or, perhaps it is. That’s up to you.

Just. Do it. There’s nothing like the power of the pose!