I decided to test my theory. On my next visit, I remained true to my singlehood—ass held high, declaring my right to a smooth crotch, man or no man. Two days later, it was like a raspberry farm had sprouted between my legs.
Waxism be damned!
At my next appointment, when Natasha asked about my monster, I said he was doing well and, why yes, we had a summer vacation planned—to Bermuda, in fact, and of course he was paying. Over time, my responses to her inquiries on what he did for a living varied depending on who I was dating—or wanted to be dating. He was a comedian, a graphic designer, a lawyer. We chatted about where he’d taken me for Valentine’s Day, what he bought me for Christmas, and how he was about to come back from a weeklong business trip in Palm Springs (I was jonesing for a really good wax that day).
These days, as she navigates into my most intimate cracks and crevices, she speaks with pride rather than pity: “Oh, he is going to LOVE me, he is going to LOVE ME.”
But then I’m reminded that no one is heading below my equator any time soon and think, “He WHO? Mr. Silicone-and-Batteries in my nightstand drawer? Oh yes, HE is going to LOVE you indeed. Too bad he has a dial instead of a mouth.”
But then I remember that HE is 100 percent focused on my pleasure and also asks nothing in return, which allows me to be 100 percent focused on myself in virtually every part of my life. Not many women can say that about their relationships.
So my monster? He’s doing just fine.
By Nicole Christie
