Wednesday, October 18, 2006

The Brazilian

I hate the Brazilian. More to the point, I have an undending jealousy of the blessed people who are lucky enought to date (and, wonder of wonders, marry) women who consent to brazilian waxing. In fact, I would rather that I had never heard of this strange and wonderful technique, as my knowledge of its existence has only brought me longing and misery.

My wife and I generally get along, which means that, although we disagree on some things, we can usually find a comprimise that is mutually acceptable. The Brazilian, alas, is one of our few, but persistent, sticking points. I think that the Brazilian might be one of the most wonderful things ever. In fact, in some of my more grandiose moments, I wonder if it might be the reason that God gave us wax in the first place.

My wife, on the other hand, thinks that the Brazilian hurts and itches. In that order. Okay, that's an understatement. My wife tells me that "hurts" is to the Brazilian what "minor boo-boo" is to getting disemboweled. And, in terms of itch, she likens it to rolling around in fiberglass insulation on a hot day while embracing a member of ZZ Top.

So, I get that it's kind of hurty and itchy. Still, sometimes love hurts and itches. And sometimes it burns when you pee. But we don't talk about that, because love is too important to be measured by meaningless, relativistic concepts like "pain," "itching," and "requiring a pencillin shot."

If I seem a little unyielding on this particular position, it is because the Brazilian is one of those few things that I really missed out on. Living in Southwest Virginia during my twenties, I found that I was lucky if the women I dated were willing to occasionally perform basic maintenance "down there," let alone adopt exotic styling regimens. Half of them
apparently thought that a thick, unkempt bush was their token nod to feminism; their reasoning seemed to be that shaven legs and makeup didn't matter, as long as their nether-region looked like Jo-Jo the dog boy.

The other half of my dating pool seemed disinclined to acknowledge that their vaginas were attached to their bodies. Sure, they were willing to indulge the sins of the flesh (in fact, some of them got downright indignant if I hesitated to commit certain really fun sins), but they'd be damned before they'd perform any activity that might make sex look unspontaneous. Often this ended in incredibly complex trade-offs and transactions. For example, one girl friend agreed to shave, as long as I accepted a few simple terms. It was great, but I'm still paying off her student loans.

At the same time, thousands of miles away, my future wife was indulging in waxing, shaving, piercing, and any number of bizarre and exciting fetish activities. Let's be honest; she was checking off items on her sexual to-do list. I have no problem with this, of course. After all, I, myself, had a lot of fun during my own years of sexual adventurousness. However, I like to think that I retained the open mind of my youth and brought it to my current relationship. To put it another way, just because I indulged certain unorthodox activities with a relative stranger who no longer means anything to me doesn't mean that I don't want to perform the same activities with my eternal lifemate and the mother of my child.

It's not like my wife really needs a brazilian; to be honest, I'm generally pleased with her tonsorial routine. I mean, there was this one woman I dated...well, let's just say that it looked like she had Buckwheat in a leg lock. And, to be honest, I don't really have too much to complain about. My wife has offered to undergo a Brazilian if I will do the same.

I'm still thinking about it.


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