Before I met Randy, I did not know I was a cannibal. He was the first – and maybe even the only – guy whose bottom I wanted to bite as soon as he presented it to me. Thinking about that tight (and as it turned out, lightly hairy) ass makes my mouth go all bitey still. Mmmm. Nom nom nom.
Anyway, this is not a sex story. It’s not even a love story. In fact the only thing Christmassy about it is the fact that I am writing it now. This is a cautionary tale. A cautionary tale about waxing.
My first summer in this country I got together with a co-worker, the aforementioned Randy. If I am honest with myself, I would tell you that I always knew it was going to happen. Heck, I am honest. I wanted to deep-throat Randy’s balls the first time I saw him and this was without knowing if they were hairy or not. I was smitten. Randy was fit, had a cheeky northern man’s grin, complete with dimples and he was always clean shaven which if I had been in the UK a while longer I might have associated with being a skinhead. Being Nigerian he just looked like a white-Blackboy.
Randy was quite older than I was but he did not look it. He did not play games. Neither did I. I am not a game-player and I have never had patience for people who do.
“But he is so old!” my friend Harriet said, horrified. “He’s like flippin’ forty!”
He wasn’t. He was in his thirties and I was just out of my teens and it didn’t matter one teeny-tiny bit. It was that bum. And the swagger. Randy had swagger before it was even a thing. But the main thing for me was that he liked me too. He liked me hard. And that is always a good thing right?
Anyway, so this summer I decided that Randy and I were going to do it, finally. I felt like all the naughty hairy fingerings in cinemas meant nothing. What if the actual sight of my bush scared him? I was prepared to have it all waxed, you know like northern men like their birds to be. I didn’t trust any of the salons either. The downside to seeing a lot of shaved pussy online and knowing that is what men are used to is that you start to feel a bit like a hairy Quasimodo. I imagined beauticians snorting with laughter in utility rooms after encountering what I now know is a perfectly acceptable folliage. So off I went to ye olde trusty Body Shop to procure some wax with which to tame my beastly bush.
I dilly- dallied, sniffing this pot and reading the small print on that, that the sales person approached me with a huge smile.
“Are you looking for anything in particular?” she asked, eyeing me like a was a wild animal that would soon bolt.
I thought about telling this faux-blonde, immaculately groomed salesperson who probably had sequins were body hair should be and chickened out. I couldn’t tell her exactly what I needed the wax for.
“Is this…ermm…wax…is it good for the body?” I asked, when really I meant ‘Can I use it on my anal mane?’
“Yes, it’s very good.” She rattled off a list of products which would make Mother Earth weep with gratitude. In embarrassment I let her sell me eyebrow wax, body wax, cloth strips (environmentally friendly), wooden spatula (ethically sourced) and some after wax cream (Aloe vera and ylang ylang or some shit). She was such a good trader that my mind was filed with pictures she had conjured up of my desirable hairless state which Randy would randily anoint with his tongue.
I boiled water, stoppered my sink and let the pot of wax sit in it for a moment. When it was all nice and warm I laid out the cloth strips (unbleached cotton), stirred the green goo with the (handcrafted) spatula and took off my pants. I raised a leg and balanced it on the sink. Then I smeared the wax down one side and adhered the cloth strips to it, patting down firmly. Holding my skin taunt as per the instructions, I picked up an edge of the cloth strip and peeled back in one swift motion.
Droplets of blood. Green lights. Red lights. Rumble of thunder and flashes of lightning as my brain fired off impulses from synapse to synapse. I did not even know I knew that many swear words. In spite of the blood did I stop there?
I gritted my teeth, slapped the wax on the opposite-juncture-of-thigh and let rip. This time, a few droplets of hot wee escaped. More drops of blood dotting the cotton strip. And…the heck…? I poked and prodded at the tranluscent brown thing stuck to the cotton. It looked a bit like the effect you get when you let coloured gum dry and then attempt to peel it. The right side of my punani smarted more than normal. I hopped about and told myself ‘Well, you’ve come this far, why not try for the mound?’ It was not even a clean look so why I went ahead is beyond me. Tufts of maltreated hair stuck up in the waxed areas. The green goo looked like alien spunk against my skin.
Once more the wooden spatula dipped, smeared. Wax on. Cotton. I tugged. Goose pimples covered my flesh. I started to feel ill. I picked up the edge of the cloth again. I bit my tongue clenching so hard. I started to cry.
Tap, tap, tap.
“Neynaa, you alright love?” called my flatmate. I hadn’t even known she was around.
“Yes.” Sniff. I cleaned my eyes.
“Right,” she said. I knew she wanted to ask more questions but seeing as we had each kept our distance in all the time we had lived together, it might have seemed intrusive. To avoid further questioning I turned the shower on, took off the rest of my clothes and stepped in, cloth strip dangling from my Mons Veneris as if someone had planted a flag on it. I turned the shower up to scalding. I nearly cooked in my own skin but the wax strip refused to come off. Each time I tugged on it I could see the whole skin move as if it would come clean off the bone.
I stepped out of the shower. My flatmate stood there when I opened the door.
“You were there a long time,” she said in answer to my look.
“Oh…er…I have a date.”
“Ooh! Nice. Who with? I mean, if you want to tell me….” her voice trailed off.
I thought of Randy’s sexy bum and burst into tears.
“What’s the matter chicky?” her arms were instantly around me. I have never seen such concern in her green eyes. The whole story came out.
“Here, let me see.” I showed her. It is to her eternal credit that she did not laugh. “Hmmmm. Lie back for me?” She led me to my room. “Okay. Hold still. I’ll go at the count of three.”
“No, Blair! Can’t we just cut it out?!”
“It’s not that bad. Hold on. Count of three-”
“No Blair!” I tried to close my legs.
“Don’t fight, Neynaa. One, two-” she ripped it off.
She looked at the hair on the slip quizzically. “God, he’s better be worth it.”
“He is,” I sobbed tears and snot running down my face.
“You’ve got some skin off,” said Blair running her hands down my thigh. I recalled the brown thing on the strip.
As it turned out Randy was an awesome, fiery kisser and a deft fingerer but something about my black punani made him lose his erections.
“I swear, this has never happened before,” he said.
“Okay.” I believed him. With the tufty, bruised look of my pussy it was no wonder his body wanted nothing to do with mine. A few days later he dumped me. Now it might have nothing to do with the wax but, I will ALWAYS wonder.
Moral of the story? Waxing is the devil.
Don’t say I didn’t warn you.