What Heterosexual Men Think During Sex by Devorah Blachor
During the first kiss
She’s done a good job here above her upper lip. Does she bleach or tweeze or thread, I wonder? Or is this a laser job? Can you believe they can actually destroy the roots with strong beams of light? Science! Wait a minute — I can see some foundation caught in the whitened hair. Definitely a bleacher. That’s cool. I’m not a fascist or anything. As long as I can pretend that she doesn’t have any hair there, I’m totally ok with that. This is making me feel good after what happened at work today.
During the French kiss
I’m really enjoying the shape of her eyebrows. She doesn’t over-pluck like Marlene Dietrich or go too bushy like Keira Knightly. Just the perfect amount of eyebrow pencil and not too much of an arch either — she’s made it look so natural even though she’s clearly applied some gel and used a spoolie to even out the color. This is just really turning me on. I can’t even remember what Doug said to me about fucking up the Watkins account.
During foreplay
Shit. What’s that hair doing on her knee? She missed a spot. I can’t believe it! How hard could it be to shave every strand of hair from your knee? Maybe she doesn’t even use a razor. Maybe she’s bought one of those torture contraptions that removes the hair at the follicle level because she thinks she can get away with not shaving every day. What a cheat. And that one solitary hair is so ugly. What a turnoff. Why is this taking her so long? How the hell was I supposed to know that Fred Watkins cancelled his stop-loss order? Am I going to get fired?
During intercourse
Oh God. Absolutely no pigment spotting on her upper thigh. Wow, she must be so serious not to even use a depilatory. Oh yeah, electrolysis is so fucking hot, that oh yeah, that needle injecting those micro pulses of electricity into her skin. I feel so good and I’m sure that she, oh yes, yes, that she only uses professional electrologists accredited by the American Electrology Association and, oh sweet Jane, that makes me feel so fucking good. There is no Fred Watkins or Doug or money or fear of being penniless and dying alone in this beautiful hairless universe.
During orgasm
Oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, thin bikini-line strip, oh my God, she’s done the perfect sculpting job down here and oh shit, it must have hurt so much because the bulb of the vaginal hair is larger than the pore it was yanked from but oh yes, I’ve heard women cry but just having that strip of hair instead of the full bush is making everything right with the world whereas I would have never been able to get to this stage of arousal with a normal amount of pubic hair and I’m transcending time and space because there are no ingrowns or bumps or redness which means she’s probably exfoliated the area before waxing and applied a calming cream which is so sensible of her and oh yeah, yeah, yeah, and she’s also bought a pricey serum for afterwards and this woman is saving my life by giving me this perfect moment of grace because she spends a half hour of her life every week spreading her legs and lying on her back in a butterfly position so some stranger can spread hot wax on the most sensitive spot on her body and then pull the strip off like a bandaid or if she’s lucky she only has to do it every two weeks and, yes yes yes yes yes yes YES YES YES YES she does it even though it increases her risk of STIs AAAAHHHHHGGGgghgggslllmmhhh…