For Marie who wanted it finished.
[Recently I started sorting through files and folders stashed on an old hard drive. In a folder called “In Progress” I found this, a story I’d started roughly twenty years ago and, at first, could barely remember writing. I’ve got a hazy memory of starting it partly to explain on the newsgroup what a “Brazil wax” is (yes, it was that long ago) and the post somehow morphing into a fantasy/story.]
Every month I go see Laura, The Brazilian Princess (trust me, that nickname fits, being both her nationality and part of her profession) to get my “bits” waxed.
I don’t wax for Pablo; as far as I know he neither wants nor requires me to give my nether bits the Full Monty. I’m not sure he even cares. That might make it easier, but no, monthly waxing is my own choice, my own agony of tender embarrassment, done for my own vanity.
Brazilian bikini waxing done “Hollywood style” (the waxer that takes off *everything* –all the pubic hair, front, back, and (eek!) in between) hurts, not too much to bear, but plenty. First, the wax is hot, not too hot, not hot enough to burn, but *almost*. Hot enough to feel it might. I have to lie completely still while she’s spreading the sticky, honey-colored mix or it might go somewhere too painful to think about. Plus, my Catholic school-girl-self never gets used to spreading myself on the waxing table, exposing everything in every possible sense for the 10 to 15 minutes it takes Laura to rip my hair off. A gyno exam is a modest little *nothing* compared to a Brazilian.
Brazil waxing is also interactive, requiring active participation. Laura even pulls my bottom cheeks apart and waxes between them. Once the hair’s gone she gently, oh so gently, rubs sweet almond oil everywhere she’s defoliated, finally sprinkling my defoliated bits with baby powder.
Mmmm. Admittedly, that part’s pretty nice.
Since she charges $50 –$60 with the tip– cash only I figure she takes in at least $800 a day, easily. No wonder she only works three days a week. Laura’s the best Brazil waxer in Los Angeles and that matters. Getting a Brazilian is like open heart surgery. This is not a part of your body where you’d want to be a novice waxer’s “learning” or “practice” client. Not even in their first one hundred.
Dressing after, I *hate* pulling my panties back on. No matter how soft or light they are, the woven cotton feels rough against my newly-smooth, freshly-oiled skin. Sometimes I don’t, and stay freshly bare under my full cotton skirt. Wiggling against the pink fabric as I drive through the Santa Monica Mountains, I can feel how clean and bare I am. It feels completely delicious– “Too nice for boys,” a friend says.
When “down there” is so freshly smooth I long to be touched and admired, at the same time embarrassed, imagining my bits being inspected. [What would that even look like?] My embarrassment doesn’t decrease my desire. *Wanting* such a thing while knowing Pablo *knows* what I want adds to the embarrassment. I try holding still, but my body trembles like something deep inside my bones is vibrating out to my skin. My thoughts are dreamy, and unfocused.
Yes, they’re naughty girl thoughts even as I try to focus on driving. Somehow this is your fault. Or mine. Or something.
Enter my “hard wax” fantasy…