That Old Cthulhu Charm

I’ve poured a glass of whiskey for this one because maybe, just maybe, alcohol will give me some clarity on my subject matter. Or it’s just an excuse to continue the excess started in Vegas (which, incidentally, is going on hold for now because this is much more entertaining than Vegas––no one wants to hear what a marvelous time I had when the economy sucks, right?).

I probably have a bit of Sin City still clinging to me despite scrubbing myself clean this morning. I’ll use this as an excuse for my behavior, which was surfing adameve.com looking at vibrators. Not my usual thing. In fact, never had one and the thought of it usually freaks me out, but I’m 31 and, lately, I’m all about facing my fears. I admitted to myself that these things terrified me. I didn’t want anyone finding out I was even possibly considering owning one, mainly because I feared disapproval or criticism. Screw that. Now I had a mission. I needed to look even if I didn’t plan to buy. Besides, I’m pretty sure I don’t want anything motorized down there no matter how hard up I am.

Luckily for me, adameve.com has a series of “essays” on choosing the right vibrator for you. It didn’t seem so bad: different speeds and such. Okay, but what I really wanted was a more critical, in depth perspective, something akin to an academic paper on the function of vibrators in Western culture: how many American women own them in comparison to European women? is there significant theory about their uses and where's Derrida's paper about deconstructing them? what is the success rate of each individual toy? have there ever been any electrocutions? if you’re an f-ing prude, what are some suggestions for integrating this into your life? what about damage control if (when) your dog finds it and brings it to your mother as a toy? and why doesn’t adameve.com sell batteries so I don’t have to stock up on them at Costco, or, which I know is more likely to happen, it will arrive and I’ll scream in rage because I forgot to buy fucking batteries!!

But I was just browsing, trying to face my fears. It’s not really my thing despite the four- and five-star reviews for the Ultra Mega Super Roommate-Waker Stimu-Rabbit Screamer. I have to say, it made me suspicious to see all these “my wife loves it” and “my fiancé loves watching me with it” claims. Really, I suspected single women were modifying their review content in an effort to justify their purchase and not feel so lonely. I’d totally do that.

Oh God, was this why I was really looking at one? As an insurance policy in case I ended up returning to meatmarket.com? Why on earth am I even looking when I have a man who’ll satisfy me at a moment’s notice? All these women are saying their husbands and boyfriends are afraid their toy’s better. On top of all this, I’ve got purple sparkly underwear. I don’t need purple sparkly vibrating plastic down there. That's just gaudy.

So talked myself out of that. But let’s discuss the following: why, when I site searched adameve.com for “batteries,” did that thing come up? I squinted at my computer screen. Seriously, what the hell is…? (this is where I turned my laptop sideways––and then upside down). What is that thing? It was peach, tubular and…made of foam? (Maybe?) Worse yet, a French-manicured female hand elegantly displayed it, as if that gave the thing some legitimization. But it actually managed to make this thing even creepier, because, when I see long, clickity-clackety nails by something that looks like female genitalia, I start thinking of scraping wounds. Finally, steeled myself and I looked at the header: Pink Lip Pussy Stroker.

Now, and for the rest of my life, creepy pictures of tubular foam pussies will haunt me. Chase me through my mind's eye like the Hounds of Hell, their teeth glistening with acid saliva as they snap at my heels. Well, that may be an exaggeration, but you get the picture (Jesus, I sure did).

So I started reading the reviews. Ohhhhhh, men use it to masturbate with (or as many say in glorious patriarchal fashion “masterbate”) and, here’s where I got excessively suspicious: “husbands and wives,” claimed to use it, which I really didn’t get. Wouldn’t the real thing be better? Sure, there’s the one guy who said his wife just had a baby, but really? Can’t you just use some lube and your hand? Must you stick it in that?

I needed some clarification on this. A male perspective. Who better to ask than The Boyfriend™? He was also the only male on my chat list at that moment, but whatever.
“Seriously, explain this. My brain is melting. Do. Not. Get.”

I liked his answer: “Guys buy stupid stuff when they’re horny.”

An enormous smile decorates my face as I nod with beautiful realization. The Boyfriend™ is the most insightful and amazing man to ever enter into my life. He’s smart, sensitive and honest, and he didn’t even give me a bullshit, perverted answer. I want to gush to all my girlfriends about how I’m the luckiest girl alive to be in such a fantastic relationship.

