While here in Brussels I find myself staying with a lovely French couple – Pierre Joel and Maria. Pierre Joel and I met via an online photography networking service; turns out he makes great photos and I happened to be rolling through town. Perfect!
The thing is, he requires that his models get full-on 100% shaved for the shoot (this is consistent through his portfolio). With most girls this is not a problem; with me… well, I haven't had a "proper" bikini in over two years and I'm not about to create a full swath of razor rash on my crotch (because who wants to see someone on their train desperately scratching at their crotch?) So, off to the salon we go!
Maria's at work, so it falls to Pierre Joel to take me to the salon, with a couple of very pleasant fashion-related window shopping stops along the way. I'm in a good mood, feeling happy, feeling relaxed. Little do I know how drastically this is about to change…
We arrive at the salon, which has a fancy little courtyard outside and Pierre Joel points out the service I'll be getting – épilàtion. I nod in understanding, but suddenly realize what I'm getting myself into. We head in and he puruses the pricelist as I look around – pretty much your typical mid-range salon: couches with older middle-class women perched on them, products for sale in glass cases, minimal windows, women in vaguely medically inspired outfits wandering about. At least this part of it is somewhat familiar.
Pierre Joel finds the option we're looking for, full bikini, €17 – "Good?"
"Good. Can I get it done now?" He chats with the girl behind the counter entirely in French, yes, I can get it done right now. "So enjoy and see you at home!" He smiles and waves goodbye as the receptionist writes down my name and proceeds to show me to my room.
"Deshabiller" she says as she closes the door – my rusty Grade 12 French and my rusty knowledge of salons combine to work for me in understanding that I should get undressed. There are two empty hangers and one with a bathrobe so I go with the flow and shed my clothes, with the exception of my bra, in favour of the terry option. And then I wait. And wait. And wait.
The time left alone gives me a chance to get bored and look around the room trying to figure out what everything is for. There are machines with nozzles, machines with steamers, machines with multiple attachments and, in apparent contradiction to everything else in the surgery-esque room, a small round stereo, like the ones they have in massage studios. This only serves to make me more nervous than I already am – if they need Enya to calm people down then who knows what atrocities are committed in here?
At some point there's a knock on the door and a woman in a petite stylish labcoat comes in, smiles, says something in French about looking for something ("Je cherche") and then turns on the stereo and heads out. Now I'm alone in the room but with instrumental music meant to calm the nerves. I try to flow with it, but knowing what it's meant to accomplish just makes me edgy. A minute or two later, a pair of girls in labcoats come in.
The brunette is clearly in charge, telling the blonde to just watch what she's doing ("Regarder") and I smile nervously at both of them, doing my best impression of bravery. They smile back and at least the empathy in their eyes makes me feel a little better. They do this for a living (or aim to) – they know better than I do what I'm in for. The brunette demonstrates how to position me – knees open, feet touching, a posture that feels familiar from yoga. Good to know my practice has so many practical uses.
The brunette heads over to the counter, grabs a container of talc powder, dumps a generous amount on my crotch and then, before I can even realize what she's doing, rubs it into my pubic hair and along my cunt and towards my ass with her conspicuously un-gloved hand. As I'm still reeling from this, she walks over to a shiny piece of machinery that turns out to be a vat for heating the wax, dips in what could be a mini popsicle stick and then turns and thrusts the warm-to-the-point-of-hot wax along the side of my vag, where the pubic hair intrudes into the upper thigh area, then applies a piece of cloth and RIPS the hair out of me in one graceful movement. I do a full-body cringe and let out a sound of pain and she eases me back and asks "ça va?" I node, breathe and throw out my French at its finest, "Oui, ça va."
This pattern of wax, cloth, pubic hair rip, reaction, follows essentially the same pattern between my legs, between my ass cheeks and then up onto my pubic bone. It's painful as fuck, but at least she's efficient. More than once I ponder the irony of straight, conservative, heterosexual women doing this on a regular basis and then questioning the sanity of those folks I mix with who like whips and chains. Whips and chains don't hurt this much. But I'll admit, it's all made much easier by the frequent exclamations of "Vraiment jolie!" by the girls – whether they're talking about me, my cunt, or their own work, I don't know, but I'll take the compliment regardless.
The entire process reaches a pinnacle when all that's left is what's generally referred to as a "landing strip" – the stretch of pubic hair down the middle of the pubic bone, top to bottom.
Not my landing strip, just an example
I crane my chin down towards my chest to get a better look at this incredibly intimidating section of soon-to-be-removed hair. This, I know, is going to hurt like an absolute fucking bitch. No two ways about it. The brunette knows better than to let me watch though, and pushes my head down. "Non!" she tells me. I laugh, nervously, knowingly. The blonde smiles at me in what I take to be reassurance… or sympathy.
The wax is hot. My skin, I pull tight, as told. The strip of cloth is laid down. RIIIIP!!!
"Fuck!" "ça va?" "It's okay."
I bear down and try to breathe through the pain thinking to myself, "It's okay, I've been through worse," but very few forms of pain can compare to having the hair around your clit torn out bit by bit. Jesus, fuck.
Considering the entire process completed, the brunette takes a bottle of oil, pours some between her hands and proceeds to rub down my entire crotch with her, again, un-gloved hands. My crotch now oiled as well as throbbing in pain, the girls leave the room with a few parting French phrases and leave me lying there, mildly bewildered, on the salon room table in nothing but a bra and bathrobe.
I spent the next hour or so coming down off the endorphin rush that generally comes with intense pain, but nothing could really take the edge off a pubic area that felt intensely raw and exposed. There's been some definite pluses to this – it feels nice and smooth to the touch and there's a whole new world of sensations while just walking down the street that have opened up to me! Outrageous!
I'm excited to see how this all looks in photos, because I'm having mildly mixed feelings on it – on the one hand I feel about 9 years old again, or like someone trying to look that way, which is a little odd but not unmanageable; on the other hand I've mostly seen this style of waxing on porn stars and nude models, so I feel kinda sexy and elegant. Results yet to be seen.
Not my vag
One thing I will say about it for sure though is that I can still (more than 24 hours later) feel a mild throbbing in the area around my clit. It's not particularly pleasant, nor is it unbearable. But it's a reminder of the lengths people go to in order to achieve "beauty" as dictated by… well, those who dictate. In the meanwhile, I'll just fondle my pubis repeatedly.
