For the perpetually single girl like me, the year is divided into two seasons: the time you trim the hedges and the time you embrace your natural chia pet and let those hedges do what the fuck they want. Waxing (or shaving, or whatever your preferred method of ripping hair off your vagina is), is reserved for bikini season or when you’re desperately trying to get cuffed before it’s too late.
But when the last of the bikinis are banished to hell and the leggings finally come out, maintenance season is over. As soon as I spy the first pair of Hunter Boots, all bets are off. Like drinking with my parents, shaving my legs is reserved exclusively for holidays, and my waxist’s number is immediately forgotten, because, LOL, who the fuck is going to maintain an eight-week waxing schedule when she’s not getting laid?
Clad in leggings and the natural five-pound coat that God was so generous to give me, I went into winter knowing that it didn’t matter if I didn’t maintain for four months, because this vagina wouldn’t be seeing the air until it was a balmy 75 and Sunny. My little chia pet grew to astounding lengths. My friends and I had exhausted all the basic winter activities. With nothing to do on a boring Wednesday but homework (lol, not gonna happen, sorry Mom), we decided to settle into our favorite post-New-Year’s-diet routine: drinking cheap wine and bitching.
As the night wore on, and the bottles of wine surpassed the number of fingers on the average human hand, my friends who had managed to couple up before winter rolled in started to discuss the amazing time they were having finally being in serious relationships. I took that as my cue to roll on out. I made some lame excuse about needing to be up early the next morning, snagged a half empty bottle for the road and trekked through the wind and snow to my apartment.
When I finally got home, I was literally shaking from head to toe, because winter’s a fucking bitch. I had to get warm, and fast. I quickly stripped off my wet clothes and decided that nothing would warm me like the rest of my stolen wine, a hot bath, and a night with my boyfriend, a little magic bullet who lived right next to my bed.
As hot water filled the tub, I drunkenly realized that no self-respecting Charlotte would ever masturbate without setting the mood for herself. I’m a classy girl and if I’m gonna masturbate, I’m doing it in my tub with the lights down, music playing and candles, goddammit! I deserve it!
I scurried around to make everything perfect for myself. I don’t have any nice candles holders, but I did have the menorah that I use as a necklace holder (Sorry, God!) and some small tea candles, so I just set them up all around the tub and along the counters. I started lighting the candles, and as I leaned across the tub to light the tea lights I had set along the opposite side, my exposed thigh pressed against the menorah, knocking it into the tub.
I sighed, because obviously my now broken necklace-holder/menorah would ruin the mood, when the unmistakable scent of burning hair filled the room, mixed with the unmistakable pain of having one’s most delicate flesh literally burned off.
I don’t know exactly how loudly I must have screamed as I jumped into the tub and lowered my burning vagina into the scalding water, but it was enough to alert my neighbor. She came into my apartment and found me, sobbing in my tub as the third degree burns on my vag were repeatedly stabbed by the gently lapping water.
Like the kind and responsible soul she is, she escorted me to the hospital. I then had to tearfully explain to a very kind doctor that I had burned my pubic hair off because I wanted to masturbate like a classy lady.
It was still better than shaving, though..
Nice Move336
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totalsistermove
Everything you want in a sister, sorority or biological - funny, hardworking, pretty but not in an super obvious way. Essentially, a funnier Elle Woods who is constantly having a bad hair day. Questions, concerns, videos of dogs and coupons for Thai food can be sent to totalsistermove@gmail.com
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