Wax on: Wax off

The amount of time, effort, and work it takes to be a woman is tiring.  Bump that work load up a notch if you want to be an attractive one.  Preparing to meet a gentleman caller can take days of work.  Depending what you are prepared to unveil.  In the beginning its just mascara, and lotion and hair products, lip balm, maybe some shaved legs.  As things progress, the ante is upped and you need to take precautions for areas that may not be treated regularly.  Who knew the vagina needed prep work.  I thought for the longest time that it was like on oven, self cleaning, gets the job done, no need for extra tinkering.

A few years ago my cousin dragged me along to her bikini waxing appointment.  After the obligatory questioning of a first timer, “How bad does it hurt?” “Will it come back thicker?”  “How long does it take?”   I decided to sign up and just do it.

I made an appointment with Mariola for a bikini wax.  The bikini wax was what my older, more mature cousin always got.  “Just ask for a strip down the middle, she’ll know what you mean,” she told me.
“What if I don’t want a strip?  What if I just want it all taken off?” I asked

“Like everything, everything?” She asked eyebrows raised.

“Yeah, why do I want anything there?  Isn’t that the point of waxing?”  I felt stupid, what was she insinuating with the terms “everything, everything?”  Was this sexual code for some sort of happy ending waxing?  I just plain and simple, don’t want any hair.  No need for sexual favors.  Just rip that shit out and I’ll tip you 20% for having to handle my clam.

My cousin explained that you can opt to get a Brazilian.  Which to me sounded exotic.  I love exotic foods, exotic lands, exotic people, I’ll probably get on board for an exotic wax.  I immediately felt like one of those curvy Brazilian models who wear spray painted swimsuits on the Sports Illustrated covers, perhaps a bit paler but shit if a Brazilian wax meant bathing suit ready, then sign me up.  She further explained that they wax everything, inside the lips, outside, as well as the crack of your ass.

As far as I knew, I didn’t have hair in my ass crack.  That was reserved for plumbers, or exotic people like Brazilians or Greeks.  Maybe my ass hair was like the stuff have on my cheeks, but that is non-existent, blonde, fluff.   I don’t think I’ll need that area dealt with.  I use my asshole  to shit, not for pleasure.  If anyone is close enough to my ass hairs to examine them, they had better be a doctor.  So I decided to keep what I had scheduled and tell Mariola I wanted everything but the backside dealt with.

The day finally came, I was so nervous.  I showered and prepped my body for probing.  I went over small talk I could make to Mariola when I got there, because I didn’t want awkward silence; and most of all I didn’t want to hear the sound of the strip being ripped off my poor little yoni.

Sidenote: I watched this BBC America documentary about women and their self image of their vaginas.  There was a segment where the women would dress in kimonos and sit on piles of fluffy pillows.  They would take turns sitting Indian-style with mirrors aimed to show the reflection of their vaginas.  They were then instructed to explain what they saw and how they felt to the other women in the group.  All the while they would refer to their vaginas as their “Yoni.”  Then once they were comfortable they could invite the others to look at said Yoni and share encouraging thoughts.  It seemed so flower, sunshine, magic time, that by the end I wanted to buy natural hemp underwear laced with lavender for my own Yoni and invite Woody Harrelson over for tea.  The Yoni is special and coveted, unlike the snatch.  The snatch is the drunken version of the Yoni that has no standards or conscience.  Most men have relations with the snatch and not the Yoni, its statistics.  Not many men gain access to a women’s yoni, that is reserved for respectable sober gents.

Ok, so back to my virginal waxing quest with my Yoni.  I went to the spa, it was lovely.  They had cucumber water in crystal glasses, and it smelled soft and natural; the lights were low, soothing music was playing while I waited.  Mariola came in through the doorway, “Hi Rachel, you ready for your wax?”  At that moment the record needle screeched off the vinyl, the lights became beacons of blinding white heat, and the glass of cucumber water shattered in my sweaty hands.

She walked down the hallway to the dimly lit room with the table-bed covered in white towels.
“Is this your first time being waxed?” she asked smiling.

“Yes, I am very nervous,” I said quietly.

“Ok, no problem.  I am fast.  It is over before you know it,” she said clapping her hands sharply.  I immediately thought of some sort of Polish torture chamber where they strap you to the table and pour hot wax on you and rip it off while force feeding you perogies.  The sound of getting your hair ripped out was the thing that scared me the most, like heavy, thick pads of Velcro ripping apart.  The anticipation of the sound was enough to send my heart racing.