“Yeah,” he continues typing, “two Ziplocks, water, tape and a microwave, you’re set.”

What. The. Fuck.

But as I move my chat box and prepare my scathing reply, a word catches my eye. Let me cut and paste this review for you. Read it, and then guess what word saved The Boyfriend™ from textual abuse:

I have used masterbators before and this one doesnt have any texture on the inside, just a hole and a tube. I preferr when they have the tiny nipples or little tenticles inside for better experience.

Wait, what? Tentacles?? This may be a bit, you know, surprising for some men, but I’m pretty sure my pussy isn’t a product of Lovecraft. What’s between my legs is not Cthulhu no matter how much misogynists (and table-toppers who’ve never had a date) want you to think that.

At this point, my chat box dings with, “My gloves dropped!” quickly followed by “And I was out-rolled for them.”

It’s nice to know that, despite some men believing that women possess tentacles between their legs, The Boyfriend™ is still enough into me that he pauses between World of Warcraft boss kills to answer questions about creepy sex toys for me.

The Vegas Buildup

Today severely lacked anything interesting, so I’m at a loss for what to write about. This initially unplanned theme about my crotch has run its course because nothing’s been going on with my crotch since Bloc Party, so now I’m empty (don’t ever expect me to go for the obvious jokes).

I suppose I could break down the next few days for you:

What I Did Today: Packed for Greek Easter and Vegas, dropped the Marquess Annie off at Aunt Jessica’s, hit Lush for last minute beauty products and had a dinner at Bucca di Beppo that wrecked my stomach (that’s most likely tomorrow’s tale).

Saturday: Drive to Bakersfield for brunch with Tim, Lisa and the kids (Lisa is my best friend of 20 years now––yeah, a while freakin’ score!), drive to Fresno for Greek Easter so The Boyfriend™’s family can perform QA tests on me

Sunday: Greek Easter, gorge self into oblivion, force The Boyfriend™ to chauffeur me back to L.A. as I complain about how I won’t fit into my strapless dresses, fly to Vegas, where I could possibly look like a Midwestern sorostitute who doesn’t understand strapless dresses are not in any way democratic.

But this is where I must end and fall into conjecture and guess work because there’s this enormous line of demarcation when it comes to Vegas and me. I haven’t been there since I was nine. It was a Circus Circus paradise for little me and a Circus Circus nightmare for my parents (oh God, perverse images of whips, trapezes and clown noses between my parents just entered my head––GET. IT. OUT.) But now I’m not sure what to expect from Vegas at 31-years-old. What do you say to Sin City when you’re completely okay with sin because you don’t believe in it? How is an atheist supposed to enjoy a city that crutches its marketing campaign on Original Sin? Maybe I’ll hit people in the head with apples who look guilty for indulging in the vices of gambling and nudity. And on top of it all, isn’t it supposed to be “What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas?” How am I supposed to come to terms with that catch phrase of transgression when the Internet will get not only details but also pictures?

The Bloc Party Biohazard

We must put the strange South African guy on hold. I’ll save him for a day when nothing interesting happens. In the mean time, here:

I went to see Bloc Party last night and wet my pants. True story.

Maybe I was so excited about the violent, swirling whirlpool of humanity that formed for “Banquet.” Maybe someone’s elbow nailed me in the bladder. Or maybe I should look into getting some Detrol. However, any way you look at it, I had a serious issue of urine leakage right there, front and center, on the Palladium’s hardwood floor.

I leaned back and yelled to The Boyfriend™, “I just wet my pants!”

He laughed and nodded.

I repeated, “No, I literally wet my pants!”

The Boyfriend™ nodded again with a reassuring look that said, “I heard you over the guitars and even through my ear plugs!”

Why he wasn’t cringing, I didn’t know. Bloc Party broke into “Sunday,” so I just shrugged and enjoyed the music and tried to not be disturbed that I found my crotch pleasantly wet and warm.

Afterward, we walked over to The Waffle for a late, horrible-for-my-hot-Vegas-body meal. The traffic was loud enough on Sunset that only I could hear the crunch of my thick sweat-and-piss-encrusted jeans clinging to my ass and thighs. I was drenched in so much vile liquid that I could hardly pull my pants up. If I hadn’t been wearing a sweater around my waist, half of Hollywood would’ve seen my crack. But I think that’s fairly normal for Hollywood, at least for the homeless and the Kress tramps, and at least any scent wafting off of me could also be attributed to the homeless––and maybe even the Kress tramps, depending on how they’re earning those Marc Jacobs dresses. Anyway, I sat through dinner (salmon and capers over hash browns, insert your own fish joke here), and then we went back to his place for some awesome sex.

