I know I've been incognito while I work on this story that isn't like anything else I've written before. I'm so close to finishing this erotic comedy that I thought I'd share a small excerpt with y'all. First, a quick disclaimer: this is not for the kiddies. Nothing I say or do is.
"While my roommate was scheduled for a basic mens haircut, I was going to have everything below my bellybutton ripped out by a professional for the guy I was dating. It was my way of saying, "Thanks for agreeing to give cunnilingus another shot." Now, I don’t imagine a huge percentage of the population has ever gotten a Brazilian wax before, so I’ll let you live vicariously through me while I walk you through my first experience.
Us ladies get pretty accustomed to spreading our legs for people we don’t know very well and letting them get up close and personal with our plumbing. Sometimes it’s just a one-night stand, but usually they’re called gynecologists. The less involved ones get the title of hair removal technicians. That’s who I was dealing with on this fine, glorious early February morning. I say it was glorious because I had no idea whatsoever of the pain that I was about to experience. True, I Googled the shit out of ‘what to expect during a Brazilian wax,’ but that still didn’t prepare me like I thought it would. I skipped the pain meds because I figured if I could handle getting an angel of sin and the devil’s daughter tattooed on my ankle, I was probably tough enough for this. I’d also had my legs waxed before and it wasn’t too bad from what I recalled. I did appreciate being warned not to wear jeans or tight pants though, so I wore a wool skirt and warm thigh-high socks. I thought I was well- prepared.
My technician’s name was Daisy, and she popped into the room like an effervescent ray of sunshine. She looked like a Swedish schoolgirl, and even had blonde braided pigtails. I thought she was pretty damn cute, and if chicks were my thing, I might have considered asking her out. If my boy-toy ever wanted a threesome, she would have been my top choice. That’s how utterly adorable she was. She handed me a menu of differently-shaped pubic hair patterns that I could choose from unless I opted for losing it all. I didn’t want to look like a little girl without any grass on the field, because I think that’s borderline creepy. It’s like a pedostache; there’s just something a little off-putting about it. Plus, I had a feeling that Andy would agree with my views in this delicate matter, so I opted for the triangle. It seemed like a safe bet. Daisy assured me that the triangle was very popular among her clientele, and she thought I’d be pleased with my selection. I handed back the menu and she made sure I wasn’t allergic to latex. Then she told me to take off my panties and have a seat on the massage table while she went and got her supplies.
When she returned with a little cart on wheels, she put on a pair of gloves and instructed me to hike up my skirt all the way. Since I get my well-woman exam every year, it wasn’t all that strange to me. When Daisy began spreading hot wax on the crease between my outer labia and inner thigh, I distinctly remember thinking that it felt kind of good. Then she applied the cloth strip against the hot wax, and I heard a ripping sound that did not match the feeling it caused. I think I may have seen stars from the amount of pain I felt, and I’m not suggesting the kind of stars you associate with unicorns and butterflies. I’m talking Mike Tyson knockout kind of stars. Daisy kept chugging right along like the Little Engine That Could until it was time to tackle my inner labia. Because hair grows there too. God, I wish it didn’t.
Let me tell you something, all you women out there; I don’t know how us ladies come up with these insane ideas on how to impress our men, but we might need to rethink a few things. I mean, we’re impressed with them if they manage to put on brown socks to match their brown shoes without being told. I think someone is setting the bar a little low. Just saying. Now back to my fuzzy inner labia, because I know that’s what you’re dying to hear about.
Removing those hairs basically felt like someone was stabbing my crotch with a brush made of metal toothpicks. Keep in mind that I was not only paying Daisy good money to do this to me, but I already knew I was going to leave her a big, fat tip on top of it because she was so damn cheerful and cute. After the wax portion of the procedure, she busted out the tweezers to grab the few strays she’d missed. If you’re a woman, you can imagine what this may have felt like. If you’re a man, imagine tweezing your taint—I’ll bet it’s still not close to having one’s inner labia hairs pulled out one at a time. Daisy cleaned me up with an oil that would remove any leftover wax, because nobody likes a sticky vagina.
Then she instructed me to lie face down with my ass in the air and spread my cheeks like I was about to receive a Cook County jail full body cavity search. I may have done some crazy things over the years, especially the year I went to Burning Man, but I think this right here takes the cake. I have never had my gynecologist or even a kinky boyfriend ask me to do this before, but I was willing to do it for my guy, and he wasn’t even there to appreciate it. The nerve of some people. I know it was supposed to be a surprise, but I almost wish Daisy had set up a camera and recorded this experience. I had a feeling that if my guy asked me how it went and I told him ‘it sucked,’ he might not understand exactly what I meant by that statement. I guess that tells you the lengths I was willing to go through for him. All I can say is that while Daisy was smearing hot wax all around my asshole, the only thing that kept me motivated was imagining how much oral sex I’d be receiving in the near future. It had better be a lot. And it had better be good. Not just good, but fucking mind-blowing.
My roommate and I were in the car for all of five minutes when I begged him to stop at Walgreens and get me an ice pack and some extra strength Advil. I can’t even tell you how glad I was that I remembered not to wear jeans. Because if I had worn jeans, I probably would’ve asked Daisy for a trash bag to wear like a skirt out of the salon instead. I wouldn’t have given two shits about the weird looks something like that was bound to get on the streets of Chicago, and I’m willing to bet that I’m not the first person to consider doing such a thing. The ride home seemed longer than I remember it needing to be, and for a solid chunk of the day, I hung out on the couch with an icepack on my crotch, and a bottle of wine in the crook of my arm. I usually use a glass…but not that day. My roommate and I watched Downton Abbey DVDs for a while and we talked about how much has changed over the past hundred years. I guess this is what you call progress."