I really get tired of men complaining about women and how unbalanced the world has become since we’ve demanded educational, professional and wage equity.
Let me be blunt gentlemen; how often do you feel compelled to let someone put warm wax on your testicles and then tear the hair out, just to make your gal’s ride-along more pleasant? Hmm?
I thought so. Unless you want your scrotum to expand and shrivel like a slinky, I’m quite sure you settle for a bit of manscaping and a good scrub.
Usually I don’t mind my monthly visit to tame the jungle-book-down-under. I am loyal to my aesthetics guru, and she knows me.
Today when I showed up for my appointment, the receptionist let me know that Maria had been admitted to the hospital last night and was ill. Immediately my first thought was; What’s the appropriate thing to do in this case? Send flowers? Send a card? After all, Maria was the gatekeeper of my she-dragon, and person in whose delicate hands rested the scales of whether or not I would be the lounging, sensual recipient of the skillful cunninglingus of which I have become accustomed.
In other words, she plays a huge role in my ability to enjoy life to the fullest. Maria also guards the secret identity of the little-man-in-the-boat, whereas even my most intimate of lovers only gets to view the magician by candlelight, or the shadow of my thighs.
After disrobing, and stretching out on the waxing table, ‘Quiny’, as she introduced herself began the most painful, ridiculous bikini wax I have ever had, and I’ve been doing this for a while folks. I’m quite sure the first layer of skin on the left side of my veil-of-pleasure is still stuck to her last waxing strip, but was afraid to look.
If an aesthetician has to ask, “That hurt you”, more than once, the outcome may be gruesome.
To her credit, Quiny was good with a mirror and asked on several occasions that I look and make sure she was doing a good job. I began to wonder about Quiny’s motives.
I also thought that perhaps having my woo-hoo waxed immediately prior to an hour and a half long sitting-mediation at the temple was not such good planning.
Finally, after what seemed like hours at the hand of Quiny-the-Torturer, I sat up on my elbows, looked down at my girly-bits and said, “That’s enough”.
The pain was so intense that I wasn’t sure whether she was pinching or pulling, and I sure as hell didn’t know what she could possibly be pinching or pulling at. I was convinced my outer labia had already been ripped off and tossed in her little white trash can.
Quiny held the mirror up, “You look”, she said. And she smiled. I’m not a violent woman, but I wanted to smack that smile off her face with that ridiculous mirror like I was using a squash raquet.
“I’m sure it’s just fine,” I said, quickly squeezing my thighs together. I made a mental note to go see my regular Goddess of the Wax tomorrow at the hospital and take on advocating for her medical care.
So gentlemen, don’t give me any bitching or moaning about having to act like a gentleman to garner the attention of a lady. Real ladies care about what they bring to a relationship, including a neat and tidy valley of delight.
The next man I hear whining is being sent to Quiny so she can have a go at your hairy man-bits. Then we’ll talk.