I believe my Mound of Venus has been RIPPED OFF

I have just confirmed two things. That I am not into S&M. And… if you are going to experience pain, tis’ best to take that shot of JD beforehand. Yes. Have that shot or two of self-medication. Skip the cola. That little bit of sugar won’t do anything to prevent the onslaught of FIRE that occurs when you choose to have hair ripped out of your nether region. Hair. RIPPED OUT.

You see, I went to get my usual done. My upper leg wax that I get every 6-8 weeks. It's a bit painful, but bearable for the result. Dreamy smooth skin. I hadn’t had a bikini wax in years and thought ..why not treat myself? Treat. Yeah…I DID just say that. So, I go to my usual gal and say that I want a little bit more taken off this time. Note my use of those three words… A. Little. Bit. I pointed to the area. She nodded. We communicated. Or, so I thought. Apparently, a little bit means something very different to me than it does to my anesthesiologist. Oh yeah, I mean aesthetician. I SO could have used an anesthesiologist, though... Oh, my…YES. I could have. It would have been so lovely to sleep through THE PAIN.

Is there not something additionally horrific about a nice woman talking in a quiet voice, the two of you sharing stories of your lives, and every mmmm... 30 seconds or so she causes you PAIN? There you are chatting nicely back and forth. She lays the warm wax on your skin, which feels kind of soothing…lulling you into a false state of relaxation and then…RIPPPPPP. Silent Scream. Pain. PAIN. That was PAIN. And then she does it again and AGAIN- yet checking in with me every once in a while to make sure I'm O.K.?

O.K.?

Yeah…sure. But, what THE HELL just happened? I believe my Mound of Venus has been RIPPED OFF. And maybe my Vagina, too. Is it still there? I look. I think it is. Still there. Gulp. Gulp. Trying not to cry… I smile back at her through clenched teeth. Can she tell I’m faking the smile? Would another woman NOT EXPECTING this much PAIN have BITCH SLAPPED her? But, I can’t do that.... Damn! I'm a nice middle-aged suburban woman. I’m a mother for God’s sake! I stay SILENT. We talk of other things. Anything. Best NOT to focus on the PAIN. Or… to look down. I flip over onto my stomach. Dear God. Let my ass be hairless. It seems the worst is over. Phwwwooooo...We finish. Amazingly my panties still seem to be on. I thought they had been shredded. No blood? No evidence of the carnage? I'm shocked.

I thank her. I get dressed. I pay her. I feel lighter. So MUCH lighter. I walk out. Am I taller? I believe I AM taller. Did my body unravel into a stretching yoga pose whilst I was on the madwoman's table? Oh, no…it is just that I’m walking higher. My feet aren’t really touching the ground because my entire VA JAY JAY is on FIRE. And I’m...well, I'm ...hop walking. Kind of like a cowboy who has been in the saddle all day with burrs in his britches. Except not.

I get home and drop trou. Panties next. And what greets my eyes? Oh…NOOOO. Oh, no, no, nooooo. My VA JAY JAY looks like it is a VA HEY HEY for air traffic controllers. The hair (what’s left of it) resembles a…a… a landing strip. Yes. A. Landing. Strip. IT IS HIDEOUS. Hideous, I tell you. Some fucking feminist I am.

There IS a silver lining in all this. Isn't there? There is! Tonight, once I can walk again, I’ll have a new signal system for my husband. No more WINK WINK NOD NOD.

Hey, honey! Lookie lookie! Just in case you didn’t know where to put the engine down, here’s your very own landing strip!

..................................Now, you know sweetie…staring is RUDE.
................Come on DOWN...BIG BOY!

What would Mae West say?

Are ya gonna be a LOOKIE LOO or a WINNAH, Big Boy?

On second thought…I think I’ll have the lights out and have him fumble around for the goodies. But, that's later. Right now? I’m going to lie down and put ice on my mons pubis. And in my next life…I’m going to come back as a hairless Norwegian.

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