Pucker Up

Ouch doesn't even come close.


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I just sent this text to my flatmate:

 

Image

 

I got brave. 

My beloved and I are celebrating our second anniversary next week.

My sister told me that it was the worst pain she had ever experienced.

Be it a sense of occasion or a sense of defiance, I’m not sure. All I know is that I’m sitting here, without my pants, rocking gently and wishing I could turn back time.

It started easily enough. I wanted to do some landscaping in the lady garden. That pressure that comes with a relationship, you know? If you’ve been a long-time reader of this blog, you know that those words generally signal drama. In fact, just recently I wrote about how we shouldn’t be afraid to leave our fannies alone.

But did I listen?

Oh, nooooo.

Picture it. I’m home alone. My beloved is working an afternoon/evening shift. I want to surprise her when she gets home.

I think she is going to be surprised.

The trimmer had flat batteries.

I had no special cream.

Even I’m not silly enough to let a blade near my vag.

One solution, which I should have known really wasn’t a solution.

Wax.

WAX.

Yes, you are right to have alarm bells pealing in your head. I didn’t. I went for it.

Cut myself a couple of strips. Peeled them apart.

Put one in place, and being aware that if I didn’t apply the second I would probably drop it, I slapped on the second strip.

Grabbed the first strip.

Tightened what I could.

Yanked.

SCREAMED.

The yanking of wax felt as though I was removing hair from my head the long. I’m sure I heard my uterus detach, so intense was the pain.

Now, I never knew that when in this kind of situation, the automatic words from my mouth would be “HOLY MOTHER OF GOD!” I really thought this was more of a “FUCK!” or “SHIT!” situation. Apparently stress brings out my religious side.

The worst of it is that the wax did not come away.

I had pain. Pain like never before.

I had hair, holding on for dear life.

And I had wax. Two strips of it, if you recall.

Because oh no, we wouldn’t want to drop the fucking strip.

It was around this stage that I started whimpering.

There is no way to easily remove wax. Particularly not from one’s bush.

My stomach churning and heart thumping, I considered my options.

There really were not many.

Hot water – no.

Cold water, ice even, to set the wax into a choc-magic type situation, so I could easily crack it off? Unlikely.

Nail polish remov – DON’T BE RIDICULOUS!

I opened the bathroom cupboard and looked hopefully inside. I saw it – wax remover! Yes!

The time for delicateness well and truly over, I yanked off the lid, cupped the liquid in my hand and splashed it onto my nether regions. A slight sting, but not too bad.

Got in the shower. Tried to make sure all the wax was gone. That wax remover was harder to get off, though.

Exhausted, I made my way to my room to get dressed.

Made the decision to be thorough and wise.

Figured that there may be some residual wax, and rather than get myself into an even worse situation, I came to the obvious conclusion that I needed to make sure the wax was completely gone.

What may be slightly less obvious is what I chose to use:

Rubbing. Alcohol.

Rubbing alcohol.

Holy. Mother. Of. God.

Today is not the day for wisdom, it seems.

It burnt it burnt it burnt it burnt. I could feel any hope exiting my body via the garden. I could feel my skin puckering in terror.

As I wobbled on my feet and the room became black, I caught a glimpse of my raw, slightly shriveled fanny.

Pucker up.

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