Welcome to Wicked Wednesday! This week’s topic focuses on body hair and our opinions of it. Well, okay…here goes…
I have a strange relationship with body hair.
The first time I ever felt truly clean was after my first Brazilian wax – at age 32. I had it done on a whim. Well, as much of a whim as an over-thinker can have, I guess. There was no man in my life at the time, but I’d fallen in love with the idea being completely hair-free, and
found made room in my tight budget as a newly single mom. Even with the ups and downs of my income over the years, even as a poor, starving writer (lol, yeah right), the Brazilian is an automatic part of the budget.
Every four to five weeks, I bare it all and let a very sweet woman apply hot wax to the most sensitive part of my body and rip the hair away with strips of paper. Then I flip over and she removes it from my asshole, too. God, I love it!
It was part of my sexual awakening…the early days when the idea of having sex was a bit of a fantasy, but the option was there. I’d slowly started reading sex blogs and finding erotic images on Tumblr. Most of the women I saw were smooth and soft and I wanted the same for myself.
Of course, the reality is that there are also ingrown hairs, red spots from hot wax, and imperfections, too. I found that out later, but I loved the feel of my newly smooth skin beneath my fingers. It worked out well that the men that I dated and fucked at the time appreciated it too.
John Brownstone says it’s a requirement that I stay smooth. And I agree. But I refuse to shave. I don’t like how my legs feel after two days without shaving, I can’t imagine how my pussy might feel. And the itch that creeps up three weeks post wax is bad enough, I can’t imagine three or four days post-shave. No thank you.
So I’m a waxing girl. I wax my eyebrows and, sadly, the upper lip. My people are a swarthy people.
Dark hair and pale skin – you can see a stray hair growing on my body from a mile away. I have dark hair on my arms – and if I didn’t shave, under them, too.
If I could, I’d get laser hair removal under my arms and on my pussy. Just to go ahead and eliminate hair where I don’t want it to be. I’m nervous about letting lasers near my face, but I’d probably consider that, too.
You might think my distaste for my own body hair would translate into a disdain for others. And a few years ago, I might have agreed.
My ex had a little bit of body hair, just a touch on his chest – and of course, pubic hair. And somehow, for a man who didn’t have that much hair, it seemed to be everywhere. On our sheets, in the shower. I hated it.
Fast forward to Daddy who seems to be part grizzly bear. He’s got hair on his chest, hair on his legs, hair everywhere. And I love it. I like the crinkly feel of it under my fingers. I love that it seems to insulate his warmth making him my own personal heater. I love that he has grown his goatee into a full-fledged mustache and beard (neatly trimmed and very sexy).
I also love that he prefers to keep his junk as neat and clean as my own. Men’s Brazilians are way too expensive, so he sticks with a razor. I love rubbing my face over his entire groin when he’s freshly shaved. (What am I saying? I’m a wanton little slut with him, I like pressing my face into his crotch any ole time!)
I’m sure there are some who would say that my joy in being hairless is a sign of society’s pressures on women and the unfair beauty standards imposed on us by the media and blah blah blah. If I didn’t know my own mind and my own preferences, maybe so. I prefer to be smooth and freshly shaven or waxed. I prefer the feel of my soft skin instead of skin covered in hair.
I also respect other people’s grooming preferences. Shave or don’t, it matters not to me.