I waxed my vagina. At home. On a towel. In a room with one 60 watt light bulb. The scene was just one step up from what would typically be provided for a dog before giving birth. About the same amount of blood though.
I’ve had an issue with body hair since I was about nine years old. That’s when I let my own paranoia falsely convince me that other girls my age were shaving their legs, so I should too. For weeks I went to school with noticeable cuts around my ankles and in the government subsidized light of my classroom, noticed that without their dusting of blonde hair, my legs looked a lot like discounted lunch meat. From there I moved on to my arms, 60% of my eyebrows and, soon after learning about nocturnal emissions and birthing hips, my pubic area. My endeavor to turn myself into the surface of a bowling ball came with very little conscious effort. Most of it was simply motivated by the need to be consistent.
However, my pubic hair was an entirely different beast. I vacillated between a bush so voluminous it was noticeable through jeans and Barbie crotch. I could get away with it because, other than my tracings of rare dog breeds, no one ever saw me naked. Still, I preferred to be completely bare. Years of trial and error informed me that orgasms were easier to come by when I actually had direct access to myself and not something akin to a squirrel pelt. But since I had no real reason to be fastidious about maintaining a vagina suitable for moonwalking, I slid back into indifference.
Then I discovered oral sex and the details are hazy from there. But from that moment, I became nearly obsessed with what I could do to make my vagina more welcoming for someone’s face. I knew that my pubic hair could grow to almost inhumane lengths and I never wanted to go back, fearing that both the frequency and sensation would wane. Luckily, not even my ham-fisted attempts at shaving around my ski slopes could dissuade the shared inexperience and desperation of 17-year-olds.
Eventually I found myself in a relationship where cunnilingus was nearly a daily activity and not just something that was done when his parents left to go grocery shopping. I soon realized that my razor could no longer keep up.
Which is why, when my boyfriend suggested that I wax my vagina, I agreed. He even said he’d do it for me, all I needed to do was order the wax. The first sign that I was absolutely fucked came when he decided to slather wax on my cunt like he was buttering toast, instead of applying it in strips. By the time I looked down, the wax had already hardened and I was left there wondering why I let him do this to me, considering that I still have to find socks for him in the morning. I started panicking because I knew that, outside of melting the wax off with an iron pressed against my labia, I was now committed to having my pubes torn out en masse. Aside from being unable to find even one sock out of a collection of 50, he also lacks manual dexterity. I learned this when it took three or four pulls to successfully emancipate each portion of flesh from the wax puddle he created. The pain was immense, but I couldn’t really be too angry because I probably would’ve stripped myself of the ability to urinate if I tried to do it myself.
After each abortive yank, I had to ask him to stop so I could drain the tension out of my muscles. I also needed to make sure I still had a clitoris. During this time he would apply ice to the area that now had its own heartbeat and remind me that I could hold on to him to help with the pain. If I hadn’t been busy wiping the torture-induced tears from the side of my face, I would’ve asked him if he also goes to the Burn Ward to offer patients advice on how to crate train a new puppy. Because unless he was going to spontaneously secrete morphine, that offer was useless to me.
Somehow, after many suggestions that I pet my freshly removed hair because, ‘it feels like a cat nose,’ I got through it. I couldn’t argue with the results. My vagina felt like a handful of baby powder, but it would’ve had to start whistling The Best of Bobby McFerrin for me to consider it a winning value proposition.
I resented my boyfriend for a few days after that. I took most of it out on his face, seeking solace in the fact that he could hardly breathe. Yeah, it’s a weak victory – I go through a medieval level of pain, he gets to eat pussy. But just give me a few months, when I welcome back the Barbara Bush. And force him to formally address her. And remove her smart little skirt suit with his teeth.
{ 6 comments… read them below or add one }
You have just made something that should be making me cringe make me crack up. I almost feel bad for getting so much pleasure for your pain. On the upside, the clit is still attached!
Told ya so.
Didn’t I? Why yes, yes I did.
Perhaps your bf was smart in covering your mound in wax first, all at once. Bc mine did the proper method and we both gave up after the second strip. He couldn’t do it right, I couldn’t take the pain. In the end I was left with two amoeba-shaped small bald spots. That’s how well it worked.
I marvel at your dedication to removing hair in pursuit of feeding good and increasing pleasure.
As a man, my hairy love-hate relationship is with my face. I soon noticed that if I let my beard grow out, it has noticeable bare patches. After many, many years they filled in, but I mostly shaved–partly because I was in the Canadian Forces and that’s what virtual all soldiers have to do.
I do like my face bare, but at times I have horrible barber rash (and have tried a billion-and-one ways to shave to avoid it). On weekends and other times off I get lazy and just let it grow. A few times it’s gotten long enough that I have to work on trimming it to avoid that just-come-down-from-the-Donner-Pass-what’s-for-dinner look–but that’s a lot less effort than shaving.
As for other hair…. I like the hair on my head short. In hot weather, if it’s too long on top, it feels like I’m wearing a saturated sponge. Everything else I just let it grow.
And hair on others, well, it’s their choice. I look at removing facial hair in both men and women as baring your face to be comfortable and express yourself (it is very easy for a man to hide inside his beard). Long hair on men’s heads…meh.
But women. Ah…. Again, it’s their own personal comfort. But what I like…. The hair on the head can be long or short. I know long hair demands a lot of maintenance (I often brushed the hair of girlfriends and learned to braid it) but it can be so beautiful. But shorter hair has its own beauty.
And the rest of the hair I love as long as it can grow. I hate that so much cultural indoctrination says that women should shave (created in a big way by a campaign by Gillette in the 1920′s). I hate the look in most modern porn. I view a woman’s body hair as a sign of becoming a adult and confident in her body.
I love the feel of her skin with hair. And rubbing my face against her hair. All of it. To me, bare skin is a curious alternate. I love a women with body hair. The longer, the bushier, the better.
My wife and I have looked for the best solution to this, waxing is great but when paid for can be very expensive. The best solution is Carson’s Soft Sheen Shaving Powder. “Strong enough for black mens’ beards, pH balanced for women’s pubic hair.” Works great, grows out a little faster, and a little strong smelling but completely painless. It is a great bonding experience.
My hair is so fine, wax doesn’t really grab it. Which means that when I went in for a brazilian, they had to go back to the tender, partially-removed hair and pluck it out with tweezers. TWEEZERS. On a blister-red bonch. Most painful experience of my life.
This made me laugh so much… great post LOL