And now for a brief interlude from politics. 

That, Dear Readers, is the soothing sound of smoothness in the girliest of all girl parts.  Mm, hmmm.  Of course, that smoothness follows a slight burning sensation.  And a little redness.  Maybe even a day or two of swelling.  And goddess help you if you are allergic to the wax they use.

But, mmmmmmmmmmmmmm, smooth!  Go ahead and feel.  Amazingly soft, isn't it?  I'll bet you won't be able to stop touching it.  (I know I couldn't.)

I had my very firstest ever Brazilian bikini wax  this summer.  I did it at the urging of my girlfriend, the lovely Lady T, who -- though she is as butch as butch can be -- enjoys getting them herself, for some reason.

Here in California, all nail salons (that's where they do the waxing, boys) are staffed by Vietnamese women, who mercifully adopt American names.  My Mistress of Torture had chosen the deceptively kind-sounding name of "Lisa."  Tiny, cute little Lisa, who smiles a lot and weighs about the same as one of my thighs.

Lisa loves ripping hair from hoo-hahs.  And she gets every last one, from stem to stern.

Men, are you wondering what it's like?  Okay, imagine being captured by the Viet Cong and interrogated.  You are brought into a small dark room, where you are made to disrobe.  A cackling soldier, a madman most certainly, spreads hot sticky wax all over your sack and crack, then mushes a cloth into the warm wax, keeping one end of the cloth in his hand.

"Give us the location of your ship!" an officer bellows at you from somewhere behind you, unseen, as a bare, dim light bulb swings above, and shadows careen wildly around the room, exaggerating every line and shadow.

"I'll never talk!" you boldly declare between clenched teeth.

A slow grin spreads over your torturer's face.  He looks for a sign of approval and, getting it, makes his move.

 RIIIIIIP!!!!

"Arrrrrgggggghhhhh!!!"  You double over in pain so terrible you know you can't survive another one of those.

"Give us the location of your ship!" the officer screams into your ear while you try to regain the ability to breathe.

"I'll never tell," you stammer in a hoarse whisper, certain that you will crumble and give him anything he wants the next time he asks.  And the torturer approaches again . . .

Guys, I've got news for you.  A Brazilian bikini wax  is nothing like that.

Really.

Try it and see.

Oh, the first one is a little dicey.  You're nervous, but it's okay, who wouldn't be?  A complete stranger is manipulating your body and your most private parts as if she owns them.  She is not at all shy about it, either.  When Lisa first did it to me, I thought I would die of embarrassment.  And I even hinted at it.

"You pain?" she asked after the first waxing strip, feigning concern.

"No, no," I said.  "Just a little embarrassed."

Her response was swift and severe, and surprised me.

"Embarrassed!?  What embarrassed!!?  No embarrassed!!  NO EMBARRASSED!!!" I was sure she screamed at the top of her lungs and was about to smack me.  Then with a friendly little smile, "Okay?"

"Uh, okay," I said, suspecting that if I gave any other answer the door would fling open and twenty Vietnamese women with bats and clubs would burst throught the little door and bludgeon me.

And then she returned to her methodical work.  Lisa waxed every curve, every crevice, every part that had been previously touched only by lovers and doctors, and even a few parts I didn't think anyone had ever touched.  And  when she was done . . .

. . . she got out the tweezers and went to town on the strays.

Lisa was all over my business and moved everything about without apology or deference.  She had her hand on the area of my clit so long that I felt sure I'd either die of embarrassment ("No embarrassed!") or go the other way and have a "happy ending."  Her face was so near to my nay-nay as she plucked stray hairs, she could have touched it with her nose.   And all I could think was, Oh, God, please don't fart!

But other than that, it was fine.

I was put in some awkward positions; the kind where, if it was during sex, you'd wonder if it wasn't maybe a bit too kinky for your tastes.  And the most sensitive areas did sting a bit.  But it really wasn't bad at all.  And when she was done, I had a little landing strip in front and nothing but baby-smooth skin from there on back.

I felt it.  It was soft.  I liked it.

And for the next couple weeks, I took many opportunities to feel it again.  Very nice.  I invited others to feel it . . . well, okay, you got me.  I invited Lady T to feel; no one else.  But I thought about it!

For the next several weeks I wore my skimpiest bathing suits and undies without a care in the world.  Boldly, even.  Braggadociously.  "Ha, ha, fukkers!  How's that for worry free, huh?  Betcher envious now, aren'tcha?  Huh?  HUH???"  God, I hope I used my inside voice and not my outside voice.

And then, one day I did the freakiest thing.

I went back and got it done again.

"No way, Dana!" 

Way!

And this time, that second time, I was a confident veteran.  I lay down and boldly flung my panties across the room like a woman unconcerned, without even bothering to see where they landed.  (Oh, okay.  I folded them neatly and set them on the little table.  What of it?  I felt like I was boldly flinging, dammit!)

The second Brazilian bikini wax  was a breeze.  I loved it, even.  Very relaxing and meditative.  And as before, very invasive, but all business.

Now that fall is approaching, I may not see Lisa again for a while.  Maybe not until the days are long and hot again, and it is once more time to "bare all you dare."  But no matter what, the summer of 2008 will always be the summer of my big Brazilian bikini wax adventure  and the time when I finally found that it wasn't as scary or embarrasing as I had feared.  In fact, uh, it's not embarrassing at all.

 No, ma'am.  Not a bit.  Not embarrassed.  Not me.  No way.