The handsome law student is back behind the bar; the blonde barista is smiling at him with big hopeful eyes. I’m guessing he hasn’t fucked her yet, because she’s giving him the go signal. From the look on his face I’m not sure he’s really interested. But I suppose he’ll eventually just do her to get it over and done.
Why is everything always so sexual with me these days? Sometimes I have to stop my thoughts from trundling along unseemly dirt tracks.
No sign of any of the regulars, but there is an incredibly striking older woman sitting alone, nursing a tall glass of something that contains a mint leaf. Older? I mean she’s about 40 …ish. I hope I look that good when I get to her age. When did I start to get so hyper-critical?
Later this afternoon I have an appointment for a light waxing. Not a complete clearance, just a tidy up and a trim.
I’ve let the bush grow unhindered for a few months, at the request of a certain Mr X. However, my husband, while visiting the forested domain a few nights ago, made the comment that a tribe of Umpa-Lumpas were probably hiding in the thicket. I countered that if he wasn’t careful I’d rescind visitation rights. You can’t please all the people all the time.
In my teens I watched Sex and the City and was fascinated by the easy way the women talked about pubic hair and ‘waxing the hairy cooch.’
Afterward I read a couple of articles that screamed’; “Wax it – Your man will love you long time.” That sounded a lot like something a Thai prostitute might say.
After the shenanigans of the school changing room, I let the bush re-establish itself during my gap year, while I travelled through Vietnam, Cambodia, Laos, Thailand, Bali, Australia, New Zealand, Hawaii, finally ending up in California. I was going through a hippy stage; drinking beer from bottles, walking barefoot, ankle bracelets, henna tattoos, beaded braids and hairy arm-pits.
By the time I got around to really inspecting my dilapidated property down below, it looked as though I’d invited a beaver to move in.
I suppose the only reason I even inspected the pelt was that I stopped over in California with a branch of my extended family.
In California the women were slender, tanned and toned, and although heads were premium real-estate for hair follicles, I quickly realised that hair anywhere else was a definite no-no. And pubic hair escaping from the sides of a woman’s bikini was almost a felony and punishable by eighteen months in the state penitentiary of immediate deportation back to Europe where hair in public places is more acceptable.
Tanned and toned I could easily manage, but hair growth in hidden places tended to go un-mown when you were back-packing and sleeping on beaches, in hostels or cheap-o-cheap-o, no star hotels, to save money.
My American aunt, a tall, blonde, beautiful lady, with not a single strand of body hair left un-plucked, gave me the benefit of her new world bluntness on my second day, after she saw me emerge from the pool, my white, almost see-through bikini showing more than just pouting nipples.
Within ten minutes she’d arranged an emergency appointment at her favourite salon.
The following morning I took a cab into the city, arriving at the temple of hairlessness, my stomach tied into knots with the kind of fear usually reserved for visits to a prison-camp dentist.
The receptionist was a bleached blonde with a sapphire stud through her nostril, and a gigantic silver bar through her tongue, which did nothing to reduce my nervous apprehension. The esthetician, when she appeared was an incredibly beautiful Argentinean brunette, with dark naturally pouting lips, a high forehead and jet black eyes. Her voice was so oddly deep, I immediately looked at her neck for the presence of an Adams apple, (I’d seen the beautiful Lady-Boys in Thailand), in spite of a pair of C-cup breasts that stretched her pristine white shirt, and a fine rounded bottom encased in tight white slacks, that could only really belong to a genuine woman.
She led me along a lighted corridor into a spacious room with large plate-glass windows all round, which looked out onto a pleasant garden of palm trees and flower-beds. “One way glass,” she said. “No one can see in.”
I wasn’t at all embarrassed at being asked to strip down to my birthday-suit; I’d spent a fair amount of time on nudist beaches as I travelled around the world.
Draped in a towel I climbed on the hard, high bed.
“My, we have let the grass grow,” she said, eyeing my hairy groin critically, even though I’d spent twenty minutes that morning deforesting the terrain. “Don’t worry, we’ll soon have you hairless and smooth as a babies bottom.”
Selecting what looked like a giant popsicle stick, she dipped it into a container of hot oozing lava, then pasted it on my thigh just south west of my trembling lady parts. Then she pressed a strip of material over the goo.
Her smile was sweet, but for some reason I chose to view it as mildly sadistic.
“Are you ready?”
“No,” was what I thought, but my head nodded.
I was still waiting for “1” to land, when she ripped off the strip, taking what seemed like every layer of skin covering my thigh.
My dignity had left the building.
I screamed like a little girl.
Why was I doing this to myself? Was I insane?
The beautiful sadist smiled reassuringly, mouthed a few words of encouragement and congratulations that fell on deaf ears, pressed on another strip, smoothed it down with her hand, waited a few seconds and then………..jumping-jehoshaphat!
Somebody give me some aesthetic!
A little pethidine or laughing gas would be nice, or just hit me on the head with something heavy.
The other leg was next; then she moved north.
At some time hysteria must have set in, I was laughing between the butt clenching screams.
The torture went on for fifteen long, long minutes, the smile frozen to my face, small beads of sweat pock-marking my brow, and little tears of joy squeezing from the corners of my eyes.
The only good think about that first time was that the treatment went on my aunt’s account.
Later that day as I lounged by the pool in my white bikini, trying to forget the whole agonising incident, my aunt had to bring it up in front of her young husband.
Now, I was not a prude, but talking about pulling pubic hair out of my Hu-hu, in front of a man I’d only met the day before made me mildly uncomfortable. But hell, I was in California…….