Male Waxing Tumblr for Mens
Sadly, I am not one of those men. The product of hearty Mediterranean stock, I find myself covered in thick, black hairs that seem to be multiplying at a rate that will leave me somewhere between Zorba the Greek and a straight-up direwolf by the time I reach thirty-five. Suffice it to say, if I were to leave my undercarriage untamed, it’d turn into its own no-fly zone faster than you could say Syrian Civil War. Which is exactly why I’ve got a full stock of electric trimmers on standby in medicine cabinet, ready to trim overgrown pubes at a moment’s notice. Yet there’s on swatch of under-pant fur that I’ve never quite figured out how to maintain without assistance: my ass. And so, about five months ago, on a whim I decided to get my ass waxed.
Alright, maybe “on a whim” is a bit of a stretch. I was already in the hot seat for my standing, every-other-month upper body waxing session—the nice, albeit brusque, woman tearing away at the ever-thickening forest on my upper back and the hair islands that cover right above my kidney, as either she or one of her equally efficient coworkers does every time I step through the precipice of that place—when the thought came to my mind that I might want her to continue the path of destruction down onto my backside. I was heading off onto vacation in two weeks, and had been toying with the idea of wearing somewhat less-than-modest swimwear, so as not to stand out too loudly as a tourist in this Speedo-friendly venue. Why not have the area tended to by a professional first?
At this point in the appointment, my waxer (let’s call her Jane) and I had a rapport, of sorts. It’d been about ten minutes since we met, five since she had started her reign of terror on my back, and we’d chatted a bit; she’d revealed that the appointment after mine had canceled, so I knew the spot was open. Nervously, I queried about her taking care of a little more than originally planned.
“Oh, sure, ” Jane responded, “I was actually going to ask about what you wanted to do about that.” I guess I blushed, because she followed up, “No, it’s not that bad. You’ve just got a lot of hairs above your waist, too. But yeah, I can handle it, no problem. Down the middle, too?” I nodded. She got to work.
I was already on the table, so all I needed to do was pull my pants down and shift a little for her to get started. Next, a flash of panic. What have I done? I was about to turn around to tell her that I changed my mind, but then, she was slathering the hot wax on the inside of one of my asscheeks and there was no turning back. I braced for impact. To my surprise, it never really came. Of course, I felt the strip being pulled off, and it wasn’t my favorite way to spend a Saturday afternoon, to say the least. But compared to what I’d heard about waxing other parts of the male anatomy, I was taken aback to realize that the ass wasn’t much worse than the back, in terms of pain. Jane finished up and I was out of there, bare-assed for the first time in over two decades, with some mild irritation and a spring in my step.
But while the procedure itself was uneventful enough, the next few days were when things got really interesting. In what way, you ask? Let’s just say that after a lifetime of having your butt work one way, it’s jarring as hell to experience anything different. Take passing gas, for instance: without the hairy buffer zone that kept my cheeks from touching, even the tiniest little bit of gas now produced a full-fledged fart, deafening sound and all. Also, there was suddenly no friction. Literally, none. And so, my ass now jiggled like than a Jello mold every time I took a step without any forces to keep it in place. There’s a word for that: disconcerting. Add in chafing, and the newfound, round-the-clock fear of ingrown hairs popping up around my ahem underside, and you can say that I wasn’t exactly in love with the experience.
And yet, I’m tempted to recommend you try it. If only because of the amount you’ll save on toilet paper.