Spread Eagle.

Dear Diary, 

     
     I'll be the first to admit I'm a hairy person (or so I think). And even though I'm hairy, I hate hair. So naturally, I do away with it. Razors, tweezers, wax strips, etc. Those suckers don't stand a chance. 

     One of my friends is an esthetician and has access to professional grade wax. She had mentioned to me before that she waxes her own body and I asked if she'd be willing to take on a new client. This was no ordinary wax job, people. This was a full blown Brazilian. The kind that makes you want to bite a stick or get knocked out with a frying pan while your unmentionables undergo major torture. 

     When I showed up, she laid a towel down in her open living area and told me to go ahead and lay down. "Wait. What? Right HERE?" I looked to my left and saw her gigantic sliding glass door wide open with an awesome view of her neighbors house. Also, this room had no door and there were two other cohabitants of the household presently home. This wasn't going to work for me. I don't always Spread Eagle, but when I do, it's not in the open. 

     We made our way to her in-home salon instead, where I dropped my yoga pants and packed up any embarrassment or dignity I had left and wadded it up with my pile of clothing. I quickly realized that the positions required of one crazy enough to submit to such pain is enough to make a grown man cry. 

     When she began, I felt a too-hot-for-my-liking sticky substance being smeared across my carnal treasure with a popsicle stick. I knew that the next half hour was going to be terrible. Once that sticky substance dries, there is no going back. It's like getting buried in cement and being left there for days. Someone's gonna have to jackhammer you out of that $*!#. Same with your hair. Your two choices are to either let that wax become a permanent fixture on your body, or rip out anything that's stuck to it so it all comes off at once. The initial rip sent me from a 0 degree angle to a full blown 90 degrees, where my screaming face was right in the face of my red-haired friend who apparently had no shame in ripping me to pieces. The pain continued for at least another hour, each reaction nearly the same as the one before it. At 95% completion, I told her to leave the rest. I was just too wimpy. I was going to have to accept that my new crotch was to be the Centaur of its kind. 

     I bit the bullet and she finished the job, no doubt longer than it could have been had I not screamed through most of it and begged her to kill the switch. I paid her, then left her house with a terribly uncomfortable feeling of empty crotch follicles. I look back and realize that I PAID someone to torture me via my most sensitive lady parts. I can definitely see where men think women are completely irrational human beings.

Sincerely, 

Me. The Irrational Woman. 


The IDEA:

THE REALITY: