Butt Waxing: A Cheeky Ass Experience
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I still remember the day I bought my first hair trimmer – a Philips Series 3000 All-in-One Trimmer Kit. I felt very manly. The sole purpose of this purchase was to get rid of the hairy pasture down there. But the very fact that I could grow one somehow made me feel more comfortable in my gender. Like I had come of age. Become a man.
There’s a horde of men out there who have it easy when it comes to pubic hair. But unfortunately, as a product of South Asian stock, I am not one of those men. Within a week of manscaping, I look down and see long, curly, pitch black strands rapidly multiplying. Most days, I’m itchy and icky. Some days, however, those bushy grasslands caress my masculinity. I mean, imagine a hairless mons pubis. As puberty strikes, the carrot grows, the potato sacks mature, yet a lawn mower is never called into play. Not ideal, huh?
While some men age with shorter vegetation, others must spend their Saturday mornings keeping their Amazons in shape. But generally, most men have it easy. A quick 45 seconds of mowing and khalaas. A menial weekend chore. For women, however, it’s a totally different story. There can be a lot of pressure on them, often from men themselves, to have a completely hairless mons. And Mr. Philips just isn’t good enough for that job. And so was born, the Brazilian Wax.
It was a humid Saturday. My itchiness was driving me crazy. As I sat on the toilet seat, I began to meticulously tame the wild bushes, taking care to circumvent the carrot. As I ventured further beneath the potato sacks, I ran into an entirely new territory of farmland. This region had its own intricacies. Mowing it was far beyond the scope of what the All-in-One deal had promised me. Yes – it was my ass. An ass that needed grooming.
I was on the fence. I hadn’t consulted my girlfriend about this; it wasn’t exactly dinner table conversation. I hadn’t spoken to any of my male friends either; I wasn’t sure if they’d empathize, or just make fun and dismiss me. But at that point in time, my need for posterior ventilation trumped my weakly-developed thoughts on masculinity. The former was real, the latter abstract.
So I walked into Happiness Men’s Salon the next day – but not for my usual beard-trim-plus-hair-fade.
“Oh, Gu-raaav, where exactly do you want to wax?” smirked Elton John, my usual hairdresser. His effeminate sway of the hips and melodic voice attracted several customers – mostly fellow college-goers looking for a quick cheap chuckle, and sometimes a haircut to go with it.
Eyes hooded with embarrassment, I slowly replied, “Right down the middle.”
Next thing I know, I’m flat on my stomach, half-naked. Never had I let a man get this close to my genitals before. I unclenched my butthole, trying to make room for Elton’s fingers to maneuver into. Boundaries were breached. What redeemed the moment, though, was Elton’s demeanor. His soft voice and gentle hands filled the room with an air of reassurance. Humming a song in Tagalog, he cut the awkward silence and transformed the operation hall into a spa. I relaxed a bit.
Elton started heating the wax, “Is this common?” I asked him. “How often do you get male customers to do this? Does it hurt?”
“I’ve done this a million times,” he replied. “BUT, I won’t lie to you, Gu-raaav. It does pain a lot.”
A flash of panic. Then I made up my mind; I was going to tell Elton that I wanted to back out. But as soon as I looked behind me, I saw some… snow in my junk yard. Elton was caressing my asscheeks, with baby powder in one palm and hot wax in the other.
Nervously, I asked him, “Can you make it a little less painful please?” He giggled, then winked. There was no turning back now… literally.
The next twenty minutes felt like an eternity. I screamed and screamed maybe a bazillion times, almost biting my tongue off in the process. Every time the wax strip was yanked off me, so was my heart, smacking against my rib cage. My exocrine glands hustled to release every joule of heat in my body. A seasonal change had occurred inside me: it was autumn now, with the leaves falling off but the water from the roots of the tree dripping down my body as minute sweat droplets. Terror. Absolute terror.
Then, it was over. There I was, after undoubtedly one of the most physically painful experiences of my life, deforested for the first time in two decades. Ooof.
Drenched in perspiration, I thanked Elton for his services and made the journey back to my dorm room. From the outside, I was the same person. From within, I’d metamorphosed. My gait already started to feel different. I tried running too. I felt quicker. Every person I bumped into made me anxious, as if they could see through my pants and find out that I’d just gotten my butt waxed.
Those following two days were amusing, to say the least. After having my ass renovated, I realized the physics of my new state was pretty interesting. Firstly, I could feel the reduced air resistance. The flow of gas was smoother without all the hairy obstacles that had kept my left cheek from kissing my right. The teeniest flow of air now would cause this newfound, tingling stir. Even the most mini gas expulsion outputted into a full-throttled fart.
My sexual relationship with my partner levelled up too. My girlfriend was now able to dally in unchartered territory. Previously unknown spots were discovered, unfelt sensations experienced. While there were perks, as a member of the privileged sex, I felt humbled to have encountered the monster that is the Brazilian Wax. However, I do not wish to humble myself again. We signed a pact – neither of us would go through the misery of it again. What was it all for really, anyways?
Gaurav Dewani is passionate about filmmaking, poker, and football. He aims to use interdisciplinary art forms to invite audiences to introspect on the arbitrariness of events unfolding around us every day, and the socially accepted norms that tie us together – for the better or worse. Dewani has a degree in Economics and Film and New Media from NYU Abu Dhabi and is currently working as a Product Manager for Noon.