Ask any kindergarten kid. What's more than a million? A brazilian.
And that is approximately how many hairs were removed from my ball sack. With wax. Quickly. By a stranger.
Let me take a step back. Like I posted before, Mrs. Said and I are swingers. It is official as of a couple days ago. We had our first session of synchronized infidelity. In contrast to religious teachings, my head did not pop off. Oh the wailing and gnashing of teeth on pro and con sides of the swinging issue. People who swing stay married. Or get divorced. People who are monogamous stay married. Or get divorced. Hell I don't know.
Brief bio: we've been together for a couple decades, happily married for all that time except for a couple years of courtship. I have been entirely monogamous (if you don't count licking a stripper's nipple at an in-home show with the boys) for that whole time. Why change now? I blame NPR. Actually, This American Life. A couple years ago, they did a special show called This American Life Live. Except it was not live, it was simulcast to a theater in our fine, red state. Like parachuting behind enemy lines. But I digress. One of the contributors to the show was Dan Savage. He performed a poignant piece about his mother. Very touching stuff. Anywho, I started listening to The Savage Lovecast, an entertaining sex-positive, kink-friendly podcast. He also writes this column in Seattle's alternative newspaper called Savage Love.
His matter-of-fact treatment of the subject matter removes the stigma from kinks that consenting adults enjoy. Want to be the s in a D/s relationship? Rock on. Want an Asian tranny to spank you with a whoopie cushion? Knock yourself out. Want to take your willing wife, find another happy couple, and roll around in a pile like a litter of dalmatians? Ding, ding, ding. We have a winner.
Mrs. Said was talking to our landscaper one day. He was telling her all about his and his partner's recent opening up of their relationship. But they are gay. The gays do that kind of thing. It would never work for a couple 40-something heteros. Or would it?
When Mrs. Said was telling me about this conversation, it was surprisingly titillating. But the thought of her with another man made my head spin. Her with another woman? That would be hawt. Look for a future post about ‘the pizza girl.' So we started talking about the topic of swinging. Reading up on the subject. Looking for blogs, books, podcasts. After a couple visits to our local swinger's club, I picked up a copy of “Sex at Dawn”, an interesting analysis of monogamy. I came around to the idea that it is possible to have a loving, dedicated, life-long emotional attachment and marriage that – as a supplement – can include sex with others. So we are playing around with soft swap.
In preparation for our first play session with another couple, it was becoming more and more clear that most ladies in “the lifestyle” like closely cropped and/or hairless junk on their playmates. In for a penny, in for a pound, I asked Mrs. Said to get us an appointment for Brazilian waxing. I had to shave my balls for my vasectomy some years back. Stubbly balls were not fun. Five minutes of quality time with Wikipedia and I was sold on the waxing idea. Intense pain and embarrassment for a few minutes vs. the benefit of extended hairless periods. OK. I am in.
So Mrs. Said sets the appointment for lunchtime on a weekday. I meet her in the parking lot of a small shopping center on the busiest street in our area. I am less than overjoyed when I find that the WAX YOUR JUNK HERE store (no, not the real name but if you use it for your store I want a commission) is located right next to a restaurant frequented by guys who work in my industry. Throwing caution to the wind – and my ballsack onto the table – I went in for my appointment.
Thank god for iPhones. I spent the first several minutes of my appointment texting a friend about something completely benign. I was trying to keep my mind off the fact that I was more exposed than a man has a right to be. Naked from the waist down, laying on my back. I am sure there is a name for this yoga pose, but I don't know it. Just imagine yourself with the bottoms of your feet together, heels as close to your nuts as possible. Please don't fart. Please don't fart. This is one damn good reason to overturn Arizona's immigration law. NOBODY who speaks English wants to wax my balls. Believe me, I have asked.
How bad was it? Like a dentist's drill but without the burning bone smell. Or novocaine. Actually it wasn't that bad. Not as bad as Steve Carrell's chest in The 40 Year Old Virgin. He was NOT acting.
Was it worth it? Absolutely. One week later and my balls and shaft are silky smooth. My playmate the other night appreciated it. Success in the swing world.