Eliot and I had been seeing each other for a month and a half and I thought it was time to commit, finally commit, to getting a Brazilian wax.
He hadn’t turned away from me in disgust yet, but maybe it was just a matter of time: he was 27 and probably not used to women in their natural state.
On the other hand, as a woman approaching 50 and a mother of three, it is better for my bikini area to be overgrown than overexposed. Not for nothing is there a booming market in cosmetic vaginal rejuvenation for women my age.
Seeing me naked as a mole rat down there might turn Eliot to stone.
But from what I remember from the last time I gave myself a Brazilian blowjob (which was back in the early 2000s, during the early, heady days of my life with my husband), the pleasure during sex, both mine and his, was (almost) worth the pain.
I also remembered that it made me feel daring and secretly sexy as I headed to the shops.
Nowadays, many young women wax, so men of the same age are not used to the natural and complete “Amazonian jungle”.
Annabel Bond (not her real name), in her fifties, received a Brazilian gift for her 27-year-old lover – but would he be impressed?
So I searched online for a local salon and found an incredible array of new options.
There was the traditional bikini wax (where hair is removed only from the sides); the Hollywood wax (where hair is removed from all sides); and the Brazilian wax, which leaves only a “landing strip” in the front.
But now I could also shape my landing strip into a postage stamp, a martini glass, a star, or a Christmas tree.
I decisively steered my mouse away from the Amazon rainforest option (I was already farming it) and booked an appointment with Karina for a regular Brazilian. “With a big landing strip,” I told her as I climbed onto the table, naked from the waist down.
Just like my midwife, as Karina labored, lifting my leg up to my ear and telling me how brave I was, our physical intimacy quickly progressed to telling each other about our lives.
“Technically I’m still married, but I’m dating someone new,” I told him.
“I’ll do a good job,” Karina said, frowning as she spread hot wax over a large area. “But do you regret leaving your husband?”
RRRRRR!
“No!” I said out loud, and the impact of having my hair ripped out by the roots made me scream.
Even with my legs spread wide on the waxing table, sweat pouring from my forehead, receiving the kind of wax that only single women undergo, I didn’t regret it one bit.
Karina told me that she was also thinking about leaving her husband, but she couldn’t bring herself to do it. I could only tell her that divorce isn’t for everyone, but it was for me. And that Eliot was my beautiful reward, after enduring the long years of unhappiness.
Today, there is a dizzying array of new options on offer, including the full Hollywood or the Brazilian “landing strip” cocktail, which can be shaped like a star, a Martini glass or even a Christmas tree.
At our next meeting at my brother’s empty flat, I made a big deal of the excitement Eliot would experience, giving him hints but not telling him the details. I was still shy around him; it was only the fourth time we had slept together.
I tried to keep my flabby neck and face out of direct sunlight, but I was excited for the big reveal next, feeling naked and sexy under my clothes.
I expected a round of applause or a gaping mouthful of amazement and gratitude, but his handsome face only displayed the usual level of enthusiasm, which, to be fair, was still high. I had been right: for him, waxing was the norm.
At the same time, Eliot was not repulsed by the sight either, for which I will be eternally grateful. He took it all in stride.
No pain, no gain. But getting a professional waxing can be worth the money, says Annabel
The foreplay went on for a delightfully long time. He was good with his hands, but I think I enjoyed the new sensations more than he did, which was exactly as it should be, since I was enduring the pain of waxing.
There’s a particular kind of sexiness that comes from not having pubic hair. While millions of women wax regularly, for me it felt daring and fresh.
Maybe my marriage would have benefited from having a Brazilian around more often, but what mother of three small children would do that in her spare time?
“I wish I was older,” Eliot said later. I bought into the idea that it was because, naked, we weren’t compatible. I was very happy that he was only 27.
“If I were older I would sign you,” he added.
“But you’re not, you’re young,” I told him.
Suddenly, I didn’t find his age so funny anymore. Eliot meant that he was too young for me, he said it in the nicest possible way. But I already knew that.
Meanwhile, my soft, clean nether regions would await their next mission, if there was one.
Annabel Bond is a pseudonym. All names have been changed.
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