Keep Me Taut, Delineated, “Particulated”
An early morning freewrite about waxing the goods
I asked him to touch me, his hand in my pants, because I just got waxed. It's day 3, when it's a buttery plane, not livid with abrasion bumps. Oh, and before we get started: I don't want to hear lectures about natural hair growth from anyone.
For someone who craves control and tight hems and fitted bodices—figurative and real—I indulge in how quickly the wax congeals as I brace myself for the ripping due in a few seconds with no warning (the anticipation!). It feels liberating, like I’m also letting go of auras, the tempering, of unfortunate experience and sentiment of the intimate kind but not limited to that. I get to let go as my esthetician-therapist has me further expel by nonchalantly asking about my life during the procedure. I pay for someone to remember me as she tweezes the tiny hairs the wax didn't catch. Her memory jogs concerning topics we previously discussed as I move to my side and dutifully pull up each butt cheek.
For someone who sees vulnerability as weakness, this act is both punishment and reward for 22-24 minutes. For a thorough Brazilian! I've had others take much longer, and I still had to do some extra plucking at home.
The hot wax burned along my left lip once. I absorbed that rich shock just as an obedient child would as her mother combs the knots out of her hair after a shower. I didn’t say anything about the mini-torture. In regard to the see-saw of life, karma, and my own adult temper tantrums, I accepted this as a symbolic consequence for participating in interpersonal relationships, especially when I do it poorly or selfishly.
As far as I’m concerned, Lara1 is doing the Lord’s work.
"Touch me. Feel how smooth I am."
Back in the bedroom and under the covers, he obliges.
“It’s smooth,” he always replies.
We are sleepy and respectfully reposition into a less overtly sexual but more compassionate embrace. I run my fingers across his hairy chest which I love. His fingers sift through my hair which I love more. I think about pleasuring myself after he dozes off. I anticipate filling my palm with lube and conjuring up a scenario in my head. Recently, I’ve been bouncing between the coy advances of a much older man seducing me with fancy art and rare books. He is too excited and a sloppy kisser. The second “Choose Your Own Adventure” involves the cute barista-fairy with doe eyes at the cafe downtown who obediently handles my making out with her pussy without embarrassment or annoying giggling.
My hand slides into place, and I delight in my touch. As my husband asserts, if I met my doppelganger, it would be too much. Unfortunately, my mind won’t lock in. There’s too much on the next day’s horizon: back-to-school, end-of-summer plans, works-in-progress, and other hyphenated items. Sweaty and with a charlie horse activated, I give up.
When my hair down there starts to grow out, it’s thin and sporadic. Kind of cute. I take care of that fragile skin with anti-ingrown hair serum, lotion, and Bio-Oil. I am in awe of the contrast, the sleekness coupled with a cesarean scar, but it symbolizes more of a connection of sorts: the rawness of life. Ripping and tearing. Pulling and plucking. Removal and release.
Keep me taut, delineated, “particulated.”
I watched a video once about all the layers a doctor goes through during a c-section surgery. It’s insane… and to be awake through it all. I’ve had my organs moved aside and tissue cut on three separate occasions. The scar is quite beautiful; I’ve been told that I’ve “healed well.” I wouldn’t know because I’ve never seen another woman’s scar.2 Why?
Maybe the waxing reminds me that I can still handle “edits” associated with my intimate core. Like after a haircut or a baby’s birth or notification of an expired obligation, you just feel lighter.
Never serving as a welcoming or greeting, my pubic stripping offers me a visual reminder of having very little to hide. Stark, bare, and explicit.
I’ve never been a fan of beating around the bush (sorry, not sorry).
Metaphorically, it’s about getting to the point.3
Names have been changed to protect the innocent who are just going about their lives as I immerse them into my chaos.
Not true. I’ve seen my mom’s. Her cut was vertical and she hated how her abdomen looked. Because of this, I feared needing a c-section. Mine is low and horizontal, and with almost a decade since the last cut, it still amazes me.
“running out of time,” Lil Yachty