Naked with Long Blonde Hair

Look how long my hair is getting!


Still . . . not nearly long enough to be fetish-length. And because of Lightning Allie I’ve been thinking a lot and learning about different (head) hair-related fetishes.


I have never done any long-hair fetish stuff because it’s never been THAT long, it’s chemically processed, and it seems like the hair fetish people like really shiny medium brown and brunette hair. I have always found shampoo scenes hot, though, and love the variety of ways to approach hair cuts and head shaving. Not to mention all of the ways gender is supposedly articulated by how and where and with what you cut and style your hair.


It has been awhile since I thought about a time my brother was threatened and eventually punished with a buzz cut. I think they outsourced it / had my grandpa do it to him. I remember him coming back home tear-stained. I don’t remember everything about it except that it was kind of horrible. And now, as with a lot of emotional memories, I have crossed-wires when I look back on it, so I can relate to the ways a haircut can be fetishized or a trigger stimulating a variety of responses.


I definitely have a barber shop “fetish”. As a child, I *loved* going to the barber shop with my grandpa or my dad. It was the seventies . . . small town (I think there’s a scene in a second-season Twin Peaks episode or two where you can see the barber shop I’m talking about, or at least the space it inhabited).

Anyway, I loved being in that men-only space. LOVED the sound and swing and shine and elegant shape of the razor against the strop.  OMFG I just googled “barber shop strop” and just SEEING this drawing turned me on:

So. Fucking. EXCITING!

So. Fucking. EXCITING!

When I walk by barber shops — REAL barber shops — in Vancouver, BC, in Portland, in Chicago — I just . . . I don’t know. I always have to stop or at least slow down and try to appear nonchalant while I try to soak up all of the sights inside. I want them. I want to be in them. I want to spy on them. I want to sneak into them at night. I want to dream about them. I want to play in them. I want to dress up. I want to have my neck shaved. I want to smell the combs coming out of the blue stuff. I want to look at the men’s shoes. I want to look UP at the men. I want to BE the men. I want to sit on their laps. I want to go in the back room. I want to adore the big chairs. I want the curtains to be pulled and the cocks to come out. I want to snap the suspenders. I want the strop.

I’m sad I’ve never had the budget and contacts to make barber shop porn. OH MY HOLY FUCKNESS IT IS WITH EXQUISITE LONGING THAT I THINK OF THESE THINGS.


Lady hair salons? Not so much. Do not do anything for me. Even when they look really cool. I get how they could be appealing to other people, but for me they could never hold a candle to a barber shop. Unless there was some CFNM going on, maybe some forced femme – DEFINITELY a gang of women toying with and degrading a beautiful young man. And I don’t mean me as a boi, either, because it hits way too close to the mark and I would start crying immediately.

Which reminds me of the time my mom made me get my brows waxed in junior high. These were the eighties. I didn’t even know such a thing as waxing EXISTED. Brooke Shields obtained Endless Love WITH THICK BROWS. Not that I ever got to watch that movie because my stepdad was always watching football and Chuck Norris movies and Death Wish on our tiny tv set. And pretending he’d never seen it/all of them before. And I would actually prefer to watch any Charles Bronson movie rather than Endless Love, but I digress.

My mom halfway thought she was treating me to something special and the other half was just really wrong; if she had all of the information back then I could give her today, I kind of hope she would be mortified that she did that, even if she thought she was doing me a social favor by feminizing me.

I wouldn’t call the experience devastating, but it was fundamentally fucked-up and torture for me. Not because waxing hurts, but because it was humiliating and she made me do it even though I (think I remember I) vehemently protested / said I didn’t want to, and I felt miserable, powerless, self-conscious, and degraded knowing I would get in trouble if I wasn’t nice to the salon lady while they both talked down to me and made me feel worse.

I wonder if that’s why I have loved getting my brows waxed as an adult, to the point where it’s erotic. I wonder why I never put those two things together until now.

Actually, I don’t think the forced wax has anything to do with what I enjoy about being waxed now. Or not very much. Hmmm . . .

Note: I am not judging any parent who takes a kid WHO WANTS TO GO to the salon FOR SERVICES THEY WANT. I mostly don’t give a fuck if someone spray tans or waxes or makes up their kids if their kids desire such things. And I’m sorry if my mom is reading this and feels bad about something she can’t do anything about now. I’m not trying to make anybody feel shitty, I’m just talking about part of something that happened as I perceived it, and part of what it meant to me. Which I’d actually like to talk about more (the make-up, body hair, fear of ugliness, etc. messages and how I received and/or rejected them and how I’ve dealt with them as an adult and a sex worker). I’m not a parent, and I wouldn’t be surprised, actually, if I were and wound up pressuring my teenager to do things that I thought would make them more attractive / be more socially accepted.

Oh, so are you wondering how that worked out? I actually don’t think any of my peers had a problem with my eyebrows (though their prominence may, in fact, have contributed to my general expression of dorkiness). For sure my social stock didn’t go through the roof the following week, though. But who knows? Maybe I just don’t remember all of the compliments and cheers I got.

Maybe I was too surly and resistant to acknowledge anything positive about the wax job. Maybe I was too socially moronic to leverage my less-hairy face into an immediate loss of virginity. Maybe if I’d have been told to SMILE! five billion and ONE times instead of just five billion, I’d have radiated a confidence that, paired with my newfound freedom from excessive facial hair, would have propelled me into a higher tier of popularity and dispelled any of my mom’s concerns that I might be a lesbian. Maybe I would have gotten “dates” and stopped wanting to read so many books about socially awkward teens trying to be more popular. And/or lose their virginity.