Ok, you undress from waist down and I return,” she said pointing at the bed.

She shut the door and I jumped into action.  I took off my pants and underwear and looked down.  Do I need to take off my socks?  She did say undress from the waist down, your socks fall in that vicinity.  What is this a porno, of course take off your socks!  I folded my clothes and laid down on the table.  There was a small white wash cloth for me to cover my Yoni with so I did and smoothed out my t-shirt waiting for Mariola to return.

Those moments seemed the longest in my life.  That 2 minute wait seemed eternal, and unavoidable.  When she came in she smiled and asked, “so we do bikini today?”

“I just want everything taken off,” I said keeping completely still.

“Everything, everything?” she replied.  There it was again, what the hell does that mean?!

“Well what is the difference?  I don’t want a strip or whatever.  Just take it all off,” I replied closing my eyes.

“You want backside too?” she asked.

“No!  Not that!” I yelped.

“Ok, Ok no worry,” she said.  “I fast, be over very… very soon,” she said slowly.  I could hear Velcro tearing in the background each time my heart thumped, “rip, rip, rip, rip-rip, rip-rip.”

“Ok, now I clean you, and then we wax,” she smiled.   She applied a bottle to a cotton ball and swabbed my scared little yoni.  It was cool, and dried quickly.  Then I saw her take a wooden popsicle stick and stir it into the viscous wax pot.  It resembled that of my mother’s miniature crock pot used for cheese dips or potpourris.  When she stretched the strand of wax out of the pot, I braced myself.  “So where you from?” she asked rubbing the cloth onto the wax.

“Here,” I said watching closely as her hands moved.

“You need be relaxed.  Breath normal, ok?” she said waiting for me to exhale the breath I’d been saving inside my lungs.

The first gob she applied was warm and then she covered it with the strip.  After some firm, slow rubbing she paused and smiled at me.  Then in one swift movement she pulled back the strip.  It was shocking because of the sound, but the pain was tolerable.  The sound was quieter than I had imagined.  I thought it would envelope my yelps, but it was tamer.  Much like the sound of a child’s Velcro shoe.  She didn’t lie, her hands were steady and swift.  She moved from the sides down to the lips.  This area scared me the most.  The deeper you go down a path, the more frightening it becomes.  It’s true in children’s stories, and it’s true in life.  The lips would be the worst.  She applied the wax and it was hotter than before.  When she ripped it off she gasped.
“Ohh that was a good one,” she said.

I looked down to see that my yoni was still intact and almost clean at this point.  A few more rips and I was done.  She saved the top part for last, “this is worst part,” she said.

“You help me, ok?  Lay hands flat on stomach,” she instructed prying them from the clenched position on my shirt.  She lay the wax down and watched my breathing, making sure to pull back after my exhale.

Mother of Pearl!  That was the worst pain of the entire thing.  The part that seemed the least dangerous was full of sensation.  My yoni whimpered and buzzed, but it was finally complete.  Took much less time than I thought and when I looked down I saw a hairless pink yoni that was  kinda sore, but overall the best I’d ever felt.  I hadn’t looked at my yoni in this sort of light since before puberty.  I’d shaved before but it didn’t feel as clean as this did.  I was given instruction before I left on how I needed to care for my newly bald vagina.

“No friction, no hot showers, no working out and absolutely no sex,” Mariola told me.

“No problem.” I said.

She left and I went home treading carefully trying not to rub the tender areas together.  When I showered that night I felt great.  I felt stealth.  It was like water down a tin roof, and I imagined myself being able to compete with Michael Phelps, or slip through narrow passage ways in the dark of night, just a slippery shadow in the blackness.

So ladies, and gents I tell you this after my waxing experience.  Go twice for this treatment.  Because it is so worth it in the long run.  The first time is just jitters and anxiety, the second time is a piece of cake and the results are amazing.  Contrary to belief it will grow back thinner and thinner, leaving you with virtually nothing to deal with.  Get the strip if you want, but try getting it all done once, just to see that the pain isn’t as excruciating as people may say.  Bald eagles are making a comeback!    But I’ll tell you this…the backside is awkward.  You have to lay on your side and spread your cheeks like a hoagie roll.  Don’t you dare let go, because your buns will be closed for business and you’ll need a lock smith to get that gate open again.

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Published in: on February 28, 2011 at 11:41 pm  Comments (1)  

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  1. oh my gosh! I was dying laughing the entire way through. this is hilarious rach! i only wish i could have heard you tell the story in Chicago. sigh…


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