When it grows too long, I have to trim it back to a small bush or my ob-gyn will give me a rash of shit about how guys these days prefer hairless pussies. Who gives a shit what guys think? My doctor suggested she just whack it all off via her million-dollar carbon-dioxide laser that melts the hair follicles like, until the year 2200. Fuck that! I love my bush. It’s soft and silky and a natural blonde hue, with delicate strands of a Jamaican rum color that give it a sorta banana-blonde take. I find it sexier than some threadbare pube, no matter how beautiful the girl attached to it may be at first blush.
What drives me to suicide are the little hairs around my sweet tush. I took a shot of them once in a mirror I put on the floor, and they looked soooo cute, like baby-blonde down. Thing is—and this is a big fuckin’ thing—when I used to wipe my bottoms after a five-alarm shit, some of the stuff—in micro-quantity, mind you—got tangled up in that beautiful downy hair, rendering it something south of nasty. After a day of sitting in jeans or board shorts (yes, with underwear, you perve!), I could detect a teeny yet distinct odor down there, and it wasn’t the pussy. This was a few years back when I was, like 14. No one could ever notice it, of course, but I did. Maybe it’s ‘cos I ran my fingers over my blow hole after I wiped up, and could detect it. Then again, I could sniff out a gram of Belgian chocolate in an acre of pig shit.
Okay, so all this sounds pretty ranky, I know, but it’s one of the many indignities of female hygiene I suffer through each day, week and month. And—who knows?—maybe just ‘cos I could smell myself, no one else ever possibly could, but now, as a young woman, I take great care of me. Or at least I think I try to. And, yes, it’s worse than plucking my eyebrows, changing a tampon, and having to put that stupid little strip of Lightdays inside my jeans when I go sans panties.
Okay, let’s just get on to my recent dilemma: third-degree booty-burn. Some girls get rashes sitting in their distilled juices for more than a day, some get the nasty from just plain bad chemistry. Me? I heaped it on myself one lovely Monday morning before my physics final, when I used the feminine-hygiene equivalent of Drano to remove the hair around my lovely booty. Nair has been around for longer than I have, and the company that makes it for longer than my ‘rents, so I figgered that whatever the fuckin’ directions on the packaging musta been written by Moses himself, right? Today would be an exception.
Why Nair, you ask? I got tired of squatting in the tub during a nice hot shower, spreading my muscular timbers, and shaving my ass with a razor, no doubt engineered by the man who designed the fancy cutlery for those medieval torture chambers one still can find beneath Paris and London. If you’re not into Nair, it’s a very caustic solution of potassium hydroxide, at a pH of about 11 or 12.
Mean anything to you? Let’s recall ninth-grade science: acidic solutions are less than pH 7 and they can eat through steel, and basic solutions are more than pH 7, like 11, 12 and 14. Don’t get me started on what they can eat through. We’re taught that it’s the acidic solutions that will melt your skin and hair away, but what they don’t tell us—if they do, it’s a whisper—is that basic solutions can be just as deadly. They can wish away skin and hair and other essential stuff that make us pretty and, well, keeps us among the living. You do know what Drano does to a funky-ass drain clog, don’t you? It turns that hairball to mush in minutes. Remember:
mush in minutes.
The bottle said to spread it around evenly and let sit for four minutes. I did that. It then said to use a washcloth to remove the hair. Did that, too, but no hair came away. Since nothing happened at four minutes, I put some more of that pretty pink, not to mention stinky, lotion all around my butt and waited another four minutes. I figgered the slight stinging sensation meant that this Drano-wannabe was relegating my beautiful hair back to its primitive form of amino acids. In fact, it was. What was even more horrifying, though, was that the stuff was eating right through my beautiful ass. That stinging sensation I felt at minute five soon became a blazing inferno that had me grabbing the shower head, turning it on COLD and HIGH, and blasting my ass like a junior member of the NY Fire Department for the next 20 minutes. It was a nice massage that sorta dulled the pain, but it all came back when I stopped and had to dry off. When I ran my fingers under my butt, I felt a wetness that wasn’t water. It stung like a fuckin’ thousand killer-bee stings, so I put a mirror on the floor to examine the full extent of my injury.
Mind you, under normal conditions I have a really nice-lookin’ ass, one of the sexiest I’ve ever seen, yet to be unleashed on the world. It’s a perfect mix of athletic-round and tear drop-feminine. Oh, and it’s a nice light cinnamon color, something natural and not tanned.
My beautiful ass, when viewed clinically in the mirror, now sitting on the floor below me, looked like a boiled lobster with deep-red welts running from front to back, and small white blisters beginning to sprout all over like an ancient pox. When I ran my fingers over them, they pulsed a clear, sticky fluid. Geezo-fuckin’-flip, I had resurrected John Carpenter’s
The Thing! I stood up, bowed my head and cried for five minutes, ‘cos I had just dissolved away half my hindquarters and I had no idea how it would look when it healed and it might grow into some horrid-looking, pustule-ridden, foul-smelling, diseased sack of shit that the world would certainly never wish upon any of its inhabitants, much less give me something nice to sit on at Thanksgiving.
After the crying jag, I collected myself and thought about first aid. My hands ran through all the cabinets, fishing for anything that would soothe the pain, not to mention protect what was left of my precious assets. Nothing in my cabinet! I took short, painful steps down the hall to my mom’s bathroom and found a tube of calendula, and squirted out the entire contents onto the counter, filled my hand with it and daubed it onto my once-gorgeous tushy. The pain was beyond belief; mine, at least. When I had painted on the first coat, I slapped on another one and another one, until the calendula was spent.
Now what? I shuffled slowly back to my bathroom, got some undies—the full-coverage variety—and tried to walk to my room. Fuuuuuck! The tears had long since dried up, so all that was left was plenty of yelling and castigating myself for being so stupid and careless. Hey! Wait a minute! I read the directions right. Didn’t I? I went back to the bathroom, read them again and, satisfied I didn’t screw up, went to my room and tried to lie down. The pain was unfuckin’bearable, so I got up and sat down at my computer and looked up the website for the fuckin’ corporation that just melted off my beautiful ass, and composed the first of several nasty missives, the first to the bastard CEO who sanctioned it, one to the idiot organic chemist who concocted it, and several to the asshole marketers who spread it like H5N1 bird flu from here to Bangladesh.
A full ten days after my Nairy ordeal, I’m now happy to report that the blisters have all but disappeared, the redness has slipped from deathly crimson to medium pink, and the pain is down to something resembling a small knife wound to the heart. I’ve still not heard from the maker of Nair, but after the full-color, 11” x14” museum-quality lithographs I FedEx’d them, I’m confident I’ll hear something soon. Gimme another coupla weeks and check back in, will you? By that time, I should be seeing the first of many settlement checks in the mail.
After check #1 clears, I’ll take us out for a lovely dinner and night on the town.
I hear Paris is cool and quiet this time of year. . . .
MEET YOUR AUTHOR
Tripsy South is the author of the novel
SUICIDE TANGO. Trained in physics at a cool surfer university, she lives and plays in Los Angeles where she’s a freestyle writer/editor and copywriter. Ring her
here.
