Marc, 44, security dude, author, father, lover, husband and into all the sweetness life has to offer.
I grew up in the late 80’s and start of the 90’s. By growing up, I mean my post-puberty years, which brought most man almost certainly in contact with not only a girls wonderous upper qualities, but their even more fascinating nether regions. They marvellously varied in style, shape and the colour of the sometimes nearly unbreachable thickness or the silk-smooth spring-lawn covering that sensual centre, which at least l longed for after a long night, a romantic week or simply a revival of a good memory. If anything, and around summer months only, there was a trace of trimming along the inner thighs, just enough to fit that hairy magnificence into the shape of the latest acquired bikini bottom. And then something happened. It must have been around the year 2000. I was a bit older, but certainly not wiser and one let to the other, the restaurant made place for the more dimmed environment of my apartment and the reasonably cosy couch in the living room. Starting at the top, the action gradually closed in to below the waist line, and as the last piece of cloths fell, I was presented with the bare, smooth beauty of a woman’s most sacred spot. Nothing covering its uniqueness, no hiding of the proverbial private parts, no shame. Obviously, I heard about the trend, the notions of Kojak, Brazilian and all the other fancy terms before, experiencing it in a surprising manner beats all anticipation though. And obviously, only about 24 hours later, I asked myself all the right, brooding questions, a sensibly emancipated man at that time simply had to ask: Was she one of those often cited “pornographized” victims, those women who are forced into exposing openly, what should always lay beyond a hairy veil? Was that absence of a discreet woolly barrier at the end just a result of a woman succumbing to male day-dreams? And was it right of me to simply enjoy this heightened sensual feeling of pure, smooth skin on me or does that already make me a closet-girllover or even a paedophile? With time, such thoughts passed though. Outgrowing my tweens, I always had the challenging, but at the end even more rewarding luck, to have been with women of many qualities. However, succumbing to or even considering seemingly common manly fantasies, were never one of their qualities ever. And still, they all spotted the same self-assured nothingness below their waist, proudly displaying their femininity without the need of a curtain or cover. So, I figured, there must be more to this, than just a moment of pain every so and so week, simply to conform to a trend or the desire to please a man’s limited visual expectations. If that is true, the only way to understand is to try it out oneself. And while waxing was a tad too common, I decided for another method, which supposedly men went through since millennia in certain parts of the world: Sugaring. Initially, it may seem awkward at best: Laying nude on a massage table, while a woman kneads a golf-ball sized mass, of what looks like melting caramel, only to apply repeatedly that sticky mixture in a more than direct way on about all the sensitive spots of the unique male physiognomy, as if she’d be using a rubber to erase pencil stains. So, what does one say in such a moment? Small-Talk usually helps, the weather is always a grateful topic, but then again, getting kind of slightly painfully massaged in one’s most intimate region, somehow makes such topics obsolete and misplaced. In regard to waxing, you get smeared with a spatula, minimal body contact and the pain from ripping a well-felt number of square meters of skin right of one’s body, is a reminder of the sterility of such a treatment. Whatever is up for discussion probably does not go beyond the last weather report. They say you go to the hairdresser mainly to have an update every now and then, on what’s happening around the hood. Getting sugared however, bears more of an open, guard-less situation, which defy even such trivialities. It becomes a ritual taking place every six to eight weeks or so, where hairlessness turns more and more into an aesthetic end, while the means to this end are what actually count. It becomes a moment, where I as a male and the attractive lady with the sweet-gluey paste, become part in a fascinating and intricate game of focusing on a professional outcome, which is getting my nether region in a smooth state, while being aware that this can only be achieved by a mutual trust, which demands for a moment of a complete lack of inhibition on both sides. A moment every now and then, which leads to those honest discussions the hairdresser cannot give you. At the end it’s actually all about that smooth feeling, skin-to-skin in those beautifully steamy moments with your partner when nothing else matters, but simply the sensation, the urge to be as close as possible, when even a single hair in between is too much of a distance. But besides, the means to achieve this, is a more awarding experience. I had meetings after those Sugaring appointments, and simply the honesty of the moment, let me approach them in a more open and vigorous way, because right before I had no chance to hide. At the end of the day, if a male asks around, most females probably opt for tough, rough and hairy. Somehow, I never had complaints once they discovered the sugary-sweet alternative.
- Marc, 44, security dude, author, father, lover, husband and into all the sweetness life has to offer.