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But I'M NOT BITTER...
The Goddess of battle, strife, and destruction explains it all for you

The Brazilian

by

May 9, 2009

Have you ever stopped to wonder how bizarre it is to walk into a business establishment, look a complete stranger in the eye and give them $50 to rip every single one of your pubic hairs out by the root with hot wax? How inherently odd it is to spend a full 30 minutes with a woman whose name you don’t even know discussing the weather while she is maybe 6 inches from your genitals?

Why do we do this to ourselves?  Obviously, this is an idea that a man dreamed up. If it were up to women, we would all resemble sasquatches. Not one of us would do this voluntarily

My experience with the Brazilian began about 2 years ago when I lived in Toronto.  There was a salon down the block and relatively speaking, they were cheap (and I was making lots of money in those days).  I was curious.  So I took myself down the road and walked in.

“I’d like a bikini wax please”, I said to the young Korean girl at the counter.

“Yes, yes”, she smiled, and ushered me into a back room. “Just bikini rine?” she asked, as she closed the door behind us.

“No”, I responded grimly. “A Brazilian.”

Getting naked in front of someone who you are not planning to have sex with or is not about to perform a medical examination upon you is a strange experience, but I stripped off all the same.

I think the weirdest part about this whole thing is that both women involved in the process tend to chat away as if nothing at all untoward is going on.   This woman spoke little English but she was good at her job. 

“OK, rady, you leady?” smiled the girl, whose name I was never to learn. I took a deep breath and nodded.

She slathered a wide line of wax along the top of my pubic line. It actually feels quite nice going on, warm and soothing. And then, rip -- holymotherfuckingsweetMarymotherofGod -- I felt tears spring to my eyes and I’ve got a high pain threshold. This wasn’t even the sensitive area.

“Ooh, you blave rady”, she said in admiration. “No scleam.”

“You hold here” she instructed, as she covered my labia in wax and placed my hand on the opposite side to create some tension so she could tear the wax off without taking my genitalia with it.

I tried desperately to go to my Happy Place because

(a) this was going to hurt like a bitch; and

(b) there was no turning back now.

RIP

I think I passed out briefly and wait -- was that one of my ovaries?

“Rady? Rady?” I heard a voice call from a long way off. “You OK, rady?”

“Keep going” I said weakly.  After that, mercifully, post-traumatic amnesia stepped in to spare me any clear memory but in due course I emerged as hairless as any 8 year old.

“OK, rady, you done now. You blavest rady -- no scleam at all.”

That may well be, but all the same I’d like an ambulance now please. They should licence these people to dispense narcotics.

I struggled weakly back into my clothing, tipped her lavishly and staggered out the door.

While some women get Brazilians to accommodate certain fashions, many of them do it to accommodate a man.  If that’s your decision (as opposed to his), then whatever floats your boat.

But don’t think it’s all going to be roses.  Before you commit to a Brazilian, consider this:

1.      It’s painful.  Really painful.

2.      After you have a Brazilian, your panty liners will stick to you like adhesive strips.  Every time you go for a pee, it will feel like you’re ripping off a bandaid.  No one warns you about this.

3.      They take maintenance and unless you keep it up, three weeks later your private parts will look like a Chia Pet.

4.      Because of the lack of uh, cushioning post-Brazilian, almost every garment is guaranteed to give you camel toe.  Nobody warns you about this either.

If, after your first heartstopping Brazilian, you decide you can’t face the thought of ever having another, here’s what you need to know about regrowth.

It’s itchy.  Unbelievably itchy.  You’ll feel like a bear in spring.  Do not be surprised to find yourself seized with the urge to scratch while in public.  It can be done, but you have to be surreptitious about it.  For the next few weeks, the sharp corners on tables will be your friends.

The other day, for reasons still unclear to me, I decided to revisit the issue.  Why, you ask?  Good question.  Too much time on my hands, I suppose.  What I don’t have too much of at the moment is money.  And fifty bucks is fifty bucks.

I resolved to do it myself.

Upon sober reflection, this was not the brightest idea I’ve ever had but once you start, it’s not exactly an enterprise that can be abandoned. 

This should all fall under the rubric of “Don’t try this at home”, but always game for a challenge (and admittedly, not thinking straight), I figured it would be a breeze.  I never suspected I was so nimble, though.  In order to complete the job properly, I got myself into positions that would guarantee me international fame with the Cirque de Soleil.  Some of it, by necessity, was done standing up but once you get down to the nitty gritty, you have to be at least partially supine.  I wouldn’t recommend this be performed in carpeted bathrooms but I have to warn you:  sitting on tile is cold. 

That, however, was the least of my worries.

At first, it went pretty well.  It made tears spring to my eyes, but I could take it.  I finished the easy bits and while I was definitely throbbing, I’ve felt worse pain than this.

Regrettably, things quickly got out of hand when I got around to the more delicate region. 

Looking back now, the decision to apply a copious river of wax to the entire area in an attempt to get it over with quickly was misguided to say the least.  I had just applied a good half cup of rapidly congealing wax to my nether regions and unless I could figure out how to shed my skin, this was going to be a memorable few hours.

 

I was faced with the unimaginable task of removing it all.  It took me an hour to accomplish and there was at least one exceptionally dodgy moment where the only thing that prevented me from going to the Emergency Room was the fact that I was stuck to the floor.  That and the attendant embarrassment of seeking medical attention because I’d inadvertently glued myself shut.    There was some serious teeth gritting going on before I was able to work up the nerve to rid my tender lady bits of a ridiculously lavish strip of molten wax, complete with a few bits of loose grouting.

I was hoping that the sweat pouring off me in buckets would loosen it a bit, but no such luck.  There was nothing for it but to screw my courage to the sticking point (no pun intended) and yank for all I was worth.  I knew I was risking serious injury and a possible future as a hermaphrodite but it’s not like I could leave the damn stuff where it was. 

I took a deep breath, said a few prayers and RIP.

My life flashed before my eyes, my last conscious thought being that this was not how I wanted to meet the local firefighters.

When I recovered, I examined my handiwork.  When this gets done at a salon, it is painful but the results are professional and no blood is spilled.  Not so in this case.  I looked like the victim of a particularly grisly scalping.

Several things flitted through my swimming head at this point, most notably being why in the world this had ever seemed like a good idea.

But, like I said, this is not something you can simply give up on while you’re in the midst of it.  It’s all or nothing and since I figured the worst was over, I resolved to finish the job.

It took ages, but I’d learned to apply small bits of wax and since I was already numb and throbbing, I barely noticed the pain.

I had accomplished the unachievable and though a few random bits of wax still adhered to me like crazy glue (causing me to bond implacably with my clothing), the ordeal was finally at an end.

It was fully two days before I could sit down without wincing and considering the whole endeavour smacked of being all dressed up with no place to go, I’m still wondering what on earth possessed me. 

I got huge (if horrified) props from my girlfriends though.  “What’s next?” one of them asked.  “You going to do your own root canal?”

So let this be a cautionary tale for you all.  Doing your own Brazilian is possible, but it is foolhardy in the extreme.

Fifty bucks to have it done professionally?  Worth every single penny.

Till next time,

Morrigan



Copyright© the Morrigan & Heartless Bitches International (heartless-bitches.com) 2009
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