My husband asks for one gift, every fucking holiday, and it’s never a jacket from Target or pine tree shaped air fresheners. Instead, he wants to take nude photos of me. And not just any nude photos, but pretty fucking racy nude photos–the kind you might come across by accident while clicking a link to “cucumbers in places you never imagined” or “whipped cream bra gone wrong.”
Yes, I am the person who clicks on those links, and no, it’s not always on accident. I’ve yet to give in to his request, and I have, instead, continued to buy him wallets, key rings, beer mugs and ‘World’s Best Dad’ t-shirts that he continues to stash, unopened, in his underwear drawer.
His request was once again dredged up from the depths of hell this weekend as he proclaimed to have bought me a “really nice Valentine’s Day gift.” Please, no. Now I’m on the hook to find something just as wonderful, thoughtful, and usable… which I’m obviously incapable of doing.
“I had an idea of something to get you, but I haven’t ordered it yet.” This statement was partially true and partially my failed attempt at getting him to leave me alone on the porch so I could finish my beer in peace.
“What is it? A photo book with some of those boudoir pictures you had done last year?” And this is why we can’t have nice things, you gift-guessing motherfucker.
“Well that option is out since you just guessed it and now have a look of disappointment on your face.”
He then worked up to the pitch I knew was coming, but I had hoped it could be diverted by me responding to him like a childish asshole.
“You know what I would really like? I would like to take some racy photos of you.” There it was, out in the universe with no chance of pretending that it hadn’t been said.
“With what, a cucumber and me naked on our bed?”
Without hesitation, without one minute to filter his dumb response, my husband said, “That’s so weird, I was thinking about a cucumber.”
You panty-droppin’ fool. I should be grateful my husband wants to see my long mom-boobs and the dimples on my ass that refuse to go away, no matter how many times I exercise to the point of heart failure, but I’m not. Cheers to you, sir, for liking my naked body; I’m just not interested in being a low-budget porn star.
The real problem, besides the cucumber, is that the man I married cannot be trusted to keep anything a secret; he’s proven time and again that he is completely unable to keep anything on the down-low. For example, one time we were sexting back and forth like old married people do, and I sent him a titty pic with full on nipple and booby stretch marks. A few weeks later, he informed me that while he was showing his buddy some of our vacation photos, they had stumbled across that titty picture. Then he also admitted to using it as the lock screen on his phone, which isn’t exactly what you want to hear after sending someone a grainy shot of your tits.
Another incident occurred a few months ago when I had printed out part of my book manuscript and realized I needed to add page numbers before printing the rest. As I lunged for the shredder with the first 50 pages, my husband coerced me into letting him use it as scratch paper. I begrudgingly allowed it only to find out later that he had used them as shipping labels and mailed them to his customers.
One might suppose there is little harm in this, but then, most people don’t ask what the manuscript was about. One gentleman called him a few weeks later wondering who had written the story about masturbation that he had found on the back of his shipping label.
Now you understand my hesitation about cucumber pictures.
While I would love to treat my husband to whatever jacked-up fantasy he has, I’m not setting myself up to have photos of my nude self accidentally (or not so accidentally) seen by random strangers or my husband’s creepy friends. Especially not for free. My only gift option at this point is to buy him a book on photography and let him take some selfies with cucumbers in places even I have never imagined.
Then I can use them to wrap Christmas presents for my in-laws.
Mandy is a humor writer living out her 30’s in suburban Utah where she frequently offends her Mormon neighbors and family members. Mandy is a regular contributor at The Good Men Project and has also written for MyThirty Spot and Maria Shriver’s Blog. She attempts to keep folks laughing on her blog, mandybrasher.com, where she covers everything from marital sex and parenting fails to her lackluster attempt at writing a book. When she’s not structuring sentences and banging her head against a wall, Mandy enjoys traveling with her husband and two kids, practicing yoga, and drinking dark beer. Find her on Twitter. Check out her irreverent rantings on writing and life at http://mandybrasher.com/ If you like pictures of yoga pants and beer bottles, follow her on Instagram.