If you are male, I implore you to click away. Please go. This is not the post for you. I will be discussing delicate areas you do not want to know about. You have been warned.
For the past four years or so, I have worn a skirtini for my poolside ensemble. (I’m sure you can imagine my dismay when I realized a skirtini is a bathing suit, not a drink.) That little skirt hides quite a bit: the fat hiding on my thighs, and butt, and, yes, the fact that I don’t like to shave north of my knees. I don’t like to shave, period. This year,though, I figured I would go for the bikini wax. You know, as a treat to myself. Or a blog post at the very least.
“Hello, Becky. My name is Sandy. I’ve never done this before. I’m a little nervous and embarrassed about what’s going on down there. You’ll have to tell me what I need to do.”
Innocuous enough, I suppose, but it was the beginning of what may be the most uncomfortable 20 minutes I’ve ever had.
“Don’t worry about it. It’ll be fine,” Becky breezed. “Just put on these disposable panties and I’ll be right back.”
She handed me a plastic package with the same dimensions of a tampon. Because I am really a 12-year-old boy, I squeezed all the air from one end of the package to the other until I heard a satisfying *pop* then tried to find the hole so I could liberate my transitional panties. I could not find the hole.
I tried to use my fingernails to make another hole. No luck.
Finally, worried that I was taking entirely too long to separate the panties from their plastic confines, I used my teeth to tear open the package–because I was in a spa and I’m klassy like that.
What I was left with was a piece of elastic and two pieces of tissue paper that were each the width of three of my fingers. It reminded me of the time we went to Zumanity in Las Vegas and we saw two 350lb women in see-through body stockings handing out chocolate-covered strawberries. Why? Because I was pretty sure I was going to look just as good in this flimsy excuse of a g-string as those women in Vegas did. Even though no one would see me but Becky, I was mortified. It just ain’t fittin, it just ain’t fittin! (Props to you if you can name the movie, the character, and the situation.)
Becky finally reappeared and asked what we were doing. I just wanted the traditional bikini wax–no lightning bolts, landing strips, or countries for me, thanks.
So she got to work. Or tried to. She had to stop, get the scissors, and trim. Y’all. I told you I hate to shave. It had been at least two years since I had ventured into this territory. I was mortified for the second time in five minutes. This was going very well, indeed.
Becky was finally able to find some skin on which to paste the warm wax. She suggested I pull the skin taught around it so it would be easier (less painful?) for her to pull off.
First strip! Ugh. Similar to having the brows waxed. Not the worst thing I’ve ever encountered.
Second strip! Hey. I thought you just did that part. At least it didn’t really hurt this time.
Third strip! Holy hell! What the fuck are you doing to me? Is that blood? Is this payback for having to trim before you scar me for life? Please, for the love of Pete, stop!
In her sweetest voice, Becky asked, “Are you still doing OK?”
“Thank you, sir!” I choked out. “May I have another?”
She complied.
I had my first bikini wax and possibly my last. For the next two years, anyway.
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