Molly. That’s a sweet name. How bad can it be with a technician named Molly?
Molly breezes into the room, a spritely little woman with a red hair cut pixie style, a cute little nose ring, and colorful tattoos. There’s no way this person could hurt me, she’s seems too sweet. If I had known I was going to suffer from a this-is-how-I-die level of pain, I would have pre-gamed with ample amounts of wine.
“Hiya,” Molly cheers, “So, is this your first time?”
“Y-yes,” I stutter.
“No worries. We use this great wax that has a numbing agent in it. You won’t feel a thing,” she winks. “Now, let’s see what we’re working with.”
I lay back on the table and she spreads my legs as wide as they will go, wider than they are meant to go as my hips scream in protest. No one has ever scrutinized my lady parts this much.
“Oh,” Molly says tilting her head to the side, still analyzing my lady bits.
“What does ‘oh’ mean?”
“You do know how to use a razor, right?”
Snorting, I reply, “Of course I know how to use a razor. I just never use one down there.” I’m mortified at my untamed hairy bush staring her in the face.
Patting my leg, she says with a smile, “We’ll just have to use more wax.”
She mixes up the wax, grabs a tongue depressor like stick and begins to slather my vagina with warm goo. It’s warm, tingling and kind of nice, leading me to believe this won’t be as bad as I have made it in my head until she leads the wax back to my anus.
“Um, Molly? Whatcha putting wax all the way back there for?” I stammer, a slight tremor in my voice.
Applying a white strip to the wax trail she has placed, “You scheduled a Brazilian Wax, right?” she asks ripping the first white strip away taking hair and I swear half of lower lips with her.
Holy shit, there is not enough vodka, painkillers or weed to deaden this pain.
“Good Golly, Miss Molly,” I shout, spots appearing before my eyes and I swear I’m on the verge of passing out.
Numbing wax, my ass. She lied; holy Beelzebub did she lie, this fucking hurts.
Before I can protest, she lines the next strip up.
Rip! Son of a. . . . fffuuuuuccckkk.
“Oh. My. God. Oh my God,” I scream.
“Almost done,” Molly chants in a sing-song voice.
Of course, she’s chipper, her labia s still attached to her body and not laying on one of those hairy pieces of wax paper she keeps throwing off to the side.
She continues to apply more wax, rubbing the paper on and ripping away all vestiges of my womanhood. I swear there will be nothing left of my pussy when she’s done and if there is it will surely never work again. My vagina will hate me for the rest of my life.
“Last one,” she chimes while she pulls the last strip away.
“Holy cunt hairs on a gorilla,” I shout with tears leaking from my eyes.
“Now, I need you to get up on all fours so I can make sure I have gotten all the straggling hairs,” she chirps.
Humiliation fills my body when I roll over and assume the downward dog position.
This woman has seen more of me than my gynecologist. I wonder if she’ll buy me drink when we’re done?
Slathering on soothing lotion, Molly smiles. Patting my leg once again, she says, “All done. You can get dressed and head to the nail station down the hall.”
“Molly? Can I have my vagina back before you dispose of those wax sheets?”
Laughing in a tone that screams ‘silly girl’, “You’ll be thanking me later when you experience the joy a bare vagina can bring,” she says and leaves the room.
Moving slowly, mumbling to myself, “Joy? What fucking joy? No one ever sees it; it’s not like Kohl is going to see it. It probably looks like a crime scene now, anyway. Stupid Ronnie and her Brazilian wax. Fire, all I have accomplished is starting a raging fire between my legs and not the good kind.”
Exiting the room, walking like there is a corn cob stuck up my ass, I try to prevent anything from rubbing the construction zone that used to be my pussy. I make my way to the nail technician. I ease myself into the chair, cringing when my crotch meets the hard-plastic seat, the receptionist offers me a bag of frozen peas.
Sensing my confusion, “Place it down there,” she instructs nodding her head toward my lap. “It gets easier each time but I remember my first time and frozen vegetables always helped ease the burn. Well, and copious amounts of booze, but you’re not old enough for that,” she snickers with a wink turning back to her podium.
I stuff the peas in the valley between my legs, “Oh, sweet Jesus,” I breathe when the cool meets the burning fire trapped in my pants. Thank the Lord for thin yoga pants, I think when Ronnie slides into the station next to me.
“Don’t give me the evil eye, Tensanne,” she says. “It’s worth it, I promise,” she reassures.
Once the nails tips are in place, painted in a dazzling French manicure style with melon colored, bejeweled tips, I make my way to the self-tanning area.
Fuck my life if anything can go right.
The tanning tech advises me to rub a lotion on any areas that I don’t want the spray to adhere to. My palms and the bottoms of my feet is the most important. She says that the booth will spray the front then I’m to count to five, turn and it will spray the back. When I finish, I’m to wipe away any dripping that has occurred on my skin.
Sounds easy enough.
Stripping down, I slather lotion all over my palms and the bottoms of my feet, taking care not to get it anywhere I want a tan.
The booth is a bright blue box with
