THE BRAZ WAX II

from:  T Cole
to:  ask@bwax.nl
date:  3 July 2010 16:19
subject: appointment for Brazilian Wax

Hello
I’d like to make an appointment  for a Brazilian Wax. I’m new to this – is it very painful? I’ve epilated before but never actually tried this method. And where about are you located in Amsterdam?
Regards, Thalien

 
from:  Brazilian Wax
to:  coltha@gmail.com 
date: 3 July 2010 22:01
subject:  Re: appointment  for Brazilian Wax

hello Thalien
Thanks for your email. If you’ve epilated before, I’d say the pain is comparable to waxing.
I’m in the centre, closeby the station. Make sure you make an appointment timely because I’m booked up this week and next week is filling up quickly too.
Dominga

Dominga. I like this name. It sounds Brazilian enough to trust that she knows what she’s doing, but her English is good so we’ll probably have no misunderstandings about the plan de campagne. After all, I don’t want to end up as a walking Gucci ad or find myself waddling around as a freaky kindergarten aka porn star version of myself. I’m standing at the threshold of a new and potentially traumatic experience in my young life – I want to do this right.

Since reading her reply some weeks  ago I decided  this Dominga is in her mid-thirties, about m 1.60, chubby, carries her long black hair pulled tightly back into  a ponytail with a… scrunchie.

Allow me to quote from the urban dictionary “A 90’s hairpiece. Formaly worn by EVERYONE, and is now an embarrassment to society“.

She’s wearing high heeled clogs, a white legging and a tight orange top. I’d say her bra is about 2 cups too small to hold her massive twins. She’s not the type to get away with no make-up but she tries anyway. I made the effort to find a photo to illustrate my description but try Googling ‘Brazilian woman’ and all you’ll find are Gisele Bündchen and Adriana Lima look-a-likes.  Oh well, listen up people: there’s 1 Brazilian woman out there, she’s called Dominga and she’s freakin’ UGLY.
Despite her poor looks however, Dominga and I  will get on like  a house on fire  – she’ll be cheery and have 3 arms so she can use her third hand to squeeze mine while she performs her disappearing pube tricks on me.

I actually found out there is a world of possibilities when it comes to pube design, apparently another one of those très chique fashion hypes that completely went over my head. And it’s amazing the bizarre knowledge that arises  from unexpected sources when you ask the right questions at the right moment.

Imagine sitting in a hot bubble bath with somebody and one of the two farts (you). There’s a second of silence when your bath buddy gives you a look of disbelief and your culprit self looks back with one of shame and terror ..or with  a cheeky grin, if you’re anything like me. Then, suddenly, you both burst out laughing. 

Same reaction after reading this email I received from a friend (#2) after she read part I of this Brazilian Wax trilogy: “So have you thought about the shape yet?  Landing Strip, Mohawk, Martini Glass, Bermuda Triangle, Postage Stamp, Heart Attack or just  Clean as a Whistle?”.   Shock. Smile. Grin. Big grin – WTF???!

How does she know these things? How does anybody know these things? And who is the lucky person who gets to pick out the names for these different cuts anyway? And it’s not really  a cut anyhow. How do we call a haircut when the hair is not cut off but…waxed off? Can the person who thought of these hip names please also come with a decent name for the equivalent of a groin hairstyle? I herby vote ‘civil crotch carriage’ or ‘posh pussy prerogative’.

Anyhow, the moment of truth has arrived for me. I finally pinned myself down to an appointment and am cycling through the fair city of Amsterdam towards the gates of Dominga’s doors of dismay. Why? Because I said I would and just like the little Dutch boy with his finger in the dam I will follow through bravely no matter what and live to tell and earn endless respect from friends #1 to 4 and .. Jackass.  I will feel like Sneijder after having beaten Brazil in the quarterfinals. I ring the house bell at number 33 and about 30 seconds later she opens up.
Apart from her make-up less state (pinkish lipstick, badger style eye makeup, pancake foundation – all of which are failing miserably to conceal the fact that she simply wasn’t standing front row when God was handing out the good looks) my description fits more or less exactly. Yes, even the clogs..good Lord.

She greets and flashes me a polite smile and I flash her one back and we close our pact with a firm handshake. The deal  is sealed. “Come in” she beckons and with that turns around swiftly. I close the door behind me and follow her through the hallway and up a flight of steep stairs. Her hair is not tied back with  a scrunchie but with  a regular black elastic. Could have been mine. I’m a tad disappointment but hey, look at that legging!!!! I arrive on the first floor slightly panting but still very amused. She opens  a door to a simple, plainly furnished studio. I step inside. Not much interesting to see apart from..that bed.

