I was 20 years old when I decided bush was out. So, I took a trip to a salon that did bikini waxes and paid to go Brazilian. Immediately I regretted it. It was painful; I was red; I was sore. However, my boyfriend at the time -- a tall Italian guy who liked his women bald -- loved it. Diana has since informed me that lady who waxed me was Satan incarnate and purposely hurt me. "Waxing shouldn't be that painful."
Still. I can't.
I like being hair-free down there, but I swore I'd never get my special place waxed ever again.
Shaving, on the other hand, was a viable option. When bush began to make its itchy return, I gathered shaving foam and a razor and I proceeded to hack myself to pieces. I just didn't have the touch. Nicking my precious clitoris was the final straw. I'd have to live with bush.
Or so I thought.
Jan came to my rescue. On a cool October night, I told Jan of my latest problem trying to stay hair -free. That night, awkwardness aside, Jan hooked me up with a landing strip.
It's been that way ever since.
It's our thing now. I call him up, ask him to see me on Sundays, and he obliges. I assume the position, and he starts shaving. All the while he talks about the latest gossip at his job, his boyfriend, and his crazy family. He's finished in less than eight minutes.
Only a true friend would do this. And Jan is the truest of friends.
Goodnight.