I write this post with some reluctance. It feels somehow untoward, though it isn’t really. I guess I’m just a bit squeamish writing about these things, but I’ve promised to be up-front, and this is, kinda, interesting.
So, I got given this voucher to a waxing studio. What am I going to do with this were my first thoughts. Other than an abundant head of hair I’m one of those relatively hair-free men. Then of course I realised what the voucher was for and I thought, oh no… Then I thought about it a little. I’d heard stories after all. Curious stories. I tell one girl friend. “I think you should do it,” she says. I tell another. “Really?” she says. “Do it.” Another is ambivalent at first before encouraging: “you have to do it once in your life, if only to know what it feels like to be a woman.” The last is emphatic and enthusiastic. “You must,” she says, then throws in the clincher, “the sex is so much better.”
It was with some trepidation then that I made my appointment. I was curious, a little excited, and a tad fearful. Would it hurt? What would it look like? Do I want a strange woman mucking around in my nether bits? Would I look silly bald? Is it unmanly?
During the course of my consultations with my female friends we had a variety of quite frank conversations about pubic hair. I was surprised and occasionally titillated to hear the details frankly relayed to me. These days it’s almost normal for a woman under a certain age to have some sort of – vaginal grooming? – done. Some have gone the whole way, something I strongly disapprove of as a man. A bald quim is disconcerting and, for me anyway, somehow unerotic. For a start it’s like you’re having sex with a 12 year old (roll on the Google hits with that line). Secondly, I always reckon a little bit of hair is sort of like a place-holder: here it is buster, this is where you should be focussing all your attention. It’s more womanly too, though there is a happy medium – a rampant thicket is hard work as well as unattractive. A mid-bush (a good ‘triangle’, or bikini line per the diagram right) is the best option in my considered, though amateur, opinion, with the key areas conveniently cleared.
In any case, that was pretty much the context of conversations, with some going into technical detail when it came to their own particular circumstances. I learnt a fair bit, though this is probably not the place to be sharing. In every case just about it came back to the male side of the equation, recalcitrant, messy and inconsiderate. If was good for the gander so to speak, then the goose should get his go as well.
And so there I was being ushered into a very surgical looking room by a middle-aged Asian woman. She instructed me to get my gear off basically, keeping my shirt on. Then I had to lay on what was sort of like a mechanised massage table with my bits exposed. I’m long since a modest man, I don’t give a major deal about who sees what, but still it felt strange to be lying there naked from the waist down. It got stranger when she began.
Of course you imagine all sorts of things when you don’t know any better. Like most men I think, I had a fear that the situation might prove to be too much for me. As a man you can control many things, but certainly not all. I didn’t know any better. What if she’s pretty? What is she’s pretty, I’m half naked and she’s working ‘down there’? What if – well, you know, it ‘moves’.
That wasn’t an issue. It’s hard to imagine a less erotic activity with your pants off. For a start the woman was pleasant, but she was middle-aged, blithely chatty, and not likely to feature in my dreams. Further to that she was so matter of fact that it was hard to think anything. I had thought they might attempt some kind of modesty covering, but I guess that’s impractical. Instead she picked me up – there’s no other way of putting it – and flopped me this way or that to get at the places she needed to. She was perfectly at home with me, as if it is something she does every day – which she probably does.
It’s not something I do every day though. At the first touch of warm wax I braced myself for the pain that so many girls had gleefully promised me. That first time it stung a little, and the time after that. You get used to it though, the skin becomes somewhat numb.
The next challenge, to put it bluntly, was the sac. Now that’s an important place to do, but I thought it might tickle a bit. That was not the real issue though as it turned out. More pertinent was the surreal loss of dignity the final phases of the operation inflicted upon me.
I have a theory that women are less sensitive because they are more accustomed to the casual indignities associated with being female, most particularly when it comes to the gynaecological side of things. Men are spoiled. We don’t have that. Generally our biggest fear getting naked is having some dude flick a damp towel at us, or some unkind soul pointing out we might not quite measure up (that may be apocryphal). That’s as bad as it generally gets.
Granted, it’s hard to be dignified when your pants are off and you’re lying prone, but it gets worse. I’m not really disposed to go into the detail, except to say the waxing of the ‘crack’ necessitated acrobatics I’d have preferred not to have performed.
That was it basically. I chose not to go the full Monty, the lawn remains, but the shrubbery is gone. It looks better that way I think, more manly dare I say it, but the working parts are cleared for action.
Will I do it again? Well it depends almost entirely on whether the promised enhanced feeling eventuates, and how enhanced it is. The pain is no big deal, and I guess I could get used to the indignity, but, I don’t really think it’s me.
That’s the story folks. Remind me to tell you about the time I got checked for testicular cancer, now there’s a hoot…
- The New Full-Frontal: Has Pubic Hair in America Gone Extinct? (theatlantic.com)
- Is the Carpet Shag or Berber? (scarletletters.org)