baserinstincts

Bush Revolution

I don’t shave my bush anymore.

There was a time that, and certainly more for whichever guy I was with more so than for myself, I’d diligently shave every week before graduating to dreaded Brazilian waxes every month (incidentally, if you must wax, I recommend J’adore Day Spa in midtown, great work for less than half the price of J sisters).

The effect was nice at first. I marveled at the smoothness of it, the utter exposure making me feel innocent and dirty at the same time.

But I got over that shit real fast.

Ingrown hairs are neither cute nor fun to have and it seemed I was prone to them despite my best efforts to follow the salon’s instructions. I misted with azulene oil and exflolited everyday. But inevitably, my cooch went from pretty and smooth to looking like an adolescent smack dab in the middle of a bad acne breakout.

And that’s before the itching starts.

The horrible, intense itching that will have you very tempted to put your hand down your pants in public places without shame. The itching that makes you walk funny or duck behind objects that you hope will obstruct the view as you reach under your skirt.

So why is a bald pussy so glamorized?

I read somewhere that beauty is pain. Oh well, guess I’ll be an ugly duckling then because after maybe a year of this I asked myself why I was torturing myself this way, especially when most men really don’t care if you’re bald or not. Sure they’ll notice, and yeah they like it and are excited by it but I’ve never once had a man say to me “Oh you’re not shaved, well then I just can’t fuck you”.

And if any of you ladies have heard something so vile, you’re better off without him.
If he doesn’t want you for you, bush and all, then do you really want to give it up to him?

The answer for me is no.

Take my hairy pussy or leave it.