The bush

January 10, 2009

I went to Cork last night with KVM, Marion and Pam. I really do enjoy those girls. And what’s more, I enjoyed the Sex in the Cityish conversations we ultimately end up having. Who else would appreciate my five-minute sermon on the joys and liberation of growing the bush back? In defiance of all men who insist on trimming, I have made pubic hair the emblem of my single womanhood and flat out refuse to shave. Which reminds me of high school. I grew my armpit hair back then in defiance of something else (not quite sure what), or simply because Madonna did it. Whatever the reason, hair was and still is a symbol of rebellion to me, and one of the ways in which I truly feel feminine, adult and sexy. Not to say that trimming and creating cute little designs with the patch ain’t fun. But lately I’m so much more appreciative of the Betty Page look.

Anyway, after that, we naturally segued into male grooming, for which all of us had our own stories to tell. I find that hugely surprising that at our age manscaping is so popular. I suppose either way– hair or hairless– is OK by me. Each has their “advantage.” But again, there’s something about HAIR that is just so beautiful and sexy to me. Charlie Brooker from the Guardian writes an hilarious commentary on male grooming here

Side note: I just got a text the other day that said, Hey girls, just a reminder to shave your privates, January 20th is the last day for Bush. Hmm…maybe I could set aside my ideology for a while in celebration of that horrible man being GONE.

So– after one Cosmo, good conversation and light faire, I headed home–head filled with thoughts of my sexy stranger. In my mind, I definitely got laid last night and it was brilliant. He was loving and gentle but assertive yet didn’t insist that I be on top. A perfect lover in my book.

The disturbing  thing was that my fling was cut short because my father kept popping into my head. Like, every dream I had, he was there. Lurking in the background some where, Freudian and celestial, watching over me or, more likely, keeping me from having fun. Oh  please. I hope I’m not turning into one of those sexual anorexics with a father complex. Please no Lord. Keep dear old dad out of this!

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