“I smell horrible.”

“No, you don’t, sweetie.”

All I kept thinking was “I pissed my pants and this guy still wants to do me. Wow, he is so perfect!”

The next morning: “Hey, can I throw my jeans into your washer? They’re all I have to wear.”

“Sure, but you weren’t that sweaty, were you?”

Blink.

Actually, I was. My dog wanted to grind her back into my polo shirt and sweater from last night, and usually she only chooses cat shit or manure to scent her coat with. And, though I’d hastily tossed my clothes onto the floor last night, I could smell the sweat wafting up to where I lay in bed this morning. Christ, I thought, I was a biohazard last night. Now you know how diseases get spread, because the CDC didn’t bother to slam me to the ground, cuff me and haul my filthy ass to quarantine in Atlanta.

“Well, I mean, they also have my urine on them.”

He blinks.

“You were serious?”

“That’s why I said ‘literally.’”

“Oh.” The Boyfriend™ pauses, and I’m sure, racing through his mind, is every dirty thing we did last night and precisely where his tongue licked.

He shrugs. “Yeah, of course. Toss ‘em in.”

This is why I love dating men in their 30s. Nothing freaks them out.

The State of Mr. Bigglesworth

This is the new name for my crotch, and I’m not necessarily sure how to feel about it. It may be a bit too “spot on.” Or more “spot off,” if you will.

“But the wax job. How did it go?” you ask.

There was no comedy in it. I did not scream in agony, I did not kick the waxing girl in the face, I did not kick The Boyfriend™ in the balls, and I did not flinging the pot of hot blue wax as a distraction in order to escape my voluntary torture chamber.

I merely sauntered out of there with a smug smile on my face and gave The Boyfriend™ a hug and a kiss (okay, my knees did tremble a bit, but that was from the adrenaline rush dissipating). Three hours later, what little soreness I had was gone. Less than 12 hours later, I was merely pink, rather than raging red.

This is where you think I’m being sarcastic, that I’m building up to some explosion of venomous sarcasm. I’m not. Really. I promise. Stop expecting some vicious spewing about excessive pain and suffering. What kind of person do you think I am? I’ll tell you what kind of person I am: a disappointed one.

So why am I disappointed because I’m not walking bowlegged or cringing every time I take a seat? First off, I can’t garner any pampering and sympathy from The Boyfriend™. Second, I couldn’t tell him, as I’d planned, “You are no longer allowed to complain about anything––anything––ever again.” Third, this is a rite of passage, but it now feels trivialized by the fact that blue wax only sticks to the hair; it doesn’t rip your skin up when the esthetician pulls it off. Damn you, blue wax, for taking away my battle scars! You failed to reinforce an aspect of my femininity: guilt tripping. Is this the exchange we women make for less painful waxing?

“Less painful?”

What? Did you think it wasn’t painful at all? Hell no, I bit my lip twice: once when she ripped it all off my Mound of Venus (yes, I did find out what that was because she told me that part hurts probably the most); and two, when she yanked everything off the left side. Apparently the left side is the worst for most women. Don’t ask why, I don’t know. It’s not like I’m an expert here. Even the waxer didn’t know. However, that area between my buttocks? Barely hurt. Now boys, this does not mean that area can take a lot of, mm, impact. Do not take this to your girlfriends and say, “Well, apparently waxing there doesn’t hurt, so why don’t we…?” Don’t be a douche. Seriously, do not be a douche.

So it’s left me as smooth as when I was Lolita’s age (wow, even my stomach quivered at that simile). It’s startled me a few times, like when I got ready to shower this morning. Groggily pulling my pajamas off to get into the shower, I saw a distinct lack of blond hair in the mirror and jumped. I briefly wondered if that crazy dude who lives in the apartment across the courtyard had drugged me and shaved me in the middle of the night. Then, still a bit sensitive, my high-pressure showerhead spit its needle water onto me. That was lovely.

