There is a smile on my coochie today.
Well, I hibernate during the winter. It annoys the shit out of me when I complain about bitter winter weather and seasonal depression, only to have someone point out that being from the arctic northeast, I “should be used to it.”
That’s like telling Sophia she shouldn't trip off Harpo blacking her eye since “all her life she had to fight…”
So now that the earth below is thawed, and the sun is emerging and making way for tank tops and toes out, I too, am beginning to emerge from under the down duvet. So to commemorate Memorial Day...and some pending penis, I took a trip to a good friend who knows me more intimately than most.
She works in a nice part of town that takes me about 10 minutes to reach. But when I do I am nervous and antsy, yet constantly reminding myself that the visit is pointless unless I relax. The waterfall in the lobby of her building helps...until it coerces my bladder. Damn!
Thank God the elevator is empty, it allows me 35 whole seconds of breathing and pacing. I get off, toss my freshly wrapped hair...finally grown out from that severe winter butchering...and strut to the rhythm of my heels on hardwood.
Today, I walks like reggae.
"Hi, I'm Wise...here to see Michelle."
Before I can even park in the overstuffed love seat, my home girl floats out and nods for me to follow her to her office. I shoot back up and press play, again walking and humming in my head, almost slow-windin' down the hall.
"I love that hat, Wise," Michelle says over her shoulder. "What is that, velvet? Can I touch it?" I lean in, satisfied at the attention.
I ponder the irony...that this is the very effect I'm going for...the EXACT reason I'm here to see Michelle in the first place.
"Nice!" she says, as we turn the corner, past several serene side rooms.
"How long has it been?"
I pause for a second, not sure what she's asking. How long since I straddled his face?? That's where MY head was...but why is SHE going there?
"Your last time here?" Oh.
I settle into her office, a compact cube with candles and an air of sterility. Within minutes Michelle's gone and my clothes are folded neatly on the table beside me. My back is resting on a bed of feathers, an immaculately clean and fluffy white towel covering my vitals.
"I hope you don't mind that I brought music this time. Helps me relax."
She smiles wide, winks. Then gets to work.
The hot wax is a cruel illusion. It feels divine as it's smeared on my skin, like warm peanut butter spread on a slice of whole wheat (or in my case pumpernickel). But then it is quickly covered and ripped away. The skin of my groin is Cinderella...the hair there is her plan for a booty call with the Prince...the wax and linen strips are the heartless stepmama and trifling sisters.
An agonizing baldface crime.
The effects of winter are brutally snatched from my snatch...yet I remain calm. Humming soft rock hits now.
I've always wanted to visit Brazil, but not if this is how they treat folks. Not that I expect impeccable hospitality from someone wearing rubber gloves, but I'm sayin. In case you have yet to go, ummm, international, a Brazilian wax is when they unceremoniously take off ALL your hair south of the equator, including where they say the sun don't shine. Butt... it's springtime, and the sun doth shine, and I want to soak it up.
I'm no virgin to waxing down there, but it still feels a lot like blunt trauma every damn time. Solicited trauma, mind you. I go to the spa under my own volition. Make a damn appointment even. I ASK for a woman who resembles the bitch I almost beat up after a softball game in 9th grade, to lift my legs, line my azz cheeks with hot molten lava/wax and wipe from back to front.
Then basically do the same thing DIRECTLY on my kisser, with the tenderness of an elephant applying, ummm, lipliner. Oh she's precise, but not very sensitive considering she got the same thing I got and should know better. Her fingers are all up in my underworld, and it's imperative to rationalize the fact that I'm not in the least bit aroused by this/her. She's a two-minute sister, and for that (for once) I am grateful.
I instruct Michelle to give me a "triangle". [think... dudes circa 1991 with a Nike swoosh cut in their fades.]
I don't do the "landing strip" cuz I just watched Elie Wiesel on Oprah for the last two days, I read his book "Night" in high school, and frankly, that landing strip shit resembles Hitler's mustache.
I don't like the "Kojak"...ya know, a full baldy. Because I'd be a tad remiss to arouse a man with privates that are a pre-pubescent throwback. I mean, I already look young for my age, I don't need to be some sick fcuk's kiddie porn fetish.
To me the triangle is more than the Phil Jackson (or Tex Winters for you anal purists) classic offense, it's a reliable defense. It takes Michelle no time at all to shape up my isosceles.
When it's all said and done, it's cute. Dammit, gorgeous even. Breathtaking. Silky. Ventilating. Laying on my back, at home in my bed looking down at it I see an upside down frown...kind of like my disposition this time of year. It signifies the beginning of spring, when I get hot in the pants. I get plenty aroused when my fresh fade is admired and caressed. Like a good tan, or a new tattoo, fly new pumps or new chrome rims...I wanna show it off.
"What is that velvet?" I can now lean in and bask in the attention. Front and back, nggas!