I have loved having body hair on and off, but I’m looking forward to getting on a waxing schedule. Tomorrow I’m getting my brows, underarms and lower legs waxed . . . and my first Brazilian wax. With the intention of never wasting time putting a razor to my skin again for purely maintenance reasons.
Nothing against razors, nothing against hair . . . I’m just sick of fucking with it and it never gets thick and full and furry enough to please fetishists anyway.
Now that we live in a city part-time and there’s such a thing as online scheduling to easily make appointments for such things with a variety of providers so I don’t have to schedule a month in advance (as we do in our small home town), it’s convenient, sensible and time-saving. Also: I’m getting white hairs in my pubes and eyebrows, and it’s a lot more disconcerting than I imagined it would be.
After getting my first bikini wax I loved the smoothness and softer, slower grow-out.
I’ve had a handful of nice offers to shave me, and am particularly tempted by the people who are handy with straight razors, but I really enjoy getting waxed by professional ladies in the non-sexual atmosphere of a salon or spa. Here’s why:
- I like paying for a service (rather than arranging & negotiating & scheduling a social interaction/exchange)
- I like the name for them (aestheticians) and observing these women as they studiously perform these intimate acts on me alone in a small room, just the two of us but with this marvelous detachment they exhibit, focusing very intently on tiny details (recreating these scenes in my mind’s eye I almost imagine them wearing monocles)
- RITUAL – I love rituals: they make my mind and spirit and body better (before, during and after)
- I enjoy the sensations – depilation via wax is very dynamic with rhythms, contrasting temperatures, and extremely varied tactile stimuli . . . including bursts of (tolerable) pain
Having hot wax applied to me and my hair ripped out is definitely erotic to me, but in a private way that not only doesn’t pressure me to respond to it in that way (on the contrary, it’s important that I hide that appropriately), but allows me to enjoy the (unintended) humiliation of it (being humiliated by women is a hot button for me that I haven’t had pushed nearly enough). It’s meditative, absorbing, and full of exquisite sensations and scents.
I’m excited and curious to get SO MUCH of my body waxed in one session . . . having the ritual drawn out, being challenged a little more (from a pain tolerance perspective) . . . and being immersed even more deeply, I’m guessing.
And then being able to say a simple thank you, PAY FOR IT WITH MONEY. . . and go right back home to rest, feeling relaxed, peaceful, and cared-for. Without owing anybody anything. Without talking. Without having to communicate my pleasure, instead getting to savor it in my body without translating it into words or physical reciprocation. Allowing my face and body to be lit up and alive inside and out, but languidly so.
I might even come home and cry until I go floppy with fatigue. I might even be crying right now. Hard.
I want to be gently attended to like I’m not even capable of bathing myself. Like ? doesn’t even want me to bother my sweet little dirty head with that because ? will do it for me, lifting my heavy limbs . . . rubbing me with oils and medicines, reassuring me . . . forgiving me my exhaustion and stupidity. Telling me to sleep and that everything will be okay, and the medicine from their big crazy dick will be ready and waiting for me. And all I have to do is lay there and take it. Quietly. And then there will be soup in bed, more naps, and then maybe louder medicine. When I get my strength up. Won’t they be proud? And keep me all to themselves? And I can cry if I want to and be ugly and they will keep on fucking me and making me feel precious and wipe my mouth afterwards and bring back more raw thin strips of melty red meat into my small safe sickroom and sweet soft smelly bed.
I think I might be getting old enough and relatively-safe enough and tired enough to be small again. I want a big(?) strong(??) manly(?!?) slave(?!?!?) of few words to pretend to be my grandpa daddy brother doctor, pretend he loves me unconditionally and we stay up together all night after the rest of the audible world falls asleep. I want to be the tiny apple of the eye when we’re around each other. The late late show, brushes on drums, a radio station only we can hear . . . scrambled eggs just for the two of us. I have no memory of Grandpa cooking like that for anybody but me. And not wonder if he forgot about me for someone more grown-up or is embarrassed that people might notice we belong to each other or that he will disown me. Sometimes. At night, or in the heavy summer. I want him to be so proud of me when I grow up. Give me the clicker and laugh at what I pick out.
We had that once or a few times or in certain ways with Rugaru. It was insane, but there were some hours and words and feelings that will feed me for the rest of my life even though the rest of it is a big part of what’s making my subconscious terrified lately.
A couple of my favorite hairy pictures of me taken in Boston more than thirteen years ago: