To Shave or Not to Shave?

That is the question.

There are only two cases when my woot woot* frolics completely free:

1. Wearing my itsy bitsy polka dot bikini at the beach. (Furs are not a pretty sight)
2. Being single and dating. The keyword is dating. I can be single and the shaver will go untouched for weeks at a time in my months of hibernation. And when I do finally come out to play, it is only naked temporarily because once we've passed the “honey-I-am-a-human-and-I-poop-sometimes” stage, I will be more than comfortable to admit I grow hair down there too. I do.

The truth is I've grown a bit fond of the lil ol' fur patch. Winter + Spring + no action = time for the Ch-Ch-Chia pet to grow. Of course, I trim here and there, but generally she lives happy in a piece of land with some grass.

I expect guy X to do the same for me.

I cannot explain what a turn off it is to see a man who is bald as an eagle. Male friends of mine rave how they instantly gained an inch from this but it really doesn't do anything for me except wonder how long it took him to reach that impossible to reach spot and if he could give me some useful tips. I picture him standing in front of the mirror, one leg up on the toilet, and bending in ways I could only imagine.

When it comes down to it, hair won't determine the size of the penis. The penis decides the size of the penis. It is only acceptable to be a hairless wonder in pornography (*ahem* not that I watch any of it whatsoever on my Tuesday nights home flipping through those channels I don't know about).

Then you have the other extreme.

The bush.

It is my worst nightmare. I once went old school, and did the whole making out in the movie theater thing with a guy. It was all going well when he took my hand and put it just below his pants. This was his green light to explore his nether region. Here goes.

First times are always nerve wrecking when it comes to a new guy. I never know exactly what he likes, or how he likes it. It is often base on trial and error, or whatever the latest techniques in Cosmo tells me to do. If I could only get it right the first time, though, then maybe he shall crown me the world's best hand job. Wait, maybe that not such a good thing.

In any case, the pressure is on to show him that I know my stuff. That is, to get to the hand (point A) to penis (point B). I not so suavely attempt this arduous task.

Find the penis, find the penis, find the penis. I can do this. I am one sexy bitch. Yea, baby. Did I leave the light on at home? No, I'm pretty sure I turned it off. Where was I? Ah yes, find the penis, find the penis, find the penis.

My hand hovered slowly to the destination.

I am suddenly stuck.

I was trapped and unsure how to escape with minimal embarrassment. My index finger was caught in a curly. So close and yet so far.

Tangled in what felt like a forest in need for some serious deforestation (I kid, I kid, Tree hugger I am). But it was like no other I've ever encountered. My hand remained still while I concocted a plan.

Shift focus. Kiss him and maneuver the free hand. Pretend the movie with Reese Witherspoon suddenly became interesting. Flash him. Grab that leftover popcorn off the floor and eat it. Smack him in the head. DO SOMETHING!

He nudged me to continue on with the search for the penis. Talk about rushing a damn person. Forget foreplay, I need to liberate my poor finger. Man down! Mission aborted! I raised my hand but it didn't budge. Then, I wiggled and it became loose. Finally, my finger was free but not before an awkward tug followed by an even more awkward “ouch!” after. Nice.

For some reason, he never called again. I wonder.

To this day, I stand by my word that I was not at fault.

Trimmed bushes are appreciated.