Waxing Poetic

Remember, a few months ago I talked about manual labour? How I like to be primped and polished for the arrival of hired hands? Well, I take my commitment very seriously for you never know when Mr. Right may show up at my door, tool in hand, looking for a tidy place to insert it. A girl has to be ready… at all times… for whatever comes her way.

How do I prepare for whatever comes my way? The answer can be found in one word: wax. Let me tell you a tale of my soiree into the world of the Brazilian—an experience was had on that bald and fateful day.

When I entered the salon I was excited. I love doing naughty things and those Brazilians sure do have a reputation for being bold and daring. I was eager to see what all the fuss was about. I stood up straight, pushed my shoulders back, boobs out and with head held high walked up the stairs to meet my esthetician—a man.

A man I say, a man is going to delve into my bits with a popsicle stick and hot wax? The shock here was that he wasn’t going to pay me, but that I was going to be paying him. Not the usual exchange, but oh well. A service rendered does deserve payment in full. So we shook hands and he led me into his lair.

The light was dim, almost midnight black. The piercing dark was romantically illuminated by white twinkle lights strung throughout ivy, growing on the lattice work above the bed. Huh? Lattice work, twinkle lights and foliage? And that was just the ceiling. The bed itself was dressed in a flannel leopard print motif. Flannel? Is that hygienic? I was starting to feel a bit uneasy, but it was too late to back out now. I was here to get me my Brazilian and this guy had come highly recommended… by the strippers.

We discussed my wants, needs and desires… making sure to keep to the topic at hand (for I fear hands and ideas could have gone astray like a bad 70’s bush). I said I was here for a Brazilian and he told me about the process. As it was my ‘first time’ he was going to be gentle with me. Really? Is that how it’s supposed to go? I better make mention of that to Mr. Royal Copenhagen. But I digress…

So, service established he left me to undress. The ‘undressing’ room was yet another area of this theme park. The theme for this cozy nook was Old Victorian. Lamps with ornate shades lit the area and high-back fancy chairs were there to butler my clothes. Mirrors were hung and framed with lace, and bowls of pearls and jewels sparkled on the counter. I blinked, laughed, smiled and took it all in. A feast for all the senses.

Oh, and in the background was not any sort of Top 40 schlock, no sirree, in the background gurgled the sounds of an eddying brook and chirping birds. To sum up the carnival environment is almost impossible, but if the word eclectic could ever be uttered, this was the place to use it.

Flash forward to me naked, drowning in the flannel leopard sheets, and feeling a tad bit vulnerable. In he walks with popsicle stick in hand. He scoops up the wax, holding the dripping stick in one hand and with his other hand he engulfs my ankle and spreads my legs. What the? Yes, that’s what I said, he spread my legs. Now, as you know, I’m not a shy girl, but I am a modest girl. As much as I appreciated the thin sheet keeping my bits from his prying eyes his calming words of, “my, you have tiny ankles” did not make me sigh in complimented ecstasy.

Nothing ventured nothing gained. So the process continued. I was pulled, stretched, slathered, stripped and nuded. All throughout the service there was nervous chit-chat about personal ads, dating services, and his desire to get serviced. We talked about ‘his girls’ as well—the strippers who had so highly recommended him. I suppose their professional uniform is as good a business card as any.

Now, here comes the fun part. The front area was done—I was now sporting the look of a twelve year old girl. Being a Brazilian virgin I figured done was done. Nope. "Flip over." Yes, the phrase, 'flip over' was spoken and I did as I was told (Miss Nina takes orders as well as she gives them).

Telling secrets here, but have you ever felt the sensation of hot wax on the inside of places not meant for entry? Talk about invasive. Seconds later the wax was stripped before I could fully comprehend the magnitude of my backdoor experience. Only when the powder puff came out did my eyes widen like those of a cartoon character. Without warning the poof of powder filled the room and the marabou puff spanked my Brazilian behind. Oh, but I forgot to mention, before the puff I was slathered in oil and yes, the oil was applied by a gloveless hand and yes, the hand did manage to accidentally slip into said nether region.

To sum up, sensory overload followed by unsanitary conditions and invasive procedures. However, I did leave the salon with a pep in my step for under my stark sexy librarian look, lived the puss of a sultry Brazilian waiting to please my next handyman’s arrival. I walked to the nearest store and put an order in for delivery.

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