It all started in January. My recently divorced friend Carly and I had decided that, after months of sending each other memes about needing our bodies laid upon, it was time to figure out dating. We were both like baby fawns fresh out of the womb, learning to walk. So we did what people apparently do in 2026 and joined Hinge. Much to our chagrin, we instantly found ourselves scrolling through all the same people. There was a man in a kilt hurling a log, a man touting himself as a fashion-lover Zoolander-pouting into his mirror to take a selfie showcasing his Gucci belt, and too many men looking for their “silly goose” to reasonably count. Also, there was the matter of us both only having had sex with the same people for 15-20 years, and the questions we had about living in our changed postpartum bodies. I even went to my OB and asked her to do an aesthetic assessment down there to make sure everything was still “ok.” “You’re actually iconic,” she laughed before giving me a thumbs-up.
Carly, being the type-A overachiever that she is, immediately came up with a plan of action and began purchasing video courses for us on how to do illicit sexual acts. She came over on Tuesdays for study nights. We would howl with laughter lying in my bed with tears streaming down our faces as we watched a woman demonstrate with surgical precision how to massage her husband’s rectum in a star pattern with her index finger while he rested in child’s pose. “Is he enjoying that?” we wondered as we examined his flaccid penis and bored disposition. Didn’t matter to us as we stored it in the arsenal of tools to use just in case there ever comes a time. (spoiler alert: there thankfully has not). Carly would bring over all of her lingerie sets for me to try on and order my sizes. My favorite synchronicity was one week when she randomly threw her vibrator into her bag, for what purpose I am still unsure, and when she pulled it out, I was stunned because it was identical to mine. Now, if you’re a masturbating woman in 2026, you know that things have changed since the old Sex and the City rabbit days. There are countless types, and even 40 styles, from this specific brand alone; not only that, ours was the exact same colorway. Hers, respectively, is named Pinky, and mine is GiGi LeTwat’.
Aside from now having time to pursue sexual liaisons in the newfound spare time on weeks without my kids, I also found myself gravitating towards long-forgotten hobbies. In high school, I was a film photography nerd and spent all my free time in a darkroom with my sleeves perpetually drenched in stop bath. I actually originally went to school to pursue photojournalism before becoming a beauty school dropout. Over the years, I have continued to collect various Nikon cameras and lenses and have dabbled here and there. One afternoon, I found my cameras in my garage and decided to play with them. I brought them up to my bedroom and began to watch YouTube videos on portraiture. Suddenly, a video on posing for boudoir portraits caught my eye. That sounds fun, I thought to myself, eyeing the recently purchased matching Negative Underwear panty set in the corner of my room. An hour later, I had my tripod holding my camera, with some soft box lights set up around my white, fluffy bed. I arched my back and gently parted my lips, hands caressing the bed, staring alluringly into the lens as the video had suggested. An hour of timer-shot self-portraits later, I set to work editing. “Am I crazy, or are these kinds of…good?” I texted Carly later that afternoon. “Holy Shit! What night this week can you do mine?” Carly responded instantly and enthusiastically.
Not a day later, she was the one resting on my bed in front of the soft-box lights. “Bring your big toes to touch, widen your knees, and inhale as you broaden through the collarbones and arch your lower back. Soften your forehead as you exhale sweetly,” I found myself rattling off cues as if I were teaching a yoga class. When I tell you this was the most fun, I mean it was THE most fun, and Carly agreed. “You should really be doing this, Medina!” she suggested, even going so far as to send me an AI-generated business plan the next day.
Being the mouth of the south that I am, I began to casually laugh about it to my friends and clients at the salon. “Guess what I’m up to now,” I would say before they would request to see said photos. What I wasn’t expecting was for most people to see the photos, then look at me and earnestly say, “How much are you charging? Can I do a session?” If you know me, you know I love a side-project or a side-hustle, but as someone who has been head down in yoga for years, and I mean focused to the point of singularity, the enthusiastic response to my bootleg boudoir blew me away. Undoubtedly, Carly’s great rack is a sell, but the yoga therapist in me understands it’s actually how deeply we both wish to be seen and to see ourselves fully.
Last summer, I was gifted a photo shoot by my dear photography friend Angela Doran, during one of the most tumultuous short-term seasons of my life. I donned nothing but a beige nightie and met her at a park in central Austin to crawl out of a tree hole like a sexy woodland fairy. We talked openly about our current shames and pain points as she took my photos. It was an experience of being both deeply witnessed and seeing myself that undoubtedly unlocked a resilience deep within me, which I desperately needed at that moment. It actually takes a great deal of trust in someone to open up to them. Angela has provided me with this in every session, and I am flattered to imagine that I might offer that same feeling of being safely held to another person.
Photo credit: Angela Doran Photography
In the sessions I have shot since Carly, I have watched people come alive in front of the camera. I have so much gratitude for the joy this has brought to me and, seemingly, others. The overwhelming response has been, “I didn’t know I needed this so badly.” If you’ve seen Season 2 of the hit show Fleabag, then you’ll understand this reference: I want to look upon you the way the hot priest looks upon Fleabag. I want to watch you break the fourth wall and use the open intimacy of my gaze to allow you the space to witness yourself fully. Being truly seen by another allows us to shift the focus of our own perspective; it allows us to view ourselves through a wider lens. I want to capture you as you meet your full self in the magic of this sacred, present moment. If that’s something you would like as well, I am currently offering a few remaining discounted sessions for ATX locals through September while I continue building my portrait portfolio (taking your top off is not required).
You can email me at Jordan@thismagicmoment.co to book a session.
If you’ve just found your way to my Substack, welcome! Here, you will find more of my adventures in being alive.
*If you haven’t seen season 2 of Fleabag, you should rectify that.
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