Ah, men and their need to see, have or taste a hairless vagina. I realize this isn't so for every man out there, and many actually enjoy pubic hair. But when you do run into one who doesn't care for it, not even a landing strip is bald enough. They want it bald, bald, bald. And some of them would like to have a hand in making it bald for you.
About two months into my relationship with B, he started sharing his desire to see me get a Brazilian wax. Of course, this was never going to happen. Not only are guests not welcome in the waxing room, but I wasn't about to have anyone outside of my beloved waxer see me writhe in such pain as I did everything within my power not to scream out something bizarre or obscene.
B, however, wasn't dissuaded by this fact. He was sure there was some place in New York City that would allow him to be a guest during such a private procedure, and he was going to find one. And he did — in Chinatown.
I objected for a hundred different reasons; he begged and he lost. But he wasn't done trying to make this hair removal witnessing dream come true.
One night after dinner he told me had a surprise. I don't like surprises, and the last few surprises I had received from him were either books he liked but I'd never read, or some sort of sexual gadget that had me standing with my hands on my hips asking him, "Really?"
When we got back to his place, he pulled a home waxing kit from a Duane Reade bag. I did exactly what I had done in the past: put my hands on my hips and asked, "Really?"
"It will bring us closer," was his argument.
"If that's what you think will bring us closer, then I don't want to be closer."
There was no way in hell I was going to use a home waxing kit. Just a few months before, my roommate had tried one and what it came down to was her lying on the bathroom floor screaming for me to come help. When I got in the room, she was sprawled out, pubic hair and all, begging me to pull the cloth strip because she couldn't bring herself to do it.
Do you know what it's like to be asked such a thing? I couldn't do it, either; I knew it would hurt too much. So we ended up slowing rolling it off, without removing any hair, just so she could scrub off the wax that had made a home on her Downtown Browns.
For a bit, the discussion over him removing my pubic hair was done. I continued to get my waxes, lived my life and all was good. Then, he offered to shave it.
"My friend did it with his girlfriend," he said. "He told me it was great."
"Do you really think I'm going to let you near my vagina with a razor?" I asked.
"It's not your vagina. It's your pubic bone," he explained. He was right, but his obsession was driving me batsh*t crazy.
After a couple days of a back and forth about the damn thing, I finally relented. I would grow in my hair so he could shave it off and shut up about it.
When it came down to the moment, I thought we'd do it in the shower. No. He wanted to do in the bedroom — with a bowl of water, shaving cream and a new razor. I pictured the worst: blood-stained sheets, blood-splattered walls, and something out of a gruesome movie like Se7en.
He opened his side drawer and pulled out a pair of glasses.
"You wear glasses?" I asked.
"No. These are from when I was Clark Kent a couple years ago for Halloween."
"So there's no prescription in them?" I couldn't help but take on a condescending tone.
"No, there isn't. But I thought it would help in the fantasy," he said.
"Are you f*cking kidding me right now?" I still had my underwear on and got up from the bed. "I'm not doing this."
"Then shave mine?"
Not long afterward, a friend told me that she let her boyfriend shave her p*ssy and how it went horribly wrong. It wasn't that it was bloody, rather, her fella was a perfectionist. He just couldn't rest until every last hair was removed, which meant positions galore.
If I want to even let a razor in my own hand touch that area down there, then there's no way in hell I'm going to let anyone else. Yes, relationships are a give and take, but for me, I draw the line at blades — and non-prescription glasses.
This article was originally published at The Gloss. Reprinted with permission from the author.