The whole thing started with a pool party. By the time it
ended, I thought it might leave me blinded or immolated on
a bonfire of corn sheaves, but that's getting ahead of the
story. What you need to know is that I've gone where few men
have gone before. I've been to the mountaintop. I have achieved
a level of intimacy so rare I had never even heard of it before.
What I'm trying to say is, I waxed my girl. Yes, waxed--that
kind of waxing. Down there.
It started with us relaxing and reading on her office couch.
April asked a question without even raising her eyes from
her magazine--it was that casual. We were going to a pool
party, and she wasn't ready.
"If I got one of those waxing kits," she said, idly turning
a page, "would you rip the strips?"
I didn't know how to respond. Or actually, I did. I said,
"No!" Not, mind you, because I'm squeamish, which I don't
think I particularly am. I said I didn't want to do any
waxing and ripping because that area--down there--that's
about my favorite place on the planet, and the last thing
I wanted to do was give April any reason at all to associate
that area with pain, tears and me, all at the same time.
Unmoved, April said something to the effect that if you
want to enjoy the playground, you're going to have to trim
the hedge once in a while, and I sat for a moment in thought.
And if you don't mind my saying, I had some interesting
thoughts.
First, regarding this whole waxing thing, which is to say
this whole unwanted hair thing, I'm like every other guy:
I say, and even believe, all the right things. "Shave your
legs? Honey, I don't care. I love you for your kind and
expansive spirit, not your smooth legs. Under your arms,
heck, makes no difference to me. In many circles that's
attractive. And your...uh...down there? Well, you leave
that any way you like it. I love you just the way you are."
"Liar!" hisses the little special prosecutor who lives
on my shoulder.
He's right. On legs he's wrong--shins smooth, bumpy, furry,
who notices? Underarms? Same deal: Smooth is fine, then
again a little tuft has its own charm. But .. down there?
Face it guys. You're sitting on the beach. You're watching
the show. And a woman walks by who, let's just say her lawn
is spreading over the curb, and right next to her is a woman
meticulously bare, smooth right up to that bikini bottom.
We don't have to discuss this further, do we? A little less
hair, a clean boundary, is nice. It's the yang to that bikini
bottom's yin. It's the pianissimo that makes the forte.
It's the smooth that makes the rough so marvelous. I could
go on.
So if April wants some help controlling the foliage, I'm
willing to call in the napalm strike.
The first thing I thought after I accepted this project
was something along these lines: "Oh boyoboyoboy!"
That lasted until April explained exactly what was going
to happen, the whole wax-congealing-on-tender-hair-which-I-would-then-rip-out-by-its-roots
thing. I could expect pain, I could expect crying, or why
would she not simply pull the wax herself? I could even
expect a drop of blood or two.
Erotic this was not going to be. Yet I was invited to participate.
So in order to remain enthusiastic, I gave up on erotic
and settled for intimate.
It turned out that April was brand-new to this procedure
herself. She had shaved her bikini line before and was unhappy
with the bumps, and she had tried all manner of evil-smelling
depilatories without success. I gulped and suggested that
waxing together for her first time might be a little ambitious.
"Too late to do anything else," she said. "The party is
tomorrow." So we pulled out the directions to the box of
Ardell Body & Leg Surgi-Wax Microwave Hair Remover and
studied a flimsy white pamphlet a bit like those that help
you assemble toys made in foreign countries. Not too reassuring.
Still, April noted that Surgi-Wax had only three ingredients:
gum rosin, beeswax and glycerin, none of which the least
bit scary in sound. We forged ahead.
The idea was simple: You heat the wax jar in the microwave,
then paste the wax on the area you plan to depilate with
the tiny Popsicle sticks included in the kit. April enjoyed
the row of three little line drawings showing the legs and
underpants of a woman "position[ed] for hair removal in
the bikini area." In one, her legs were out, like she was
lying in bed reading. The next showed her left foot along
the side of her right knee, and the third showed that same
foot moved up to the middle of her thigh.
April looked perfectly comfortable in position one, clothed,
of course, in highly sensitive areas. The clothing line
provides the boundary for the wax, sort of like a chalk
line for building a deck. We paused to watch some people
on TV and exchanged hurried promises not to get angry with
each other if anything went wrong. Then I walked to the
kitchen, heated the wax, came back and began applying it.
To myself, on my leg. No way was I going to apply globs
of burning wax on April and then rip them off until I had
conducted at least a basic test. I blobbed it on in "the
direction of the hair," as April instructed. She showed
me how to stretch the skin tight, then rip backward against
the hair, not away from the skin so much as along it. I
took a breath.
"One, two,...three!" I said and ripped.
Pie. Cake. Nothing to it. I have a little smooth patch
on my thigh even now to show that my application was smooth,
my removal gentle. We both smiled--and got right to it.
The viscous wax hardened quickly as I did my best to smooth
it along April, taking care to go with the hair. Before
a minute or so had passed we had a kind of glutinous, blobby
strip down her right side, and another minute saw its partner
down her left.
Mistake. More-careful reading of the instructions later
made it clear that we should stick with small areas and
pull the wax off within 30 seconds of applying it. This
might have saved a little pain, but I doubt it.
Anyway, there April lay, waxed to within an inch of her,
uh, life, looking like she was about to have a tooth pulled.
If only. The first helpful hint I'll give you is that those
muslin strips that Surgi-Wax proudly omits would have been
helpful. Since you have to start from the bottom and rip
upward, something to hold onto would have been nice. I had
to scramble around, finally pinching the flimsy bottom end
of the wax strip, which was a little thin. Tip No. 1: If
you don't have muslin strips, lay it on thick so you'll
have something to hold onto.
We locked eyes. "You ready?" I asked.
She was not. A few deep breaths later, though, and we could
no longer delay. "OK," I said. "One...two...three!" And
I pulled.
And ended up with a tiny little ball of wax, separated
from the mother lode. No results at all, but no pain, which
seemed to give April courage. "OK, again," I said. "One...two...three!"
April said, "Hunh!" in the way that people say "oh!" when
it's a cold day and you spill icy water on them. I had removed
about half of the left-side wax. April put her hands to
her face and took deep breaths. She whimpered, but just
a little. Her down-there actually didn't look bad: smooth,
flat, a little pale with a couple of tiny spots of blood.
We made a note to make sure next time the wax didn't touch
the edge of her underwear and got back to it. "One...two...three!"
and another patch was free, with April stifling a gasp and
a little scream. A tear rolled down her cheek.
We were learning lessons by the bushel, now: Don't go too
low, that area is just too tender. Don't do too much at
once. Don't let the wax harden too much. Don't let the ends
get too thin, you'll have nothing to grab onto.
Her area was smooth and free of hair, but a little red
and a little bumpy. But by the next day April was happy
and comfortable at the pool, swimming like a mermaid and
scooting kids around on tricycles and toy tractors.
Her bumps were gone, and I noticed a couple of times that
when she crossed and recrossed her legs, she seemed pleased.
Certainly, I was.
We took a little step. We did something new together, we
took a chance. We endured a little pain, we shed a tear,
we laughed. So when people ask me how things are going with
April now, I just smile. Getting better? Getting worse?
Staying the same?
"Waxing," I say. "We're waxing."
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Willamette Week | originally
published August 4,
1999
|
