Welcome to Brazil

There are good things about not having someone to have sex with on a regular basis. I don't have to worry about unwanted pregnancy. I don't have to worry about how I'm going to kick the guy out of my bed in the morning (note: this is why you should always, Always, ALWAYS go home with them. It avoids the awkward conversation, "Um hi, I gotta go walk my dog." "You have a dog?" "Well, no, but I'm going to get one now so you will fucking LEAVE.), no money spent on birth control, I can improve upon my masturbatory skills and watch loads of porn....you get the idea.

There is also the strange phenomenon that seems to have taken over Manhattan that is rapidly spreading throughout the rest of the country that I get to avoid: the Brazilian bikini wax.

Maybe I was just ig'nint, but this shit did not go down when I was in college and high school. You shaved your lady parts and that was that. Upon moving to Manhattan, however, I have discovered that every fucking girl here gets this done.

Now about 90% of my friends here are from the West Coast and the Midwest. I thought they were all like me, only breaking out their razor to trim it down to prevent a bush so long you can braid it.

Not so.

After 6 months of moving here, my friend from St. Louis was complaining about how she had to go during lunchtime to go get it done. It was like we were 13 again, and she just saw a penis for the first time.

Megan: Whoa, what was it like?
Friend: Not that bad.
Megan: [gulp] Did it hurt?
Friend: It wasn't that bad. Don't worry.
Megan: So, should I get this done?
Friend: Megan, like everyone is doing it.

Of course, like in high school, I didn't do it.

A few years ago I was talking to my friend back in Minnesota, and she was explaining how she gets Brazilians too. For those of you not in the know, a bikini wax is simply a wax around your bikini line. A Brazilian, however, removed every inch of hair from your lady parts. And you better believe those lady parts include the two hole. All the they leave behind is a little landing strip, that let's face it, could have flashing lights and a big arrow and most guys couldn't find my clitoris.

I knew I had to do it eventually if it was making its way to the 'sota, however, I didn't want to do it, hate it, and have my boyfriend drool over it every time he saw it. It costs about $50 a pop (that's at the cheaper places) to get this done. It's all very Draconian, I know. Who pays $50 to get hair ripped out of your mons pubis (that one is for you girls)? Well I did.

Once I became part of the single crowd, I figured I should get it done so in case I were to eventually have sexy time with a fella again, he wouldn't have to dramatically pull out a weed wacker from his closet to come say hi to the little lady (did I really just call my poke hole "the little lady"? Did I just call it a "poke hole"?)

I went to a place in Soho that my friend recommended. It was all Dead Man Walking. I was more nervous for this than I was to run the marathon. As I wait in the lobby, I notice all of these attractive females coming out from behind the closed doors. No screaming. Good sign. I thought to myself, "Hey, if these skinny bitches can take it, why can't I?"

Finally a petite blond lady who's accent I cannot place calls me into her chamber of vagina death. She asks me to undress from the waist down (hey lady, you going to at least buy me a drink first?), and then climb up on the table.

She comes back in about 2 minutes later. I tell her it's my first time, and to please be careful. She says she will do her best. She applies the very hot wax the front of my bikini line, applies the paper, pulls my skin taught, and !!!!!!!!!!!!

Holy fucking hell that hurt. She applied more wax, puts another strip down in a location near where she removed the hair before, and !!!!!!!!!!!!!!

That one hurt too. I begin to sweat all over, and my eyes begin to tear.

This goes on for a few minutes, and it's agony. Then she applies the wax a little farther back. Oh no no no no lady. Not there. Not there. Not there. Rrrrrriiiiiiippppppp!

And there goes my vulva. I swear to God no one's labia was as attached to its pubic hair as mine was. I just shivered thinking about it.

Oh no, but it's not over yet. She keeps moving farther back. Oh you know where this is going. she applies the wax to my 2-hole. And I wait. And wait. And wait. Nothing.

I relax a little and !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Oh.my.god.

Once she is done with the longest 3-5 minutes of my life, she rubs baby powder all over me, but what I really want is a shot of morphine. She thanks me, and quietly leaves the room. I thought 3rd base was supposed to be fun? Let me tell you, this was not fun. And forget anyone who says, "It's not that bad." You know what? IT IS. Remember that shot of Andy in 40-Year Old Virgin after he gets waxed and is walking home? Remember seeing the little spots of blood from where his hair was so violently ripped out from its resting place? Yeah, well that shit happens. Except this time it was all over my white underwear.

I'm not really sure why, but I've gotten a few more done since then, then eventually gave up. I was clearly jinxing my sex life. No one was coming home from war. The bedroom was sitting there untouched.

So while I complain all the time to my friends about not getting any, at least my 70's porn star bush and I can keep each other company. Apparently it wasn't my absence of bush/presence of bush that is preventing me from getting laid. It's probably more the fact that most guys are meatsticks that make me want to take a dull blade to my wrists every time I talk to a new one. Either way, my mons pubis hasn't been this happy in a very long time. And for the first time on this blog, I don't mean that in the sexy way.