She came back in and started. I couldn’t see too much of what was happening, because I was flat on my back for the first part, had at least one and sometimes two legs over my head for the second part, and was positioned doggy-style for the third part. The disposable panties were basically immediately pushed to the side and stayed there. I realized that no adult woman had ever seen my really private parts at all, let alone at that angle and close range. Were they clean? Did they smell funny? But I stopped being embarrassed pretty quickly. Waxing that sensitive area hurt like hell. The feminine Russian woman had the hands of a Swedish masseuse. She said a couple of times, “Very strong, tough hair!” as the hot wax went on, a strip of cloth was put over it, and the cloth was RIPPED off. Over and over. In every little crack.
Finally the few remaining cowering, trembling hairs that had survived the massacre were plucked by hand, I was covered in sweat. I felt like I had survived some terrible initiation ceremony.
And I was a new woman. Removing my pubic hair made me feel as if I had vaulted out of a rut, some deep rut in my life that had been there for a long, long time. If I could get out of this rut, I reasoned, I could get out of any rut. I felt clean, free, young (almost like a prepubescent virgin—but I didn’t really want to dwell on that aspect of the result). I was newly open and exposed, in a very private way. I was hairless. I was hooked.
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