I have only three words about waxing down there: F*CK. THAT. SH*T.
The thing about being an ethnic girl is you know really early on that bikinis are not for you. Before you've even figured out what an underwire is (and why you need it), your legs, pits, and crotch sprout dense, thick, black hair. If you're really lucky you can dodge the mustache and unibrow, but you've got to learn to live with a lot of body fur.
Lucky me, I was blessed with an abundance of body hair AND sensitive skin. Nair made me break out. Shaving my bikini line left me with a swathe of ingrown hairs every time. And don't even get me started on waxing.
I have only three words about that particular trend: F*CK. THAT. SH*T.
The idea of being totally hairless doesn't really work when your body hair fights back. And mine? It wasn't going down without a fight. So before I was even out of my teens, I did the only thing I could: I gave up.
My pubic hair starts with a happy trail at my navel, covers my crotch, and swarms all over my inner thighs. You will never see me in a bathing suit without a pair of shorts on top. I might be OK with the hair living there, but nobody should have to see that.
Nobody except my husband, that is.
Back when I was dating, I was always very cautious about how and when I let my lovers see me naked. I usually waited until after we'd slept together a few times, in the dark, so before they could be shocked or grossed out by my ample bush they'd already decided they liked it. My husband was no exception.
Usually these guys would pretty much ignore it. Like, "Yup, there's your vagina, I'm gonna stick my dick in it, but I'm not going to look at it too much." But my husband was a different story. The first time he actually saw me naked, he was all about it. It took about five seconds for him to shove his face down there and start going to town.
I'm not saying you should marry the first guy who thinks you're so hot down there that he wants to eat it all day, but that's pretty much what I did.
Maybe it's because he's always been a beard guy, so having hair around his mouth didn't bother him at all. Maybe it's because he just thought I was so hot that any part of me was hot by association. Maybe it's because body hair isn't actually a big f*cking deal. Whatever the case, he was into it.
In the 10 years we've been together, he's never asked me to shave, vajazzle, or braid that sh*t. He likes getting up in there any way he can, and I LOVE that he loves it.
I love that I don't have to pretend I don't mind the torture of making my crotch somehow socially acceptable by torturing myself. I love that as far as he's concerned, all my body parts — hairy or otherwise — are parts of me, and that's what he likes best.
Sometimes we watch porn together, and when there's a close-up of a totally bald vagina we both get a little grossed out. "That just looks unhealthy," he's said, and he was right.
Maybe because it wasn't the best looking vagina out there, but after getting so familiar and fond of furry vajayjay anything else looks like kind of a bad imitation. Like an actual shaved cat. It just looks... sad. And kind of creepy. Like a super-sized Barbie doll with a dick in it.
Absolutely not sexy.
My bush and his beard have a lot in common. Lots of hair around a pair of soft, kissable lips, a hole that's warm and wet in the middle, and it grows thick and fast no matter what you do.
His beard is one of many things about him I find irresistible. Just like he can't resist my crotch.
I'm happy I stopped trying to fight the forest in my pants. I'm even happier that my husband is more into it than I am.
I'm one lucky, furry lady.