Tomorrow, the crazy, middle aged, desperate-for-attention Jewish South African. Hm. Now I’m not sure there’s much else to say about him.

The Sphinx From Brazil

So here I am, getting my first waxing. Now, I don’t mean eyebrows––I mean waxing. You know what I’m talking about. Yes. There. Down there.

This isn’t so much for me. I’ve never given it much thought, and, when I did, I shivered like a pathetic little Chihuahua. I really don’t like pain. But apparently my distaste for pain is less than my desire to please my new boyfriend (so much for the legacy of first wave feminism). But this is a birthday present for him, and the pain is coming only from my crotch, and not out of my wallet as well: The Boyfriend™ is paying for a “full Brazilian” pussy waxing.

This is how it started: “It is so hot when a girl’s shaved.”

I didn’t say that, he did. Pretty simple, right?

No, no it isn’t. Because it grows back, simulating bed bugs of the crotch, and it always itches worse in public, when you can’t reach down and scratch––but when you find that one isolated moment, say, at a cocktail party for your beau’s work, when every head is turned away from you, you reach down for some relief just as his boss turns around and catches you clawing between your legs, possibly even putting your foot up on a chair to get a better angle.

But that’s after the pain of having every follicle ripped out of your skin in one instant, leaving your lips burning like you have an STD. Or something like that.

I haven’t had it done yet. I’m just making this shit up, but it’s well-researched shit, kiddies.

So this morning The Boyfriend™ brings it up as a two-parter conversation, the second being about “getting your vagina waxed.” Instantly my face got all red because I’m sitting in my office with my officemate, J.T., a sweet and innocent Asian boy, typing away at his computer. I know he can’t read my chat screen, but talking about the process of removing my pubic hair isn’t something USC really pays me to do, is it? Maybe if I were researching the cultural relevance of being bald between my legs and found some completely abstract link to Alice, because that’s Wonderland, baby. Then they’d pay me to discuss––and even get––waxed.

The Boyfriend’s™ been industrious. He doesn’t think my favorite spa, Burke-Williams, does Brazilian waxing, which is his preference. A quick search on Yelp brought up a few places while he informs me, “The Wikipedia on waxing was insightful––with pictures.”

Pictures?

Can they show that on Wikipedia? And what truly is a “Brazilian” wax anyway?

Wikipedia time. Hmm… Look at all those waxing options.

A bikini wax. How passé. Next.

A full bikini wax. What the fuck is a “Mount of Venus” and do I have one too? Considering how many gods, demi-gods, men and animals mounted Venus, I’m not sure I want one. Next.

The European: All pubic hair is removed ‘except for a small patch around the mound’. Those quotation marks aren’t mine, because, if they were, they’d be used correctly. Why is that put in quotations? I’m suspicious now. What does that mean? Is it ironic? Who defines “small patch”? I don’t think my “small patch” would be The Boyfriend’s™ definition of “small patch.” Next.

The Moustache? I skimmed over this one, saw the word “Hitler” in there, and… Next.

A landing strip? Who came up with that name? My air traffic control does it’s job, thanks: only one jumbo jet lands on this runway, and it’s dealt with a jungle landing before and it can deal with it again. Next.

Ah, here we go: The Brazilian. Maybe a thin line above the clit, maybe removal of all hair; who knows? Nice and ambiguous, I’ve got room to work with here, language being as complex as it is. Except…

Just below it is The Sphinx, which is a word I have never liked. It just sounds gross. For me, it’s like a worse insult than calling someone a pussy. It’s like a Prince song that sat in the fridge too long and curdled (if Prince songs were dairy products). And this is what I’m pretty sure The Boyfriend™ has in mind.

Okay, no. This is exactly what he has in mind. I can’t play dumb. It is a non-Bush-administration fact: you cannot alter or interpret the statement in any way: “I like it with no hair.” He wants me completely hairless between my legs, which, as Wikipedia informs me, is called The Sphinx after the Canadian hairless cat breed. My pussy is about to be Mr. fucking Bigglesworth.

I list off a few places around L.A. “You will come with me,” I tell him.

“Wax Poetica is in Burbank. It looks nice when I drive by it” he says.

When you drive by it? Is that how you choose all your intimate pleasures? “You looked nice when I drove by you” or “Let’s go to that drive-thru sex shop. It’s easier than doing some easy Internet research despite the fact that I sit in front of a computer all fucking day, often doing nothing except talking to you about waxing your cunt. I sure hope it’s not a recycled sex shop.”

