It was harder than it looked. The male regional geography is quite varied, and caused some awkward angles just to see what was going on, much less safely run a very sharp piece of steel over some of my most sensitive and treasured bits. I did this in the shower, and between the shaving cream and the water, things quickly got slick, what with having to pull things this way and that to get underneath something or just to have a taut area to work on. The result, while a vast improvement in looks (and feel), was unsatisfactory, still a little overall stubble, missed spots no matter how diligent, and increasingly impossible to operate the further underneath and around back I got. Also, it grew back rather quickly. I needed assistance.
So, a couple months ago I started thinking waxing. Now, obviously there are issues here, the primary one being pain. After all, there are the constant popular horror stories as to how much it hurts. But more significantly, this seems to be the province of women, and probably gay guys. Am I becoming the dreaded metrosexual of the rapidly fading media fad? Clearly not, but still, this operation, if it were to be put into motion, must remain a closely held secret.
But where to turn? I had seen a couple recurrent postings on CL under the Therapeutic Services section while perusing for a massage therapist. One in particular had a website that noted that they did Brazilian jobs, and that they catered to men as well. Finally, at the beginning of the week, I made The Call. I explained to the woman that I was a novice, and proceeded to ask a series of basic and stupid questions. She was patient, and gave me an appointment for Wednesday evening.
I arrived at the building, and didn’t see any signs. I went up the stairs to the second floor, and emerged in the waiting area of a beauty salon, with four bored, over-coiffed foreign stylists staring at me like a piece of meat. Clearly I was in the wrong place, but perhaps they had heard of the place I was looking for? No, but the one in charge, a woman of a certain age, took me in charge and led me through the entire salon, gathering attention from all the women present, both employees and clients. Out the back door, there was an Asian nail salon that did waxing, as well as a laser hair removal place. I assured her it was neither, but she took me back through the salon, introducing me to the manager in the process, and called the laser woman. After telling her there was a client here, she put me on the phone to establish what I already knew, that it was a false lead. I finally extracted myself from the clutches of the salon ladies and went back to my car, where I called the number that I had. It turned out that the place was in a closet with an unmarked door at the top of the stairs between the nail salon and the laser place. The technician opened the door, and I would have placed her as perhaps Persian, but her name suggested Hispanic. She was young and attractive, reviving yet another of my fears, one that has occupies me in regards to nudist camps and massages: that there would be a socially inappropriate reaction at a critical juncture.
After filling out the requisite paperwork, she left me to undress from the waist down, and lie down with a small washcloth over the strategic areas. I wasn’t sure of the purpose, but as a novice, figured I would wait and see. I really couldn’t understand how she was going to work on areas without being able to see them, but figured maybe there was a intricate, painstaking, and completely ineffectual dance of the draping for form’s sake similar to that in some massage therapy sessions. Sure enough, as soon as she came in, she flipped it up so that it was only covering the tip, and the started to point, discuss, and move things around. She would have me get a good grip and really stretch things out, but would have to show me how firmly and in what direction first. All this groping and flaunting, with a bright light and her face inches away, normally would have given rise to big problems, but I needn’t have worried in this case. Between the surrealism and the pain, there was never even a remote danger of any of my parts getting happy.
The actual waxing, for the most part, wasn’t that bad, considering that someone was smearing hot wax on my sensitive bits and ripping it off along with all the hairs. The actual heat of the wax was more painful in most cases than the subsequent pull a minute later, though there were some moments with a greater concentration of hair that had me gritting my teeth.
Periodically, she’d have me sit up and she’d ask, “What about here?” All in all, it was a bit odd to be sitting there in only a shirt calmly discussing the appearance of my genitals with a woman I’d never met. I’ve never even done that with a doctor. When we both agreed that the front was done, she had me flip over onto my knees and elbows, with my face in the table, and she proceeded to do here thing on the back forty. As I was aimed at the door of this tiny room, I kept wondering if someone would burst in looking for the storage closet and get an unforgettable memory.
Throughout the procedure, she kept up a polite conversation about where I was from, my family, our cats, etc. The whole thing took just under an hour, and she charged me $150. She gave me some of the coconut oiled that she had rubbed into me, and told me that it should last from four to six weeks. Things this morning are still slightly tender in a couple places, which I suspect was more from the heat than the defoliation. But the look is fantastic. And even though I still get a jolt of surprise every time I run my hand there, it feels great as well. I’d call myself a satisfied customer. Though I’ll have to see whether I do it again.
But still, I hadn’t really imagined even days earlier that I’d be spending my afternoon balanced on a rickety table face down, ass up while I paid a stranger to slather my crack with wax. On the other hand, I discovered an interesting Armenian bakery downstairs.
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