Mind Of Man: The Hair Down There
Ladies, let your pubic hair grow. Allow it to run riot like a wild, verdant jungle. Shave not your delicate triangle of womanly power. Not all dudes demand a shorn ‘gina. I know that many do, and I apologize on behalf of those creeps. And it is creepy – I can’t help but think a lot of dudes drool over the bare look because it’s infantilizing. This might not be a conscious kink, but it’s true. I’m not so into the pre-pubescent look. In fact, I’m all about ’70s porno bush.
Then again, when it comes to sex, I don’t demand much. That she shows up, likes me, and takes her clothes off are my biggest concerns — and that she gets my name right.
I have a deep abiding fear that in the future we’ll all be a hairless race of squeaky smooth dolphin people. And I love hair. I love long curly locks on a woman; the way flowing tresses frame a face can empty my lungs. And, of course, the longer the hair, the better it is for loving pulling, preferably from behind. Short hair is pretty great too, since it shows off the neck, which is one of my favorite parts of a woman’s body. I dated a hippie once. Like a real, spiral-dancing, anklet-wearing, tofu-snarfing, patchouli-sweating hippie. Her hirsute legs and underarms were disconcerting at first, but I got over it pretty quickly. Actually, her socio-political-hippie reasons for not shaving made her feel sexy, and if she felt sexy, then I felt sexy. Cue the Indigo Girls, hash brownies, and funky-ass lovin’. And then there are the various Sicilians in my life.
It’s not just the weird underage girl thing; aesthetically, a hairless hoo-ha is kind of antiseptic. It doesn’t look … human. The vagina almost becomes like an object, and that’s just not any fun. Sex is not an à la carte buffet of different body parts, and I know dudes who are obsessed with the physical appearance of the nanny. It’s a strange fetish, since how it feels is more important to me than how it looks. Sometimes I worry that the male species will die off, killed by Lubriderm and pretty pictures. God forbid womankind ever discovers how to harvest our sperm, or we’re totally doomed.
Many women in my life have defended shaving it all off, which I’ve always found baffling, since waxing sounds positively medieval. I think I’d rather get waterboarded. At times, it’s been a passionate defense, but it always sounds like the brainwashing of an ex-boyfriend. I’ve been told it’s more hygienic, but, like, use shampoo? There is such a thing as stinky “good” and stinky “bad.” Generally speaking, a woman’s natural bouquet is an intoxicant. Sure, things can get stinky, but that’s not gender-specific I imagine. So … shampoo? In my experience, the more hair, the more pheromones. The more aromatic hormones dancing in my nostrils, the more booty-drunk I get. I’ve also been told that it feels better for a woman who’s been deforested. Is that really true? I was not aware that the presence of hair down there stunts pleasure.
I’ve had girlfriends who were totally bare, and in each instance, I have had to look them in the eyes and say, “Do whatever you want with your own pubic hair.” Some honestly liked it, but most seemed relieved. I have a preference for hair, but it’s not a dealbreaker. I have a preference for beer to pour out of my faucet, but that’s not going to happen. A college girlfriend once revealed that she had gotten waxed. I was surprised, and our conversation, I swear, went something like this:
Her: “I got waxed for you!”
Me: “I didn’t ask you to wax your sexy bits.”
Her: “Christi’s boyfriend Brian asked her, and she did it.”
Me: “I’m not Brian. You’re not Christi.”
Her: “And he shaved his balls, too!”
Me: “I’m not going to do that.”
Her: “But it’s only fair!”
Me: “Yes. But not after the fact.”
Her: “Now what?”
Me: “We wait for it to grow back.”
It was nice of Brian to offer to shear his sack. He asked his girlfriend to give him something he was willing to give as well. How romantic. That’s probably why they lasted as a couple longer than Christi’s friend and me. Of course, she and I didn’t break up because of extreme trimmings. It boiled down to a total lack of communication, namely, she’d have conversations with me days before having conversations with me. If she’d just asked me if I had wanted her to have hot, molten wax poured on her nether-regions, then ripped off in a ceremony of pain, I’d have politely said, “No, thank you.” I liked her just the way she was (bush included.)