My eyes nearly fall out of their sockets. This bed must be the uncanny centerfold and the ultimate quintessence definition of grotesque when it comes to bizarre furnishing. I stare at it in amazement. This thing appears to have been a hospital delivery bed in  a previous life but reincarnated into what could possibly star as the supporting act in a kinky version of The Shining. It’s proper gone preposterous. I’m silently gasping at a fat black mattress in a steel construction suspending from the ceiling with 4 shiny metal chains laced through with a strips of black leather. The leg holders are padded with black leather cushions and are held up by steel  poles which stand loose from the bed.  Before I can take in more details I’m distracted by my host who asks me whether  I’d like some coffee. I mumble “Yes please” and return my gaze to the construction 

“You can take off your pants and knickers and get on the chaise longue”. Busted. She caught me staring and to my fright she’s now looking at me with a (sly? I can’t tell, ‘daring’ might be the better word but it’s almost as bad anyhow) pink smile and as if I’m not intimidated enough her left badger eye throws me a wink.  Sweet Jesus.

I feel a shiver down my spine as I take the 5 steps towards the chaise longue (what it is, apparently) and lay a finger on the mattress. It’s a hard one, which makes sense I suppose.  I feel a wave of reluctance as I take off my slippers and unbutton my jeans. Don’t think, just do. A minute later I’m on the mattress,  and it turns out the construction is so heavy that it hardly swings at all. I’m sitting upright, naked from bellybutton downwards, with my feet dangling about ½ meter from the ground.  Dominga’s back is turned to me as she stands across the room making coffee. Death silence. Awkwaaaard.. I should say something now. In an impulse I blurt out “Can I have a martini glass?”

Quite witty if I say so myself and I giggle to myself. The giggle succumbs in a flash when for 5 long seconds her scuttling at the sink ceases and she stands very still. Then, over her shoulder she says slowly “This isn’t a cocktail bar, miss” – and  resumes to the coffee making business. Shit. Way to go Thalien, you managed to annoy the one woman who you – however temporary – are about to bestow king and commander powers over the most sensitive nerve endings in your body. Chapeau.

She walks toward me with two little mugs in her hands and puts  them on a table next to my kinky throne. On this table also stands a small metal pot on an electric hot plate. She takes the lid off and a little puff of vapor escapes.  “Shall we?” she says smilingly with one penciled eyebrow pulled up. I swallow hard. Taken aback with her briskness I find myself now seriously doubting what once seemed like such a brave plan. Nevertheless  I manage to croak out a note of consent at which she immediately summons me to lie back. I do so nervously but lean on my elbows as I want to keep  a clear view of the operation.

She is now stirring the pot with hot wax (I figured it must be that) with something that appears to be a spatula of some sort. Then with a scoop she ladles a bit of the goods – a honey-coloured paste – onto the spatula and waves for me to open my legs a bit more. Oh God, here goes. Before I know what’s happening  I feel a burning sensation between my legs. It’s bloody hot that stuff and if it were anybody else I would be squirming like a salted snail, but something about the stern look on her face tells me I better shut up – this is not a woman who sympathizes with moaning masochists. And  who can blame her?

I am still biting down when she reappears with a strip of white fabric as big as a pantiliner which she then presses down on my crotch. “There we go” she cries and rips off the fabric with one energetic yank.  This fabric, let me remind you, was glued to the wax, which was glued to my box.

My beautiful, sweet, good-natured box.

I scream
I scream
I scream

Finally my screaming levels off into an agonized howl and then everything goes black…

A thump against my nose  and my eyes are open again. I blink a few times but then realize I’m in a dark room and I’m lying in a bed.  A normal bed. Slowly I make sense of my surroundings and then reality incites a wave of sweet relief into my consciousness as a realize this is my own bed in my own bedroom in my own home. I rub my nose – having just  hit it in a sleepy spasm with my massive diving watch, a gift from my father (thanks Dad!). I look at the clock face and the glow in the dark hands tell me it’s 7.10 AM.  I have another hour, wuuuusshhh. A long sigh and I feel my  body, with hair and all, relax.

Thank God it was a dream – albeit a nasty one – and thank God I still have another few weeks till my appointment with Dominga….

 

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