Wax That Ass

There are many, many, MANY thoughts that swirl through a man’s head while he’s in route to get his ass waxed for the first time.

1.) WHAT am I DOING? 

2.) My stomach is kiiiiiiillllling me.

3.) Please Lord and Greg Giraldo don’t let the waxer be remotely attractive or one day under forty-five! 

4.) Will pooping be incredible from this point on? 

5.) Is she going to wax INSIDE? Like… IN the crack and ON the butt hole? 

6.) Am I fucking gay? 

7.) Will my pants fit after? 

Since the age of twenty or so… ass-hair has always been a major insecurity for me. And  it’s not like I’m all that hairy of a guy. My chest and stomach are lightly wooly, as are my arms and legs like every other man on earth. But for some fucking reason at the age of twenty or so my ass went full-moon-wolf-man on me.

Beyonce’s weave… it was ON my ass. I bought a hair pick and relaxer for it. I could’ve shaved it and donated the hair to cancer patients. And the hair just got longer, thicker and more wiry as it traveled into my black hole of an ass crack. The aftermath of each morning crap was chaotic mess of toilet paper, baby wipes and multiple flushes.

And it’s pretty much destroyed every sexual experience I’ve ever had and caused me to spiral into into a silent series of self-deprecating thoughts as soon as a woman’s hand brushed my bare ass or lower back. Omg, she thinks I’m such a fat gorilla loser. I’m so gross. There’s no way this hair doesn’t stink. Ugh. I disgust myself. 

Getting my ass waxed was something I’d sort-of fantasized about for years with the same excitement one might get when thinking about getting liposuction on those parts excersise will NEVER EVER FIX. But again, self-deprecating thoughts: It’s gonna hurt like crazy. It’s gay and uncomfortable. Who would I even call to wax me? I DON’T want anyone looking at my ass in the daylight. 

But then, a few months ago, I went to an old friends house for dinner. His girlfriend cooked. This couple is heavy in the swing scene and frequents sex parties and Burning Man type events where they both comfortably walk around naked, something I’ve never been too keen on. “We love walking around nude,” his girlfriend said while pouring me more wine. “Two days before any event we both go get waxed and tanned!”

I pointed to my friend, “YOU get waxed?!”

“Yup! For the past ten years, sack & crack once a month! It’s so much cleaner than shaving. It doesn’t hurt nearly as bad as you think and women love it.” His girl nodded in agreement.

My knee jerk reaction was of course — Man… Fuck THAT! But as the weeks went by, and I began to think about how much the waxing of my tuchas would scratch away my ever-present insecure itch, I decided to go for it and asked my friend for his waxers number.

“Her name is Olga, tell her I sent you. She’s fantastic.”

I called and made a 2pm appointment on a Saturday afternoon… while nauseous. Olga, who had a thick Russian accent was very polite and gave me the address to her Venice Beach apartment. “I’ve never done this before and I’m a little nervous,” I pleaded. She laughed. “Don’t vorry! You’ll be fine!”

I parked at 1:50pm with an elevated heart rate, and elephant on my chest and my boxers briefs dampened by my sweaty thighs and taint. I knocked on apartment 2b. As soon as she opened the door twenty percent of my angst dissolved. Olga stood 5’2, looked to be in her early fifties and a solid fifty pounds of extra poundage stretched out her tight, white medical scrubs. Thank. Fucking. GOD! (And Greg Giraldo!)

She led me into a tiny, converted, prison cell sized waxing room that looked like something out of an Eastern European psycho ward, complete with a towel covered table, scuffed up white linoleum floor, peach colored walls, a small stool, gauze, creams and a large medical light coming from the ceiling.

“Take off pants and gyet on table,” she instructed with her thick Russian accent. I did and and climbed onto my stomach, but left my boxer briefs on out of sheer embarrassment.

“Do you vant same thing as your friend? Backside and bulls?”

I jolted to on my side, “NO! ONLY backside!”

“Okey… Do you shoot da steroids?”

“Come again?”

“If you shoot da steroids… you bleed a lot.”

JESUS! What the FUCK am I doing here???!!!! 

“No, I don’t use steroids.”

“Okey… Only backside?”

“YES!”

She pulled my briefs down to the top of my thighs, flipped on the medical light and started examining my jungle-like ass hair through a massive magnifying glass. I glanced back and saw her twisting some wax around a wooden tongue depressor. Fuck. FUCK! It’s going to KILL. I need to GO! 

She smeared a warm stick of wax across my bottom like she was icing a cake. I could feel my disgusting butt hair pulling against it. She smacked a removal strip down and began pressing. My heart rate shot up another ten bpm and spear like pains stabbed my chest. Shit! SHIT DUDE! 

RIP!

Hey, that wasn’t so bad! 

She began patting my bum like a baby to minimize the light sting. I liked it and wanted a baba. For the next ten minutes she continued waxing the grotesque, monkey like hair off my fanny. I felt a decade of emotions and stress float away with each stingy tear.

I FUCKING LOVED IT!

“Okey… please grab cheeks and spread so I can do crack.”

Oh… FUUUUUUCK!

I’d never wanted and dreaded anything so much at the same time in my entire life. I felt certain she’d either puke after digging around in that pale, flabby cave of a crack of mine… or rip my asshole completely inside out.

I reached back with both hands and pulled em apart. She moved the light down closer and put her face within stink distance, examining thoroughly. She lathered the top of my crack with wax. It tickled and I squirmed. She pressed in the removal strip. I took a deep breath and closed my eyes!

RIP!

IT HURT SO FUCKING GOOD! She gripped my lower right cheek and pulled hard, smearing more hot wax in the LOWER portion of my ass. My toes curled uncontrollably and my starfish puckered like I’d just fed it a lemon slice. The strip went on. Her finger tips pushed hard into my crack. This was IT! The most hairy, dark, messy part of my backside.

RIP! 

An involuntary groan flew out of my mouth, “Ughhhhhhh!”

“Are you okey?”

“YES! GOD YES!”

Olga spent a few more minutes clearing out the weeds before wiping down my brand new, bowling ball like badonkadonk with some sort of refreshing liquid. She handed me my pants. “Ve’re done!” I slid my boxers back up and put my jeans on. For the first time in my life I could actually feel them!

Hurray!

Olga charged me forty dollars. I gave her sixty and a bear hug. I now see Olga every six weeks… And yes, pooping is incredible. Sex is confident and actually enjoyable. And no, it’s not gay.

So if you’re a man with a shameful bushy bum bum, take it from another, super insecure, formerly fearful and still fucked up guy…

Wax that shit.