Whirring sounds and clicks pierced my concentration as the machine next to me ran through another cycle. My left arm lay motionless at my side as I sat on the plastic recliner with a needle in my vein that pulled my blood from my body. The machine would separate the plasma out and then return the red blood cells.
I was running out of money for the renovations, so I had resorted to an abandoned college source of income: donating to a plasma bank. A couple hundred dollars was nothing to look down on when money was tight.
It felt weird being here again, as an adult, looking around the room at the other donors. Not that I felt ashamed, but I couldn’t help but feel like I was moving backwards in life. One step forward, two steps back.
Two young girls were seated across from me, probably the age I was when I used to do this regularly. They gossiped loudly and I had to actively choose not to eavesdrop on their conversation while I edited photos on my tablet.
Editing the before and after pictures was a way to utilize the down time and stop my mind from financial panic. I still didn’t know what I wanted to do with these pictures for my emotional baggage art project, but I had taken hundreds of photos as I was renovating.
The past three weeks had been insanely productive for the apartment. The cabinet makeover turned out better than I could have dreamed. The new wood floors, despite their hefty price tag that hurt my soul and budget, helped brighten the space immensely. I had spent the last few days working on the main bathroom, but my master bathroom was on hold for money and time.
The changes boosted my spirits and I felt renewed with each completed task.
“Why doesn’t Valerie come to donate with us anymore?” one of the girls asked her companion, my mind vaguely processing the words as I continued to adjust a new kitchen shot.
“Didn’t she tell you? She’s been making money on OnlyStans,” the other responded with a devious tone.
I had never been on this website, but I knew about it. Women could put risqué pictures on there and people would pay to see them. I wasn’t really tempted by the idea, but thinking about risqué images gave me a piece of inspiration.
I opened a cloud storage folder and began skimming through an old boudoir shoot I did for Robert before I got pregnant with Ethan. The process of “getting my body back” after I had Nyx to please my husband had been rigorous, and these photos were probably the fittest I had ever been in my life.
Back then I had a lot of old notions about what a good wife and mother was supposed to be, and this was a shoot I had done to capture myself as Robert’s hot, demure, wife.
My mind shattered the concept as if it were the offensive pink bathroom tile. That’s not who I was anymore.
There was a specific picture I was looking for from that shoot. I had been languidly leaning against the kitchen counter and the angle was almost an exact match to one of the cabinets ‘before’ photos.
Once I found it, I downloaded it and began adding my old body to the picture with the old maple cabinets. A parallel to the physical and emotional transformation I had been through since then.
The woman in the picture wasn’t me anymore, I had changed. Despite her being thin and fit, I didn’t want to be her.
Just like I didn’t want the maple cabinets, this era was over.
With minimal editing done, I paused to look at the image. While it was still pleasing, there was a drabness in the new setting. The seductiveness was less convincing and a bit broken. A demure, confined woman stuck in the past.
I felt a smile tug at the corner of my lips, slowly realizing that this was the creative project I needed to do. As the apartment was transformed, I needed to acknowledge my own transformation too. The woman I wanted to be going forward.
The beliefs I had about being a wife and mother were different. How I looked at women’s bodies and viewed their worth had evolved. Who I am now needed to be present in these after photos.
However, I hadn’t taken sexy pictures of myself for a decade, and the thought of it made me a bit nervous. My body was different now. Different, but not bad. Where I had once been slim and toned, now I was curvy and soft. Honestly, the body I had now would probably lend itself to a sensual aesthetic more naturally than my slender one had.
My shape had evolved from being something to see, to being someone to hold.
The core of the emotional art project was coming together, but I couldn’t help but wonder. What would I do with these composite apartment renovation photos layered with my own physical sensuality?
Nothing, probably.
However, maybe creating them would help me embrace the young woman I had let die in my marriage. A revival of my innate self.
This body of mine deserved a bit of recognition. I had brought two sons into the world and had been arduously crafting a new home for myself. I was capable and taking some time to acknowledge it would do me good.
“A THOUSAND DOLLARS FOR FEET PHOTOS?!” one of the girls yelled, and it pulled me from my editing immediately.
“I know, right?” the other girl laughed, “I’ll get a pedicure and put pictures online if I can make that kind of money. Valerie is seriously on to something.”
The girls kept talking, but I silently pulled up the website on my tablet to do a little research.
I mean, part of my healing process was giving the art away, right? If I was going to make this sensual art project for my emotional healing, then it couldn’t hurt to peek at the possibilities of secretly sharing these weirdly specific images with a niche audience that might pay me for them.
Right?
After all, I needed money.
Until I got a tenant in Lila’s old boutique space or until my photography business could grow, I was going to be scraping by. Plus, I needed money to create new revenue. My photography business would need to purchase business licenses, insurance, and web domains.
I also couldn’t start the studio apartment for Nyx without more money, so if this could help me get the deposit to get it started, I would be incredibly relieved. This idea could temporarily fill the gap, I just needed to set some clear boundaries with it.
An art project to share the before and after images of the renovations featuring my physical evolution. That was it, no additional content. I would try it for six months, maybe a year. No—six months and then that would be the end.
I could make sure my face was obscured and could even change my hair color. I could edit anonymity into every image to protect myself.
This just happened to be an intersection of things I had to offer to the world.
I could create aesthetic images.
The upgrades I was doing were unique and would probably garner interest by themselves. And once upon a time, I had even been pursued by a lot of men. I was only eighteen, but maybe there were still some men out there that would appreciate me as I am now.
Maybe these things could come together to give me a solution to get by a little easier for a short while. Would this be a massive mistake? Possibly, but I had told Robert that it was time for me to go out and make some of my own.
Biting my lip in nervousness, I created a new user account:
OSHA-Violations
My heart was pounding in my chest as scandalous feelings began to pulse through my body. I did boudoir shoots of myself and had always planned on incorporating it into my photography business. I did not find shame in the aesthetics of a woman’s body. To me, bodies were art.
But I had just always attached my sensuality to my husband. It was for him.
Using it for myself would be new.
Tomorrow the boys were leaving to go to the March Madness tournament with their father, giving me alone time to do things that might register as odd to the boys. Taking this opportunity, I could pack some long-neglected lingerie to take with me when I worked on the apartment. Hopefully, I could then sneak in a sexy photoshoot before finishing the projects and moving in.
In fact, getting this done while the boys were out of town was probably the safest choice I had. No need to traumatize my sons by having them accidentally show up to the apartment while I’m laced up with my tits on display, as I take pictures of myself.
Over the weekend, I would take photos and get some edited. After launching the account, with a bit of luck, I could get some money trickling in. Then use that money to finish the master bathroom, get Nyx’s space started, and launch my photography business.
It was a plan I could take active steps toward, at least.
I could do this.
A phlebotomist came and disconnected the needle from my arm, then wrapped my elbow and sent me to the front desk for my payment. Taking the cash, I couldn’t help but remember Ethan asking if I could afford the renovations and guest house.
The boys seemed to already know that I was not financially stable, and I didn’t want them to be burdened with worry for my finances. Unconsciously, I pulled the sleeve of my sweater down over my arm to hide my bruises. This wasn’t a process I could hide forever, I bruised too easily, and long sleeves would be impractical soon.
Squeezing the tablet close to my chest, I walked out to the car. The guilt of starting, not one, but two, revenue streams that I planned to keep from my sons was uncomfortable. Two secrets felt heavy, but maybe instead of holding both, this new one could replace the other.
At least, I hoped it could.
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