Maybe I don’t remember grudgingly thinking it actually wound up looking pretty nice (I doubt it, or I would have asked to have it done again instead of waiting to experience brow waxing again until I was over twenty to go along with a college friend who was doing it).

Maybe back then I actually really would have watched Endless Love than Death Wish. PROBABLY. Teen sex and stuff? For sure. Who am I kidding????

By the way, here’s one of my favorite songs from the eighties, including Brooke Shields’ eyebrows:

Maybe if I looked like Brooke Shields and my eyebrows were straight caterpillars instead of unruly Eddie Munster styled brows, things would have been different.


The Hunter said I could shave him. With a straight razor even. But then it never happened. So many ideas, so few willing exposed necks . . . .

At least that’s how *I* remember it.

Bugs & Boobs! (pics)

Bug necklace dangling near Trixie's ample cleavage

Bug necklace dangling near Trixie's ample cleavage

Delia knows exactly what kind of thoughtful presents to give me; she brought home the most awesome present for me:

Scorpion gift box

Scorpion gift box

Nevermind what’s inside . . . the box is super cool!

Opening my little bug box

Opening my little bug box

Look at the shiny, iridescent beetle necklace my girlfriend got me!!

A symbol of true love!

A symbol of true love!

There is a special reason why this pendant made Delia think of me; once upon a time I was a beetle breeder.

In elementary school I was always interested but totally lost and intimidated when teachers sprang special projects on us like building rockets, making volcanoes or constructing cameras out of milk cartons. It’s like I was always absent on the days that the secret instructions were handed out telling us to bring money for those brown motors or maybe it was always the OTHER class that got to do those things. I think the mealworm project studying beetle life cycles was one of those things the OTHER class got to do that I was totally jealous of.

So I did the mealworm project at home. Purely for fun.

My mom would never let me have a pet snake so I guess bugs were the next best thing. Not that I was ever totally unafraid of spiders and such, and I *hated* moths, but I was also fascinated by insects and all the little dark nooks and crannies and tunnels they could explore.

I consulted with my friend Ruth (she was in the OTHER class) to determine what supplies I needed: jars with airholes, oatmeal, apple chunks. I captured my own beetles from the base of our old apple tree in the backyard. It grossed my out a little, the way they skittered around so quickly, but I viewed overcoming this fear as a healthy challenge and soon grew to enjoy the tiny tickles of their little black legs scurrying up my arm.

I thought my ability to unflinchingly let bugs crawl on me was an enviable trait to cultivate that would impress people, like when nobody else in my class wanted to hold and stroke a small, velvety black slug during a field trip to the zoo. I don’t remember why the fuck this zookeeper was teaching us about slugs, but I do remember feeling that I’d found a niche where I could jump straight to the top. So what if I failed at rockets and wanted to cry on field day? I could save face by being an imperturbable slug and bug handler! Plus I kind of liked making girls scream and giggle.

In no time I was observing beetle life in all of its stages. The alien-looking pupae were the most disturbingly mesmerizing. I had to increase my containers to hold all of my grubs, pupae and mature beetles. I didn’t have enough covered jars so I just used different bowls from our kitchen and loosely covered them with plastic. Pretty soon the bedroom I shared with my sister started to smell like dusty oatmeal and decomposing apples, but in my role as omnipotent overlord of the beetles I could watch the beetles’ frenzied mating. They were exposed and vulnerable, driven by instinct to procreate in the open on beds of Quaker Oats.

They were also developing genetic defects because of inbreeding. This was a lesson the limited research of the OTHER class never got around to learning! I tried introducing new beetles to the population, but the rate of abnormalities increased. Soon there were albino beetles, pupae with black lesions, slow-moving beetles that failed to thrive and aggressive, kamikaze beetles hell-bent on escaping the bowls of oatmeal.

One day I looked at the bowls full of beetles spread all over my desk so close to our beds and was suddenly horrified by them. I could learn no more from them and they were on the verge of mutiny.

I had to get rid of them FAST before they overran the bowls and poured out in black waves (dotted with albino white) all over our bedroom. I pushed open a window and started flinging beetles and oatmeal outside. I couldn’t dump them quickly enough . . . they were trying to climb back up the wall outside to get in and seek revenge! I kept throwing bowl after bowl of beetles in various stages of life out of the window, shrieking when they clung to the bowl and started climbing up my arm. I cruelly flicked them off with my fingernails, trying to launch them as far away from the window as possible.

It would have been perfect if I could’ve graduated to snakes or lizards because then I could have fed my beetles to them instead of wasting them all like that. Once, when I was a little older, my mom got mad at me when I screamed after reaching into a bag of potatoes in our dark pantry and pulling out a few maggots on a damp spud. I wish I’d have had the presence of mind to point out her hypocrisy, having the balls to chastise me for reacting to a handful of maggots on our food when she had a snake phobia precluding me from having the best pet of all: a beautiful legless reptile to hang around my neck while reading.

Busty buglover still wants a snake!!

Busty buglover still wants a snake!!

Believe it or not, this is not my only story about bug-keeping. I’ll try to tell you about my other bug endeavors one of these days. . .


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