How To Guarantee You’ll Get Laid, Part 2: Don’t Shave


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How To Guarantee You'll Get Laid, Part 2

“The harder you try to get laid, the less likely it is to happen.”

-Jane Austen

On any given night, when you’re full-on glam, maybe down five pounds, and looking absolutely flawless, boys will not give you a second glance. It’s the laws of nature. Only on the nights when you are least expecting to have a hookup will you end up safely nestled in the bed of a suitor where you’ll be penetrated seven ways ‘til Sunday. This marks part two of a seven-part series, where I’ll prove to you just that. To read Part One, click here.

Part 2: Don’t Shave

A few things you should know about me before we begin. The first is that I’m Italian, not Sicilian, and this distinction is important. What this means about me is that I’m not one of those tan, exotic people you think of when you think of Italians. I’m pale like your average, run-of-the-mill white person, but I still have the jet black hair. This can end up being a really beautiful combination if you’re someone like, say, Kendall Jenner, but I’m not like her. I am not tall like her, or thin like her, or equipped with a team of professionals to ensure I look flawless at all times like her. I’m like you, except with skin so light, and hair so dark that you can literally still see the roots beneath my translucent skin when I’m freshly shaven.

The second is that I hate all hair removal techniques, even though, I have a lot of hair to be removed (#blessed). Never have I uttered the phrase “I know you can’t see it, but I know it’s there.” That’s like the blonde girl battle cry in their war on brunettes. You can see my hair, but removing it is painful, and it’s time-consuming and I avoid it at all costs. I pluck my eyebrows and buy that little razor at Walgreens that is advertised for eyebrow shaping, but we all know really exists for women to shave their mustaches, but as for the rest — and in case you’re unclear, I am talking about my vagina — I eventually grew tired of maintaining it.

For awhile, I went through a weekly process. I shaved every Thursday and Saturday “just in case,” practically skinning my love flower in the process. On this very momentous weekend, though, I’d said “no more” and went au naturale. My cooter was in bad shape. Hair so black you could name a mascara after it. And I did not give a single fuck.

Ten to twelve drinks later, I found myself in the bed of a guy I’d had a crush on for ages. Week after week, you didn’t know whether the carpet matched the drapes, because I was rocking hardwood floors — and week after week, I ended my nights home alone using my tears as lube when I masturbated. But now, here I was about to shack up with my dream man.

It started as all hookups do. We made out, he unhooked my bra, and I attempted to prolong the dry humping as long as I could. But I began to fear he could feel my personal jungle cat obstructing the feel-goods even through our clothes. Just as he became fully erect, I excused myself to the bathroom for the next ten minutes. Men love this.

I stared at myself in the mirror for a pep talk:

“Get your shit together. Grown men do not care about a little bit of stubble. You are over-analyzing this like you do everything. He’s not even going to notice.”

It occurred to me that I hadn’t actually looked at my vagina in days. Try as I might, I could not even picture what it looked like. I took a deep breath, and pulled my underwear away from my body and looked at what lie beneath. I’d be lying if I said it was anything short of a wasteland. I could barely stand to look at myself, so any human male who dared enter the labyrinth in an attempt to find my clitoris surely would not come out alive. I had to do something.

I rummaged through the bathroom he shared with a roommate and eventually found two razors — one electric, and the other a standard disposable. For fear the buzzing might cause rumors that I was fucked with a vibrating dildo in a frat house bathroom — which I’m honestly not above, but if there are going to be rumors, I might at least benefit from the fun of them — I chose to go manual. And then I took the razor that my dream man put on his face and used it to shave my vagina over his sink like a fucking pilgrim.

If you’ve never tried to shave your vagina dry, drunk, and in a room that wouldn’t pass a health inspection, I don’t recommend you start now. I propped my leg up onto the sink, fully know that if anyone walked in, I’d look like a slutty chimpanzee, and got to work. What followed was a series of razor cuts on the most sensitive part of my body, a lot of missed spots, a close call with my clitoris, and me falling bare ass onto the floor after spilling water all over the bathroom, which now looked like a crime scene.

Frat bathrooms are not typically known across the land for being well-stocked with the necessary items one needs while in the bathroom, like hand towels, and toilet paper, but I couldn’t very well leave the mess I’d made. I’m a fucking lady. I do not leave my blood and pubes all over some guy’s home, unless he asks me to. I had to improvise. I took his cloth shower curtain and wiped the floor, and my body with it, not in that order — though I’m not sure it makes a difference.

My work here was done. I was about to have sex with the guy I’d been dying to have sex with for months, and he wouldn’t think I was a wildebeest, which is all any of us can really hope for. And then I noticed it glaring at me, as if to say “LOL, you unsanitary whore.” A black-as-night hair sticking out of my blonde not-boyfriend’s razor. I didn’t have time to start slowly dyeing his beard nightly in his sleep until he thought he noticed and assumed he was going through some genetic-mutating second puberty, so I stood in the bathroom doing the “make it rain” motion with my fingers and the razor blades. It was no use. It was like the hair had re-rooted itself and I couldn’t extract it. I was an animal with real live body hair, and my perfect man was going to find out.

So I stole it. And then I got laid. And then I stole his shirt, hat, basketball shorts and flip flops. And I never went out without shaving again.

To read “Part One: Wear Spanx” click here.


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