Think unsexy thoughts, think unsexy thoughts…
– The Simpsons

I’m afraid that I often cut corners and manufacture reasons to delay a lot tasks that I am supposed to complete regularly. My hairdresser is constantly trying to persuade me that I should have my hair cut every six weeks and rolls her eyes when I turn up six months later…my portfolio is full of assessments completed in the final days before my  yearly appraisal…my annual dental check up has been postponed for five years and counting…there’s just not enough time or money to be too particular about these kinds of things.

But not when it comes to waxing. I cannot tell you how often the beautician has tutted at me that it’s too soon and the hairs are too short. I have no idea what a reasonable gap is, but I can never seem to get it right. Bikini waxing is by far my biggest beauty expense, although this does perhaps say more about my other budgeting, but I can’t look at it as anything but money well spent.

I’ve not always been such a fan. I remember my first Brazilian wax – I was horrified both by how ridiculously painful and how humiliating it was, lying back and displaying my cunt to a stranger who was essentially ripping my skin off…and I was paying her for the pleasure! Never again, I swore, never again.

But then I touched myself to check that my skin was, in fact, still attached and it felt…soft. Even when swollen and tender from the vicious attentions of the beautician, it felt good. I had never felt myself without it being hidden under all that hair. I didn’t realise that I had been wasting my touch before. Stroking myself felt new and different. Even in the cubicle in the beauty parlour, I had already forgotten the pain. I had to pay and get home as soon as possible to explore my body more thoroughly.

Over the next few days, I continued to discover that it was worth that short period of discomfort. For the first time, I looked at myself. I got out my hand mirror and really looked at myself. I saw my clit and how it was seated within my folds, how my labia surrounded my cunt, how wet I got as I continued to look. I don’t know why I hadn’t done this before. Even with a normal wax for tidiness sake, there had always been a veritable jungle obscuring my view and I had never really bothered to look properly. I never knew that that part of me could be interesting, could be beautiful. (And no, you don’t get to see just yet – I still have some limits!)

So now I look forward to my waxing appointments. I’ve even started to enjoy them, and have to try quite hard not to get too turned on by them, both before and during! The hot wax tickles and even burns a little. It’s…hot. The searing rip as it’s torn off doesn’t last long. It’s sharp and makes me gasp. The cream afterwards is cool and reminds me of when autumn breezes swirl under my skirt before it is so cold that I need tights. All in all, it’s 10 minutes of dizzyingly variable sensations and I kind of like it.

I also spend most of my appointment trying to distract myself from thinking about *why* I bother to wax at all. Never do I have to think so hard about not thinking about what I really cannot help but think about. I mustn’t think about how smooth my skin will be when I touch it later, or how much better his mouth feels against me without the barrier of those unwanted hairs. I mustn’t think about how much more beautiful I feel when I’m tidy and hair-free, how much more confident I am when I feel beautiful…

So maybe I wax too often. Maybe it would be more efficient and effective if I waited longer, but I don’t give a damn. It’s always worth it.

I just have to have make sure I have a long list of suitably unsexy topics to block out the more delicious thoughts. My shopping list, all the menial tasks that I have left over from the day, whether I can get all the way to work tomorrow without stopping for petrol…it never works…