What is a Brazilian?
“Did you want a Brazilian?” Zoey asked me in a very sweet calming voice.
“Yea, totally,” I said. What the hell is a Brazilian? I thought.
“HOLY SHIT!!!” I yelled, shaking the walls of the small room we were in.
“Did you just try and punch me?” My waxist asked.
“I think I did,” I replied in a half surprised tone.
“I’m going to need you to sit on your hands please,” She told me. Now looking at me with fear in her eyes.
“So…when you said Brazilian, you meant the whole thing?”
“Yes, that’s what a Brazilian is,” she replied. I could have sworn she spoke to me like I was slow.
At this point most of the hair on my va jay jay is missing and I didn’t want it to look like some sort of disturbed mental patient that goes around pulling parts of their hair out, so I decide to let her finish the job. All the while I’m having violent thoughts of what I’m going to do to Becky for buying me my very first bikini waxing for my birthday. Because she kept assuring me it was soooo much better than shaving.
Becky and I had gone together to this little den of torture, when the waxist came out she and Becky hugged and caught up like old friends.
“Who wants to go first?”
Scared shitless, I pointed at Becky. Becky goes in and gets her eyebrows and budding flower done and I don’t hear a scream. Not one ouch. All I hear is Becky’s contagious laughter. If she’s laughing it can’t be that bad right? I now suspect that they were both in there together just laughing their asses off at the rookie sitting outside.
“I can’t wait till she screams in pain,” Becky would have said.
“After I wax her, I plan to boil her brain,” the evil waxist would have replied.
Becky exits and she’s looking happy and relaxed with just a touch of red around the eyebrows. Well, hell. If Becky can do it, I can do it. Shit. I’ve been pierced. I know pain. Bring it, bitch!
Oh.. my.. God!!! There really are no words to describe the pain that you feel when someone uses hot wax to rip the hair out of your private parts. I would liken it to being burnt by a hot iron. It stings like shit and you can still see the red marks it leaves for quite sometime after. Finally the front is done and I take the first breath I think I’ve had in like 20 minutes.
“It’s over,” she says
“Oh thank you, God.”
“I’m going to need you to turn over and get up on your hands and knees,” she tells me very matter of factly.
“Hu….?” was all I could muster. This woman must be out of her f-ing mind.
“I need to do the back,” the psychotic woman with the Cheshire cat grin tells me.
Back? No one said any thing about the back. So I comply, feeling as though I’m now in some sort of porno but not getting paid for it. She lays a strip of wax down in a place even I’m too embarrassed to mention.
“Oh my!” was all I could muster.
“You’re done.” She said.
“I hate you,” I say in my highest soprano voice.
I walk back out and Becky is pretty much out of her seat and half way on the floor in tears because she could hear every word of what had just gone on. I took one look at her and said, “Remind me to get you a nice proctologist appointment when your birthday rolls around.”
We go to the front to pay and now we have to tip the woman. Seriously? What do you even tip for something like that?
Back outside Becky is just about pissing herself when she asks, “So, how was it?”
“I feel so violated right now. My undies are stuck to my va jay jay and I’m walking funny. Why do women do this shit to themselves?”
“You’ll feel better soon. Trust me,” she tries her best to comfort me.
Traitor. And here I thought Becky was one of my BFF’s. Now I know the truth. But I did trust her and that’s how I got myself into this mess in the first place. Note to self: keep one eye on Becky at all times from here on out.
Becky and I hug and part ways. She was off to do Becky type things, which at this point I’m pretty sure entails killing kittens and tripping old ladies, and I’m on my way to tend bar at Mabel’s, the bar that Becky and her mother own. Mabel’s is a crazily busy biker bar just north of Los Angeles. Great music, hot women, and a clientele that ranges from crotchety old bikers to hip young troublemakers. With that combination, it’s no surprise that we had our share of fights.
Today I was working the day shift and needed to be there at noon. By the time I got to work, my dickies were already chafing my privates, and I would have killed for some lotion. A little after 12:00 my regulars all start rolling in. Right on schedule, the sexual harassment kicks in after the second drink. This never bothers me because A) I’m totally used to it and I think it’s kind of funny. B) I live alone and these guys pay my bills. And C) Verbally and physically, I could kick each one of their scrawny asses. I was very good at my job.
So there we are, me and maybe 9 or 10 of my regulars when the comments start flying. Me being a red head never helps.
“Seriously Stacy, the bartender at Rendezvous shows us her tits. You need to show us your tits,” says vodka and OJ guy.
“If her tits are so great,” I reply, “then why are you sitting here at my bar?” With these guys it was just so easy.
Bad Ed is one of my usual weekday customers. We called him Bad Ed because we had two Eds. The other one was, you guessed it, Good Ed. We found out later that Good Ed was actually an asshole who beat his wife, so we had to switch the names. Anyway, Bad Ed asks Pat, another one of my regulars, if he can ride his Harley.
“There’s no way I’m letting you ride my bike,” Pat told him. Considering how fast Bad Ed was putting them away I can’t really blame him.
“Come on dude. I have a license to ride a bike,” Bad Ed slurred.
“Yeah? You’ve got a marriage license too, and how’s that working out for you?” I asked. Like I said, his name was Bad Ed.
“Stacy, come on is that your natural hair color?” asked Jerry.
“Yeah, does the carpet match the drapes?” Nate chimed in.
“Well, boys I don’t know what to tell you. You see, right now I have hardwood floors.”
They looked at me with blank faces. Nate was the only one who got it. You could always count on Nate. He started cracking up and when the others asked what I meant, he simply said, “No, I’m keeping this one to myself.”
Needless to say that wasn’t my last bikini wax. I still get them on a regular basis. Partly Becky was right; they are way better than shaving. And also because just like bartending, you get a little bit of pain…but end up with a lot of pleasure. Don’t think I forgot though. I still owe that bitch a colonoscopy.
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