Why did I get a Brozilian?

I just had the hair ripped from my balls. Leilani was lovely and sweet and caring. And when she ripped off that first honey-wax strip of gauze, tearing dozens of my short and curlies, I considered, for a flash, hitting her. Anytime anyone says, “Take a deep breath and let it out,” run. It’s never, ever a good thing. On the other hand, my boys are smooooooth. Like, babies would be jealous. Like, fuzzy bunnies hate me.

I’ve never had a woman so casually intimate with my stuff. Pulling here. Moving there. For a time we chat, my legs akimbo with my down under beaming out into the world and her hands draped casually over both my knees, about the glories of Hawai’i. I love the big island. She’s thinking of buying a boat, honing her skills among the islands, then sailing to Tahiti.

When I run my hand over the greater part of my taint, I am an explorer in virgin forests and undiscovered beaches and yet-to-be despoiled fields of wildflowers. The sensation is more than electric–it is unimagined. As the heat cools from the wax and sweetly sugared sadism, my thoughts immediately turn to desire. My nethers are begging to be touched. Pleading, more specifically. How many gay men and porn stars can be wrong? None. This is fantastic.

And the truth is, after that initial rip, it wasn’t that bad. Well, that extra sensitive part down where tree meets rocks does again make me consider a punch for a tear, but that “let it out” thing generally takes care of the rest. I haven’t given birth. I haven’t passed a kidney stone. But I have gone where many, stupidly, fear to tread. The next time I hear, “Look what I’ve endured for you,” I can reply with utter certainty, “Gonna have to come up with a better one than that, my dear. Your guilt dart cannot penetrate. Leilani has ripped me a new one. The reward outdistances the momentary uncomfort by leagues. Of that I am now sure.”

And, yes, I now have a hair-patch heart over my junk. She dyed it red. Come and get it, ladies.