Push, Push In My Bush

One of the biggest insecurities I have about my body concerns my Netherlands, my little landscaped princess down below. Yes, I am talking about my pubic hair, my bush, my trimmings, my enchanted forest, whatever you want to call it.

For the past several years, my girl has been as naked as the day I was born, completely shaven and bare. Now while this may sound intriguing and heavenly to my male readers, my female readers might agree that it is stressful and somewhat hellish to keep your girl stripped of any strands. Well, at least I have always found it to be.

When I was younger, I would sneak peeks at the unscrambled Playboy channel or flip through my stepfather’s Hustlers to admire the forms of the females I so longed to be. In addition to having the breasts I coveted (which, thankfully, I received), they also had glorious triangular wefts of pubic hair signifying that they were, in fact, full grown women. I remember rejoicing the day I noticed that I was starting to sprout such decoration, excited that I was finally about to grow up as I had always hated, truly hated, being a child. (In fact, my high school yearbook quote read, “My mother always loved children. She would have given anything if I had been one." - Groucho Marx…and yes, that pretty much sums up my childhood.)

I was always wise enough in my early years to keep it to a close and controllable length. Never letting it get out of control and wild. I would shave my inner thighs and any other area that would reveal itself in a bathing suit. I thought that was enough. Apparently, it wasn’t.

Years ago, when I was with the second man I have ever slept with, he told me that he was surprised I had “so much hair.” I was mortified. I didn’t know I was doing anything wrong. Apparently, I was.

So I shaved more. Shaped it into a strip that he found sexier and that made me more comfortable. Although it was a bitch to keep up with.

Two years later (while a junior in college) I was in bed with another lover when he said to me, “You know, it would be so much hotter if you had less hair there.” I thought what I was doing was enough. Apparently, it wasn’t.

So I shaved more. Started to shave all the hair off the lower lips while keeping a small strip along my pelvic bone. He found it sexier and that made me more comfortable. Although it was even more of a bitch to keep up with. (And, as any woman will tell you, once you start shaving something…you can’t stop.)

Several years later (finally out of college), I had a lover tell me how he really loved it when a woman had no hair at all. Again, I thought what I was doing was enough. Apparently, it wasn’t.

So I went for a wax. A complete, no-strand-left-unpulled-from-the root wax. And it was the single most painful experience of my life. I bled. I cried. I screamed like I was being tortured. Because, frankly, I was. But he found it sexier and it made me more comfortable. Fortunately, he lived across the country, so I didn’t have to wax it off often.

Whenever said man would come to town, I would head to the spa and put myself through a dreaded, rigorous session in which they would TEAR MY PUBIC HAIR OUT AT THE FUCKING ROOTS. Finally, after a year or so of putting myself through this, I refused. And no, he didn’t force me, per se, but when you hear a man tell you how much he longs to see you “bald” you want to do what you can to please him.

And so I adopted the habit of shaving all my hair off. A habit that I have been keeping for well over a year. Now, I admit that I do like the way it feels when I am clean shaven. It’s sexier during oral and does feel “cleaner” during certain times of the month. However, it’s a bitch to keep up with.

I refuse to go get waxed. It hurts so fucking much. I decided awhile ago that if a man wants me to do it, he will have to endure the same. I’ve also tried permanent hair removal. But imagine, if you will, a rubber band heated to the boiling point snapping at your cooch. That’s the perfect fucking analogy.

I’ve been keeping up the shaving but you can’t shave more than once - maybe twice - a week unless you want to run the risk of painful and unsightly ingrown hairs.

My current boyfriend said something to me the other night that no man has ever said before. “Why don’t you grow some of it in?” I was perplexed. He can’t really mean that, I thought to myself. I recounted all the other things men had said to me - about how any hair at all isn’t “clean” or “sexy.” I was speechless.

But I don’t think he asked me to because it’s something he necessarily wants. But it’s not necessarily something that bothers him either (yet another perk of dating a man who came of age - literally - in the late 70s and early 80s before the brazilian and brazilian+ looks were born). It’s because I think he realizes that the reason I have no hair there wasn’t a choice I made for myself, but rather something I kept doing to satisfy someone else. A ritual I agreed to in order to please others and put them more at ease, all the while sacrificing my own comfort.

So I’m going to try it. I’m not talking about going full-on amazon (that’s actually not the look I want for myself anyway). I’m just talking about finally looking a bit more like those mature, insanely desirable women I admired so long ago. The pinups and the porn stars who didn’t look 14 years old. The women who looked like women. With big breasts and a post-pubescent body in every sense of the word.

And, if it turns out he doesn’t like it, well, we’ll both be dripping in hot wax very soon.