May 9, 2009
Have you ever stopped to wonder how bizarre it is to walk
into a business establishment, look a complete stranger in the eye and give
them $50 to rip every single one of your pubic hairs out by the root with hot
wax? How inherently odd it is to spend a full 30 minutes with a woman whose
name you don’t even know discussing the weather while she is maybe 6 inches
from your genitals?
Why do we do this to ourselves? Obviously, this is an idea that a man dreamed up. If it were up
to women, we would all resemble sasquatches. Not one of us would do this voluntarily
My experience with the Brazilian began about 2 years ago
when I lived in Toronto. There was a
salon down the block and relatively speaking, they were cheap (and I was making
lots of money in those days). I was
curious. So I took myself down the road
and walked in.
“I’d like a bikini wax please”, I said to the young
Korean girl at the counter.
“Yes, yes”, she smiled, and ushered me into a back room.
“Just bikini rine?” she asked, as she closed the door behind us.
“No”, I responded grimly. “A Brazilian.”
Getting naked in front of someone who you are not
planning to have sex with or is not about to perform a medical examination upon
you is a strange experience, but I stripped off all the same.
I think the weirdest part about this whole thing is that
both women involved in the process tend to chat away as if nothing at all
untoward is going on. This woman spoke
little English but she was good at her job.
“OK, rady, you leady?” smiled the girl, whose name I was
never to learn. I took a deep breath and nodded.
She slathered a wide line of wax along the top of my
pubic line. It actually feels quite nice going on, warm and soothing. And then,
rip -- holymotherfuckingsweetMarymotherofGod -- I
felt tears spring to my eyes and I’ve got a high pain threshold. This wasn’t
even the sensitive area.
“Ooh, you blave rady”, she said in admiration. “No
“You hold here” she instructed, as she covered my labia
in wax and placed my hand on the opposite side to create some tension so she
could tear the wax off without taking my genitalia with it.
I tried desperately to go to my Happy Place because
(a) this was going to hurt like a
(b) there was no turning back
I think I passed out briefly and wait -- was that one of
“Rady? Rady?” I heard a voice call from a long way off.
“You OK, rady?”
“Keep going” I said weakly. After that, mercifully, post-traumatic amnesia stepped in to
spare me any clear memory but in due course I emerged as hairless as any 8 year
“OK, rady, you done now. You blavest rady -- no scleam at
That may well be, but all the same I’d like an ambulance
now please. They should licence these people to dispense narcotics.
I struggled weakly back into my clothing, tipped her
lavishly and staggered out the door.
While some women get Brazilians to accommodate certain
fashions, many of them do it to accommodate a man. If that’s your decision (as opposed to his), then whatever floats
But don’t think it’s all going to be roses. Before you commit to a Brazilian, consider
It’s painful. Really painful.
After you have a Brazilian, your panty liners will stick to you like
adhesive strips. Every time you go for
a pee, it will feel like you’re ripping off a bandaid. No one warns you about this.
They take maintenance and unless you keep it up, three weeks later your
private parts will look like a Chia Pet.
Because of the lack of uh, cushioning post-Brazilian, almost every
garment is guaranteed to give you camel toe.
Nobody warns you about this either.
If, after your first heartstopping Brazilian, you decide you can’t face
the thought of ever having another, here’s what you need to know about
It’s itchy. Unbelievably
itchy. You’ll feel like a bear in
spring. Do not be surprised to find
yourself seized with the urge to scratch while in public. It can be done, but you have to be
surreptitious about it. For the next
few weeks, the sharp corners on tables will be your friends.
The other day, for reasons still unclear to me, I decided to revisit the
issue. Why, you ask? Good question. Too much time on my hands, I suppose. What I don’t have too much of at the moment is money. And fifty bucks is fifty bucks.
I resolved to do it myself.
Upon sober reflection, this was not the brightest idea I’ve ever had but
once you start, it’s not exactly an enterprise that can be abandoned.
This should all fall under the rubric of “Don’t try this at home”, but
always game for a challenge (and admittedly, not thinking straight), I figured
it would be a breeze. I never suspected
I was so nimble, though. In order to
complete the job properly, I got myself into positions that would guarantee me
international fame with the Cirque de Soleil.
Some of it, by necessity, was done standing up but once you get down to
the nitty gritty, you have to be at least partially supine. I wouldn’t recommend this be performed in
carpeted bathrooms but I have to warn you:
sitting on tile is cold.
That, however, was the least of my worries.
At first, it went pretty well.
It made tears spring to my eyes, but I could take it. I finished the easy bits and while I was
definitely throbbing, I’ve felt worse pain than this.
Regrettably, things quickly got out of hand when I got around to the
more delicate region.
Looking back now, the decision to apply a copious river of wax to the
entire area in an attempt to get it over with quickly was misguided to say the
least. I had just applied a good half
cup of rapidly congealing wax to my nether regions and unless I could figure
out how to shed my skin, this was going to be a memorable few hours.
I was faced with the unimaginable task of removing it all. It took me an hour to accomplish and there
was at least one exceptionally dodgy moment where the only thing that prevented
me from going to the Emergency Room was the fact that I was stuck to the
floor. That and the attendant
embarrassment of seeking medical attention because I’d inadvertently glued
myself shut. There was some serious
teeth gritting going on before I was able to work up the nerve to rid my tender
lady bits of a ridiculously lavish strip of molten wax, complete with a few
bits of loose grouting.
I was hoping that the sweat pouring off me in buckets would loosen it a
bit, but no such luck. There was
nothing for it but to screw my courage to the sticking point (no pun intended)
and yank for all I was worth. I knew I
was risking serious injury and a possible future as a hermaphrodite but it’s
not like I could leave the damn stuff where it was.
I took a deep breath, said a few prayers and RIP.
My life flashed before my eyes, my last conscious thought being that
this was not how I wanted to meet the local firefighters.
When I recovered, I examined my handiwork. When this gets done at a salon, it is painful but the results are
professional and no blood is spilled.
Not so in this case. I looked
like the victim of a particularly grisly scalping.
Several things flitted through my swimming head at this point, most
notably being why in the world this had ever seemed like a good idea.
But, like I said, this is not something you can simply give up on while
you’re in the midst of it. It’s all or
nothing and since I figured the worst was over, I resolved to finish the job.
It took ages, but I’d learned to apply small bits of wax and since I was
already numb and throbbing, I barely noticed the pain.
I had accomplished the unachievable and though a few random bits of wax
still adhered to me like crazy glue (causing me to bond implacably with my
clothing), the ordeal was finally at an end.
It was fully two days before I could sit down without wincing and
considering the whole endeavour smacked of being all dressed up with no place
to go, I’m still wondering what on earth possessed me.
I got huge (if horrified) props from my girlfriends though. “What’s next?” one of them asked. “You going to do your own root canal?”
So let this be a cautionary tale for you all. Doing your own Brazilian is possible, but it is foolhardy in the
Fifty bucks to have it done professionally? Worth every single penny.
Till next time,