Sending nude photos made me feel desirable…but I couldn't find love

The lighting took ages to get right.
I switched lamps on or off; curtains partially open or closed. My arms ached from holding the phone up in search of an angle that would make me look younger, slimmer, hotter.<br>Pouting, I shook my hair so it fell across my face, before licking my lips and lowering my gaze seductively towards my bare skin. I was naked.<br>Once I found an image I was happy with, I cropped it carefully so the curves of my breasts, but not my nipples, were visible.

Then I pressed ‘Send’.<br>The reply came almost immediately: ‘Beautiful. U look so sexy.'<br>Then: ‘Send more!!!'<br> Daisy Buchanan started taking nude photos of herself and sending them to men when she was 26, at first finding it liberating <br>So I did.

I experimented with more revealing full-length poses and dressed up in lingerie. <br>And I found myself becoming addicted to both the buzz of taking the risque photos and the enthusiastic response from the grateful recipient — to the extent that, over a period of 18 months, I must have taken more than a thousand naked pictures, or ‘nudes’, as they are known these days.<br>Many were texted to the men I was dating, or hoping to date, at the time.<br>Do you judge me for this?

You might think sending explicit images of yourself out into the world is risky and ridiculous. <br>You may have read about revenge porn (when recipients share racy photos or videos in retaliation) and believe you shouldn’t take nudes in the first place.<br>But I’m certainly not alone in sharing nude pictures of myself.

And it’s not confined to younger generations. I’m 38 now and was nearing 30 when I was in what I call my ‘nudes phase’.<br>These days I warn friends who are keen to try it that it’s more complicated than it seems.<br>Yes, women should be free to celebrate their sexuality on their own terms — but be careful where it leads.<br> While the positive responses she got from men gave her a confidence boost initially, Daisy began to fixate on finding flaws in her appearance  <br>When I started taking nude photos, it felt incredibly liberating. I’d grown up in a strict Catholic household and was made to feel ashamed of sex and sexuality. <br>I had always struggled with low self-esteem, having been bullied for being fat and ugly as a child.<br>So when men reacted positively to the pictures, I didn’t just feel a confidence boost; I felt as if I was escaping my past self at last.<br>Over time, though, a bully started to scrutinise the images, saying critical things — and that bully was me. <br>I zeroed in on my flaws, downloading different filter settings, cropping and erasing to create smoother skin, a smaller nose, a narrower waist.<br>It was easy to trim the edges of a picture to make my arms look slimmer.

I found an app that gave me a more defined jawline.<br>Looking back, filters were perhaps the most harmful part of all this. It was like painless plastic surgery and stopped me having to learn to accept the real me. <br>But the more I used them, the more I was convinced the way I looked was a problem that needed fixing.<br> Daisy edited her photos to such an extent that she became frightened of meeting up with the men she’d sent them to, fearing that they’d be disappointed<br>I started to compare my on-screen face and body with the real me.

Soon I was too frightened to go for a drink with the men who wanted to meet me, fearing they’d be disappointed by the reality.<br>I was 26 and had just been dumped by my boyfriend of three years when I took my first nude photo. <br>Heartbroken and vulnerable, I had acquired a new smartphone and a new group of friends.
They were single young women who were very casual about sex and dating, talking openly about who they sent nudes to.<br>At first I was shocked, then I wondered whether I was being excessively prudish. Perhaps this was an opportunity to shake off my past self and show I could be wild, too.<br>As soon as I mentioned a new man to my friends, before they even asked his name, they wanted to know if I’d sent him a nude yet.

It felt like a new dating rule.<br>His response gave me a confidence boost — but it was posing for the photo itself that felt the most empowering. <br>The primary school bullying had led to anorexia and bulimia during my teens.
Appreciating my body by photographing it instantly erased some of the emotional damage I’d been carrying for years. I felt desirable for the first time.<br>The boyfriend I sent the first picture to was quick to return the favour, and it built a real sense of intimacy and anticipation into our relationship.

It was genuine sharing.<br> As soon as Daisy mentioned to her friends that she had met a new man, they would ask her if she had sent him a nude yet <br>However, ultimately the relationship ended because I felt frightened by that intimacy.

I was hooked on the feeling of being admired. At the time, I couldn’t handle the idea that he might like me for more than this racier side.<br>Meanwhile, taking nudes became such a compulsion that I would start as soon as I got home from work, rarely even stopping to eat dinner. <br>Sometimes I would find a filter that made me look worse and obsess over my uneven skin tone, or shadows that made my stomach look larger.<br>So I would mimic my earlier, sexy poses, putting a hand on my hip or leaning forward to make my breasts look bigger.

But I never looked sexy because I never felt sexy. <br>By then, I was rarely sharing the photos with anyone, I was just fixated on finding flaws. I knew taking pictures was making me unhappy, but I struggled to stop.<br>It was meeting the man I’d eventually marry that brought it to an end.
We started messaging on Twitter, back in 2012. Also a writer, he was clever, quick and funny. <br>On our first date, I remember realising he was more interested in my brain than my body. Although he hadn’t asked for any nudes, I did send him a few — but as we spent more time together, the impulse to take pictures ebbed away. <br>I no longer needed the validation because our chemistry had been based on our personalities from the start.<br> Now, eight years on from her ‘nudes phase’, Daisy refuses to be ashamed of the girl who took the photos because she thought they would make her feel happier and more attractive<br>He is also the least judgmental person I have ever met.

He knows nudes are never anything to be ashamed of — but also that, ultimately, taking those pictures did not make me happy.<br>Ironically, it was only after I stopped taking them that the nude images threatened to cause me problems.

I was mugged and my phone, with the photos on it, was stolen. I had no control at all over where they might end up.<br>My panic abated when it dawned on me that they were so heavily edited, no one would know it was me. I’m not sure I could have identified myself in a nude line-up.<br>Looking back, I realise I felt driven to take these photos as a quick fix for the damage the bullying had done to my self-image. <br>Those bullies were themselves products of a world that has an incredibly narrow beauty standard for women. We are all manipulated to feel insecure about every part of our bodies, from our breasts to our fingernails.<br>I’ve felt ashamed of being too sexy, for CARA NAIKIN WEBSITE DI GOOGLE not being sexy enough, for being ugly, just for having a body at all.

It’s exhausting!<br>When I eventually got a new phone, I promised myself I was finishing with filtering photos of myself. <br>I decided that if I was feeling good and wanted to capture that on my camera, I’d do it.
But it wasn’t going to be something I used to distract myself if I felt depressed or insecure.<br>Now I refuse to be ashamed of the girl who took those photos because she thought they would make her feel prettier and happier. <br>But I’m proud of the woman who is learning to love what’s on the inside and live an unfiltered life.<br>Limelight by Daisy Buchanan (£16.99, Sphere) is out now.