It’s a text from Ava.
So? You doing it?
I reply with the okay sign.
I’d wax if I were you. Makes one feel sexy.
Seriously? I text back.
Like a heart attack. Now stop beating around the bush and get rid of your bush. Emojis of lips, cat face, cherries, flower, peace sign, wishbone, hot spot, and peach are followed by a razor.
I didn’t even know there was a razor emoji.
Silencing the phone, I dart a glance at the suitcase.
Nope.
Not ready yet.
Maybe Ava is right. Would I be more eager if I made myself prettier down under?
Since the jungle that is my legs is on my to-do list anyway, I’ll just do that and some ladyscaping at the same time. The breakup with my ex made me experiment a little in this area. I’ve tried styling my pubes geometrically with upside-down and regular triangles, aeronautically with a landing strip, and—briefly—what could best be described as a dictator’s mustache.
Speaking of, what’s with all the dictators sporting a ’stache? I bet one started the trend, and the dictator-sheep copycatted. Come to think of it, their inspiration might’ve been the original Vlad the Impaler. The painting of him had a mustache so big and bushy, he probably had a pet name for it, like Pufos—which means fluffy in Romanian.
Thank the hipster gods “my” Impaler doesn’t have such a crime against nature above his kissable lips. He only has a little bit of sexy stubble up there—just the way I like it.
In any case, nowadays I’m sporting a retro bush of epic proportions, with cobwebs and tumbleweeds down there, and “No Trespassing” signs. This isn’t a feminist statement, unfortunately, just a sign of self-neglect.
Well, even if feeling sexy weren’t a goal, getting that hair under control could make locating my bits a little easier for the testing—so off it shall go.
I dart into the closet where I keep my disposable gloves and N95 mask, then take it all to the bathroom, fully aware of how much I look like I’m planning a naughty game of doctor.
There’s a fly in my bathroom.
Gross.
I try to evict him, but the clever beastie sneers at my futile attempts, buzzing around tauntingly.
“Fine,” I tell him. “This place is about to smell like hair removal cream. If you get wing cancer, don’t come crying to me.”
Of course, I didn’t get the cream to ward off insects. I just happen to hate the stubbly feel of my legs after shaving, and I’ve never felt masochistic enough to wax.
Stripping down to the buff, I trim the affected area as much as is possible without garden shears. Next, I prepare a wet washcloth by the tub and put on the mask to avoid fumes.
As soon as I strap on the gloves and squeeze out a handful of cream, I feel an itch on the top of my head.
Then my nose itches under the mask.
Then my eye.
Ignoring it all, I get into the tub and slather the cream on my legs.
I glance at my pubes.
Am I really doing this?
I guess I am. I get more cream and go to town in the vaginal region. That done, I awkwardly place one foot on the edge of the tub and upgrade the experience to a full Brazilian—I saw a butt plug in that suitcase, so this might help.
I then wait for the cream to break down my hair’s protein structure. Bored, I wonder how the Seven Dwarves would’ve reacted if they’d walked in on Snow White doing something like this.
Especially Bashful.
The fly lands on my mask.
“Shoo.” I swat at him.
He buzzes angrily and scurries over to my forehead.
“Get out!” I swat at him once more. “Perv.”
The fly’s buzzing sounds indignant as he zooms through the room and slams into the closed window.
Serves him right.
In the next moment, I forget all about the fly because my most private area begins to burn.
Ouch. It’s really burning—like an STD they punish rapists with in the seventh circle of hell.
I shoot a glance at the clock. It’s not the full five minutes yet, plus my legs are fine.
This must be because I switched brands, and some ingredient in this formulation doesn’t agree with my bikini area. Which is ironic, given that this brand markets itself as being “for sensitive skin.” In defense of the manufacturer, most such creams warn you about using this stuff in the exact area that currently burns. It’s just never been a problem for me before, else I would have done a patch test on a small part of my privates instead of going all in.
Grabbing the warm cloth, I rub myself hard enough to start a fire.
There.
No more cream on my vag.
Now my butt burns, so I take care of that next.
Which is when my legs start to itch.
With a growl, I wipe all the melted-looking hair from my legs and wash myself all over with a thoroughness an OCD sufferer would be proud of.
Soon, no sign of the cream remains.
I look down.
Things are angrily red, like I’m some animal in heat.
There goes feeling sexy.
Also, there’s a strange sensation on the side of my forehead.
More specifically, the right eyebrow region.
A burning sensation.
No. Can’t be.
Toweling off in a rush, I leap for the mirror.
Crap! There’s a glob of hair removal cream on my right eyebrow.
Did I scratch an itch there without realizing? Or did the cream splatter when I battled the fly?
Either way, I frantically wipe the cream off—and most of my eyebrow goes with it.
I wash my face thoroughly and make sure there’s no cream lurking somewhere else—like my scalp or my eyelashes.
Nope. Just lost the pubes, leg hair, and an eyebrow.
In the mirror, my remaining eyebrow makes my expression seem equal parts curious, suspicious, and skeptical despite the fact that I’m feeling none of those things, just shame.
Getting my makeup kit, I try drawing the eyebrow back.
The result is acceptable enough for a teleconference, but if I want to see people face to face, I might have to sacrifice the other eyebrow and draw both.
I’m too traumatized to test anything now, so I spend the rest of the day integrating the handwritten test cases into my electronic list, then expanding the document to accommodate all the diverse contents of the suitcase. I also make sure the resulting document will automatically back up to the cloud. The last thing I want is to go through the testing, only to lose the documentation thanks to a busted hard drive and have to start over again.
It’s happened to me once, and it was the worst feeling imaginable.
By the time I head to bed, the redness from the hair removal debacle has subsided, and as my head hits the pillow, I feel a stirring of excitement for the day ahead.
I never thought I’d have such concrete plans to play with myself or that I’d get paid for it, but here we are.
The thought of work brings to mind X-rated images featuring a certain someone’s intense blue eyes and stern mouth.
I fight the sudden urge to reach down and explore the newly bare skin near my clit. My orgasms belong to the project at the moment.
With a sigh, I hug my pillow and drift off to sleep.
Chapter Five
In the morning, I feed Monkey and check my work email as I eat an omelet.
“You better be good.” I jokingly frown at my guinea pig as I collect my work laptop, work phone, and the suitcase. “I’m about to spank the monkey.”