My Husband’s a Lingerie Photographer, and I Hate Lingerie

You know the saying about the shoemaker’s children and how they have no shoes? In my case, the lingerie photographer’s wife has no lingerie.

When I tell people what my spouse does for a living, I typically get one of three reactions. (1) ”Does he need an assistant?” (usually from the men), (2)”How do you deal with that?” (often followed by a pitying look at my 5-foot-2, decidedly not lingerie-model-material frame), and (3) ”Does he get to take the stuff home with him?”

Usually, I smile politely at these questions and explain that no, my husband doesn’t need an assistant who would most likely sit there drooling while he works his butt off; that I used to get jealous, but now I understand that when you see girls discussing how to handle their tampon strings while modeling crotchless panties, it sort of takes the romance out of it; and lastly, yes, he could bring laundry bags of the aforementioned crotchless panties home, but they’d only be used to line the hamster’s cage.

I’ve never liked lingerie. I remember the first time I tried some on, how salacious and daring I felt taking the lacy corsets off their hangers. I was 18, off at college with a bit of hard-earned retail-job money to burn, and buying a sexy negligee or two felt like a rite of passage.

And then I got the thing on my body, and the fantasy fell apart.

The wires made my boobs stick out awkwardly, and I couldn’t stop picking the G-string out of my tush. There were holes in specific places (for easy access, I assumed), but my versions of the specified parts didn’t fall exactly where the holes did, which gave the getup a moth-eaten feel. It wasn’t comfortable, and I definitely didn’t feel sexy. Hell, I looked better naked. What was the point?

As years went on, I tried settling for lacy panties and bras, but these brought their own little dramas. The sexy underwear gave me decidedly unsexy pantylines. The bras looked nice, but they weren’t supportive like my utilitarian beige underwires, so I felt like my clothes didn’t fit right when I wore them. Plus, why spend $40 on a pair of undies when I could buy a five-pack of Hanes for 10 bucks?

I also couldn’t wrap my head around the push-ups and padded bras. Sure, they could make your cleavage look heavenly, but if the whole point was to attract a guy … what would happen when you eventually took the bra off? Because let’s be real, that was bound to happen at some point, and then what?  

So, when I met my husband, it was a match made in heaven. He worked for 10 hours a day with buxom models, shooting all sorts of incredible outfits designed to stimulate and entice. When he came home, what he found most novel and startlingly sexy was a pair of granny panties. I cleaned out my lingerie drawer and filled it with workout gear, deciding I’d rather feel good about my body for what it could do rather than how some carefully positioned wires and silk made it look.

I’ve got nothing against lingerie. I understand that it makes many people feel sexy and empowered, and I’m a huge fan of the industry, considering it helps pay my mortgage. But I’m perfectly content with my cotton no-show Target-bought underwear, comfy, supportive bras, soft tank tops, and oversize men’s boxers. 

Because in the end, it all comes off anyway — and that’s when the real fun begins.

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