Her Suit

Every relationship is comprised of give and take. You give me a hard time, I take your sister out dancing – you know, to make sure balance is restored. But in all seriousness, partners often concede sacrifices for their significant others. I’m unusually easy going with most things, but I’m partial to certain grooming traits already undertaken by many women. As I wax nostalgic, I fondly recall all of those women who waxed Brazilian. I grew accustomed to this, and made no bones about mentioning it to future lovers. Some were willing; but with the au naturale others, I was met with varying degrees of go fuck yourself.


So for this Valentine’s Day, it was time for me to see what was up with all the hype… and return the favor. Besides, I can only buy roses and chocolate so many years in a row before a woman gets bored. At least with this, I could, through first-hand experience, foster a greater appreciation for the painstaking lengths women will go to for ultimate beautification.

I’ve known Cynthia for nearly a year now. She’s a professional cosmetologist specializing in hair care and skin care – and, sometimes, the care of both simultaneously. I expressed my interest in a wax and she encouraged me to give it a try. Naturally I had some questions, and her past experiences gave me even more to consider. I’m a big boy, I do a pretty good job of taking care of myself – but the idea of someone drizzling hot wax all over my twig and berries, only to rip if off, left me understandably trepid. Still I needed to know.

For the uninitiated, a full Brazilian wax is quite a bit different from the electric razor manscaping to which most guys are accustomed. It’s not just a few minutes of hair removal. It’s a long, slow, painful process that encompasses the entire bathing suit area (front and back, taint and crack).


Last weekend, I called Cynthia to see if she could fit me in. She said she’d be free in an hour, which gave me just enough time to shower and get ready. Now Cynthia’s an attractive woman, so I wondered, in my exposed state, might there be chance that I could become embarrassingly tumescent. I decided it was appropriate for me to engage in a little pregame. When in doubt, take matters into your own hands! Once shucked and showered, I made my way to Cindy’s studio. I wondered if the ride home would be as pleasant as the ride there – as a guy, getting a full Brazilian wax just isn’t something you consider when buying a motorcycle.

When I arrived, small talk quickly led to the task at hand. Cynthia asked if my hair was at least a quarter inch long – if not, that would make removal more difficult. I dropped trou revealing an unkempt jungle. Her eyes widened as she realized she had her work cut out for her. Once naked from the waist down, I hopped up on the sheeted table and rested my head on a pillow. Cynthia came over with a set of clippers and began shearing away, cupping my stuff with her hands as the electric razor made its rounds.

“This isn’t so bad,” I thought. “Of course not! She hasn’t started spackling your love triangle with hot wax yet!”


Not a moment after that thought left my head, Cynthia wheeled over the wax cart. It’s more like a mobile station of cauldronous genital torture – very Death Star-esque – but maybe I have a tendency to overreact. Both hard- and soft-wax sternos were seated in upside down bowl-like heaters that kept the waxes semi-liquefied. I can still hear the once-non-threatening sound of tongue depressors being cracked in half so as to double their efficiency; she used them to apply the wax to the skin, and broke them in half so as to not waste any. A quick glance at my own tongue depressor revealed a hasty yet futile retreat.


Cindy first tested the wax on the back of her hand and said it might be a little too hot. Not wanting to look like any less of a man, I encouraged her to proceed.

“Nah, don’t worry about it, I’ll be fine. Just do your thing.” The words lumped in my throat the second that hot, melty goop smeared across my skin.

Cynthia began painting hard wax around my base, explaining that this was one of a man’s most sensitive areas. If I could endure this, she said, I’d be okay with the entire procedure. The hot wax stung at first, but quickly subsided; this lulled me into a false sense of security. Cynthia gave the wax a minute to cool …before pinching a clump of it and ripping it off.

Oh. My. God.


To add insult to literal injury, the hard wax didn’t come off in one fell swoop. Cynthia kept pinching edges of little chunks of wax and ripping them off. At this point, the application of hot wax was a welcomed retreat – that is, until more hot wax was once again thickly layered onto my now singed area. This went on for about 20 minutes – at which point I looked down and realized she wasn’t even halfway done. As sexy as this is supposed to be when it’s completed, there isn’t anything even remotely dignified about having a woman ask you for help in achieving a taut shaft. And she just came right out with it:

“I’m gonna need some help here. This little guy’s not cooperating.”

Once she finished with my base and perineum, Cynthia said it was time for the soft wax – the most sensitive areas were done and it was smooth sailing from there. Oh, okay. Great.

Not quite.

A few runs with the soft wax contorted my face into twisted stone – and that told Cindy that hard wax was the only way I’d make it through this without whimpering like a dying puppy. The hard wax is more expensive – and rightly so as it pulls less of your skin when it’s extricating hair. Cynthia kept the conversation light, and sprinkled in some humor. This made the procedure bearable – until I realized that I was laughing at the same time that she was de-layering my most sensitive skin. Tensing up is not the best way to prepare for violent hair removal from an area of my body that winces at the sight of a mere loofah.

Cynthia eventually uttered the words I’d longed to hear:

“Alright, you’re all done…”

…immediately followed by the words I’d been dreading since I walked in:

“…now flip over.”


As exposed as I was laying flat on my back, I was far more vulnerable on all fours with my crease at the ready. But I was committed. Proudly jutting my Liberace smile up in the air, I braced for the worst. But just moments after my starfish got its maiden coat of wax, my concern was compounded by an awoken colon. Apparently all the laughing and tension caused a stir. We were so close to being finished, I didn’t want to stop now. I figured I could just hold it in until we were done – but that presented an interesting conundrum. If I contracted my muscles, I’d be able to maintain some dignity. Relaxing my muscles would make the waxing easier – but that also meant that I might let one loose.

I managed to hold it together for the home stretch. Cindy did some stretching too, being as thorough as possible. When nary a hair was there, Cynthia oiled up my now tender seam and said I was all set to get dressed. I got off the table and watched her walk out of the room. As soon as the door shut, I cocked my hip with a sigh of relief – and it was the smoothest fart I ever ripped.


When it was all said and done, I felt great. I can’t believe it took me this long to get it done. But what I can believe is that women everywhere go through great pains (literally!) to look and feel this good on a regular basis – and for that, on behalf of men around the world, I’m eternally grateful. Thank you, and Happy Valentine’s Day.


– Victor Victor