There is Never an Easy Way
Having come to some sort of synthesis between purpose and penache at the strip bar, 12 weeks into the adventure my income has finally stabilized; though I do admit, I am still subject to the whims of the market. Now, I get to start focusing on the nuances... there is such a thing as professional pride.
Though I am not entirely sure how much the average detail really makes to the fellows who routinely take up the seats in perverts row.
The problem plaguing me presently is one of hair, or rather, its removal. In the week before I went in for my first day, I made and appointment with gentleman who runs his own esthetician practice, primarily for that all-important stripper procedure: the bikini wax. I was not entirely impressed with the guy's efforts, and had to do a little touching up with creams and razors later, which seemed to defeat the purpose as well as put me out the better part of $100.
I have had it done before, you understand, primarily out of curiosity, and at the recommendation of a female friend, used the services of an Eastern European woman working out of Yorkville.
"Never trust a woman armed with hot wax who is not from a hairy race herself. A Swede? Forget it. You want a Scandinavian with hair black as pitch. They know."
"She does do boys, yes?"
"Oh... um. She must. Yes, I'm sure she does."
Quite nervous I arrived for the appointment, and in turn caught her completely off guard.
(In a thick Czech accent) "Oh! Well... I... I have never. Hmm. No, it's alright, my darling, we will learn together."
Which didn't fill me with confidence.
She was indeed, very Eastern European, petite, with a mass of dark, curly hair crowning her head, an olive complexion; and her table-side manner, I have to admit, was second to none:
"We are all the same, my darling. Pay it no mind. Only different parts. Deep down, we are identical -- breathe!"
"Very good work, darling. You are doing very well -- breathe!"
Let me assure you, it does hurt.
After it was all over she looked at me with a fairly satisfied appraisal. "It is just like women," she decreed, "only more fiddling. It takes a little longer. Next time will be much better."
The results in that case, after the pain and tenderness subsided, were quite satisfactory... it was great looking like a porn star, but I never went back, primarily because I stopped having sex for quite a while, there really wasn't much need to be so well, um, manicured in private. Now, I've developed a healthy dose of consumer anxiety, somehow imagining that she'll be offended that I never returned after we bonded through a shared experience.
Don't laugh, it could happen to you one day.
But I had better get over it. The recent hack's job lasted well over a month (I'm not very naturally hairy), and since then I've been maintaining with my clippers and razor, but we're at the point now where it's really time to go back to the wax or reconcile myself with the prospect of having to shave my nethers weekly, which makes my hand cramp up.
In a perfect world, there would be someone easily located that specializes in troweling hot wax onto men's bits. I'm sure such a person exists, but thus far Google and my co-workers have let me down.
Woe. Woe is me.
Though I am not entirely sure how much the average detail really makes to the fellows who routinely take up the seats in perverts row.
The problem plaguing me presently is one of hair, or rather, its removal. In the week before I went in for my first day, I made and appointment with gentleman who runs his own esthetician practice, primarily for that all-important stripper procedure: the bikini wax. I was not entirely impressed with the guy's efforts, and had to do a little touching up with creams and razors later, which seemed to defeat the purpose as well as put me out the better part of $100.
I have had it done before, you understand, primarily out of curiosity, and at the recommendation of a female friend, used the services of an Eastern European woman working out of Yorkville.
"Never trust a woman armed with hot wax who is not from a hairy race herself. A Swede? Forget it. You want a Scandinavian with hair black as pitch. They know."
"She does do boys, yes?"
"Oh... um. She must. Yes, I'm sure she does."
Quite nervous I arrived for the appointment, and in turn caught her completely off guard.
(In a thick Czech accent) "Oh! Well... I... I have never. Hmm. No, it's alright, my darling, we will learn together."
Which didn't fill me with confidence.
She was indeed, very Eastern European, petite, with a mass of dark, curly hair crowning her head, an olive complexion; and her table-side manner, I have to admit, was second to none:
"We are all the same, my darling. Pay it no mind. Only different parts. Deep down, we are identical -- breathe!"
"Very good work, darling. You are doing very well -- breathe!"
Let me assure you, it does hurt.
After it was all over she looked at me with a fairly satisfied appraisal. "It is just like women," she decreed, "only more fiddling. It takes a little longer. Next time will be much better."
The results in that case, after the pain and tenderness subsided, were quite satisfactory... it was great looking like a porn star, but I never went back, primarily because I stopped having sex for quite a while, there really wasn't much need to be so well, um, manicured in private. Now, I've developed a healthy dose of consumer anxiety, somehow imagining that she'll be offended that I never returned after we bonded through a shared experience.
Don't laugh, it could happen to you one day.
But I had better get over it. The recent hack's job lasted well over a month (I'm not very naturally hairy), and since then I've been maintaining with my clippers and razor, but we're at the point now where it's really time to go back to the wax or reconcile myself with the prospect of having to shave my nethers weekly, which makes my hand cramp up.
In a perfect world, there would be someone easily located that specializes in troweling hot wax onto men's bits. I'm sure such a person exists, but thus far Google and my co-workers have let me down.
Woe. Woe is me.
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