He defends weakly with, “They have poetry readings there.”

Every woman adores a Fascist.

No, having poetry read to me will not alleviate the post-waxing feeling of someone pouring lighter fluid on my pelvis and tossing a match down there.

So I look up Stark Wax Studio. It has the word “studio” in it, so, suddenly, I’m feeling like their professionals at Stark. Besides, exceptional word choice on their part.

At this point, my other office mate (and soon-to-be roommate) Jessica arrived: “Oh, you’ll be fine, Christie. Many women have lived through a waxing.”

“Many? What the fuck?” I reply.

“Yeah, no kidding,” J.T. agrees. "Stop freaking her out."

“Well, there was that one woman in Australia, but they’re all savages down there. Penal colony and what not.”

J.T. and I lean forward to hear this. Stories about penal colonies always rock (see: Death Race).

“They used duct tape to pull the wax off. She swelled up but didn’t go to a doctor in time.”

“Ohhhh…” We both nod at the stupidity of this Australian woman. Of course, I would completely go to a doctor if my pubic area swelled up (says the girl who’s break light in her car has been on for five days now).

The Boyfriend™ also reassures me that it’s only if I go to “cheapo Korean places.” But it still stokes the fires of my paranoia, so I’m now having fucked up images of hentai-like school girls lathering on the wax with alien tentacles and ripping off large sections of duct tape while a blond German woman holds me to the table, screaming at me, “Nein! Nein! It is forbidden!”

This is entirely irrational. Mostly irrational. Somewhat irrational.

Then The Boyfriend™ points out that at Stark they do male Brazilian waxing. I know that there’s relatively little tone in chat messages, but he sounds excited. I briefly thought about asking him to do it with me, but then I realize he has an 40-inch HDTV in his office. It’s hooked up to his work computer. The following somewhat irrational image collage flashes through my mind’s eye: Wikipedia landing strips and Sphinxes, a Mac Stickie reading “Make Christie’s Appointment ASAP So F-ing Hawt” just as his assistant, co-worker and boss enter; then they all start having a very detailed conversation about my soon-to-be-vacant-of-hair vagina.

I resist the urge to either 1) chew on my nails, or 2) flee Los Angeles and live in Joshua Tree as an esthete, happily growing a 70s Hustler bush.

This is when The Boyfriend™ says, “I think you should do Stark, since all they do is waxing.” Then he bombards me with Yelp testimonies of how great it is. Yes, let me reiterate this: having your labia ripped apart is faaaaabulous.

So, after his begging, I call to make the appointment:

“Their number begins with 666. What. The. Fu––Yes, do you have any appointments for this evening?” Say no, say no, say you’re booked all week and can’t possibly fit anyone in because you’re the best waxing place in L.A. and I have to know a special maitre d’ number for this.

“Would you prefer 5:30 or 6:30?” She sounds so confident, so normal, so nonchalant. As if her job wasn’t founded on pissing on the 8^th Amendment. Or all morality in general, really.

The only time The Boyfriend™ can go with me is tonight (it will be more fulfilling to kick him in the balls immediately afterward), because he also needs to buy sunglasses, and what better place to get your bush ripped off and buy sunglasses but Silver Lake?

“And what will you be having done?”

Skin torn into ragged chunks? Blistering sores? Submitting myself to voluntary torture in the name of great sex and the socially reinforced belief that you should give someone a birthday present because they somehow managed to survive another year on this vile, filth-infested, disease-ridden planet?

“A B-Brazilian w-wax, please. Oh God, I’m nervous.”

Coolly, she took my name and number. I couldn’t jam my finger on my iPhone fast enough. Incidentally, the lack of being able to slam down a phone heightened my anxiety.

“It’s done,” I type at The Boyfriend™.

“Full Brazilian?”

…

“Stark Waxing Salon.”

“I made an appointment for 6:30. I wanted to clarify that this would be for a f-full Brazilian.”

Jab-jab-jab HANG UP MOTHERFUCKER HANG UP.

“Yes, dear. A full Brazilian.”

And in exchange for stripping my pussy bare, I get three days in Vegas at the Encore, a visit to the Wynn day spa, dinner at a two-Michelin star restaurant, and the promise of amazing sex.

I’ll let you know if it’s worth it.