of the hairs from their roots. I cannot remember precisely what was said during the ensuing twenty minutes. Here is an approximation, with the yelps edited out:
ME:
Ow! Please. Please, don’t—Fuck!
HER:
It’s almost out.
ME:
You have to do it faster, really—No! Ow! Fuck! Please move to another—that part really—Owwww!
HER:
Stop being a baby.
ME:
Please, sweetie. Please, I’m not joking!
HER:
Lie still. Just fucking lie still and let me—
ME:
Owwwww! You fucking bitch! You mean fucking bitch!
We were not communicating effectively.
The intrepid reader is, at this point, wondering when the nipple will hit the fan. Curiously, it will not. No, we didn’t even make it to the nipples, though certainly my girlfriend had designs. What actually brought this sad ballet to a close was the initial (and final) moment of success: My girlfriend managed to tear free a single, mangled chunk of wax-and-hair. I climbed to my feet and marched to the bathroom and looked in the mirror and saw dabs of blood on my skin. It occurred to me at this point that we were probably not going to have sex.
I returned to the living room, encased in my hacked-up exoskeleton, and informed my girlfriend that I’d had enough. She looked at me with an expression that traveled beyond contempt, into the deeper regions of pity. “Fine,” she said, and went to get Chinese takeout. It was unclear what I should do. I was furious and humiliated. She was fed up. We were in a fight. I considered placing a call for help, but to whom? Did the library carry a copy of Waxing for Dummies ? Was there a local support group for the sadomasochistically challenged?
In the end, I found an old pair of scissors and cut away most of the wax, then shaved my chest and belly with my girlfriend’s razor. And I must admit that I felt, for a few hours there, really young and hot. And gay.
Then the itching began. I spent the next month clawing at my chest. My girlfriend and I soon broke up. But I learned a valuable lesson. Namely, that most healthy relationships should not depend on the administration of hot wax for sexual enhancement. And, of course, that the enemy of my chest hair is the enemy of me.
MY FIRST FAKE TITS
W hat can I tell you about Vanessa Daws?
She had a pretty, impish face, a secret cigarette habit, a bosom of astonishing—and ultimately fraudulent—provenance. She was a southerner through and through, raised on peach cobbler and good manners, elaborate in her makeup protocols. She also had literary aspirations, which gave her one unfortunate thing in common with me.
Vanessa was the first woman I slept with during my two-year tour of duty in Greensboro, North Carolina, where I had come to study writing and alienate everyone on the face of the earth. It began like this: I walked into the office of Triad Style and saw a babe standing by the bulletin board. Triad Style was the weekly fishwrap (published by the daily fishwrap) for which I wrote freelance pieces under the nom de dork S. B. Almond. On balance, these pieces sucked ass. They were supposed to be wry accounts of various local attractions (the gun show, the monster truck show). I recall reviewing the local dumps at one point. All quite glamorous.
Nonetheless, within the Triad Style milieu the name S. B. Almond radiated a certain tragic cachet. This meant that Vanessa had heard of me. I know this because I sucked around the office long enough one afternoon to secure an introduction.
“So you’re S. B. Almond,” she said. Her accent was a smoky, teasing drawl. “What’s the S.B. stand for?”
“Stupid bastard,” I said. (It was my standard line.)
“Your mother must be proud,” she said.
All our conversations were like this: the forced wit of the minor sitcom.
If I’d been a little brighter, I would have figured out that Vanessa knew who I was, that she’d already done a background check and decided I was her next Prince
ME:
Ow! Please. Please, don’t—Fuck!
HER:
It’s almost out.
ME:
You have to do it faster, really—No! Ow! Fuck! Please move to another—that part really—Owwww!
HER:
Stop being a baby.
ME:
Please, sweetie. Please, I’m not joking!
HER:
Lie still. Just fucking lie still and let me—
ME:
Owwwww! You fucking bitch! You mean fucking bitch!
We were not communicating effectively.
The intrepid reader is, at this point, wondering when the nipple will hit the fan. Curiously, it will not. No, we didn’t even make it to the nipples, though certainly my girlfriend had designs. What actually brought this sad ballet to a close was the initial (and final) moment of success: My girlfriend managed to tear free a single, mangled chunk of wax-and-hair. I climbed to my feet and marched to the bathroom and looked in the mirror and saw dabs of blood on my skin. It occurred to me at this point that we were probably not going to have sex.
I returned to the living room, encased in my hacked-up exoskeleton, and informed my girlfriend that I’d had enough. She looked at me with an expression that traveled beyond contempt, into the deeper regions of pity. “Fine,” she said, and went to get Chinese takeout. It was unclear what I should do. I was furious and humiliated. She was fed up. We were in a fight. I considered placing a call for help, but to whom? Did the library carry a copy of Waxing for Dummies ? Was there a local support group for the sadomasochistically challenged?
In the end, I found an old pair of scissors and cut away most of the wax, then shaved my chest and belly with my girlfriend’s razor. And I must admit that I felt, for a few hours there, really young and hot. And gay.
Then the itching began. I spent the next month clawing at my chest. My girlfriend and I soon broke up. But I learned a valuable lesson. Namely, that most healthy relationships should not depend on the administration of hot wax for sexual enhancement. And, of course, that the enemy of my chest hair is the enemy of me.
MY FIRST FAKE TITS
W hat can I tell you about Vanessa Daws?
She had a pretty, impish face, a secret cigarette habit, a bosom of astonishing—and ultimately fraudulent—provenance. She was a southerner through and through, raised on peach cobbler and good manners, elaborate in her makeup protocols. She also had literary aspirations, which gave her one unfortunate thing in common with me.
Vanessa was the first woman I slept with during my two-year tour of duty in Greensboro, North Carolina, where I had come to study writing and alienate everyone on the face of the earth. It began like this: I walked into the office of Triad Style and saw a babe standing by the bulletin board. Triad Style was the weekly fishwrap (published by the daily fishwrap) for which I wrote freelance pieces under the nom de dork S. B. Almond. On balance, these pieces sucked ass. They were supposed to be wry accounts of various local attractions (the gun show, the monster truck show). I recall reviewing the local dumps at one point. All quite glamorous.
Nonetheless, within the Triad Style milieu the name S. B. Almond radiated a certain tragic cachet. This meant that Vanessa had heard of me. I know this because I sucked around the office long enough one afternoon to secure an introduction.
“So you’re S. B. Almond,” she said. Her accent was a smoky, teasing drawl. “What’s the S.B. stand for?”
“Stupid bastard,” I said. (It was my standard line.)
“Your mother must be proud,” she said.
All our conversations were like this: the forced wit of the minor sitcom.
If I’d been a little brighter, I would have figured out that Vanessa knew who I was, that she’d already done a background check and decided I was her next Prince
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