This year I realized my husband’s been spending too much time planting tomato seeds in the garden and not enough time banging the shit out of me. I didn’t know what to do about it. I needed some aggression in my life. And then I found her: Wantana, my bikini waxer.
Her behavior shocked me at first, but I soon grew to love it. She knows how to treat me like the little bitch that I am. There’s no fluff. She’s mean and she’s fast and she makes an angry, scary face the whole time she’s ripping hair off the most sensitive part of my body. No sweetness, no comfort. It’s everything I didn’t know I needed.
Wantana’s a straight-up hardass who has to look at unkempt vaginas all day, so she doesn’t have time for bullshit. “You’ve been shaving – BAD! You’ve been trimming – BAD! Exfoliate more – BAD!” My husband just dances around his criticisms of me, but Wantana tells me what I need to hear.
I jerk, shake, and scream for my mother as she rips me clean, but she never blinks an eye. She’s focused! She’s strong! She’s aggressive! Yes! Yes! This is what I want! This is what I need!
“You need to come more often,” she hisses as she grabs my money, pushes me out the door and invites in her next pleasure victim. And I think to myself, “Yes. Yes, I will come more. Anything you ask for.”
I step outside the shop and my weak husband is waiting for me with our new puppy. The cold sparseness of my nether regions is wasted on him.
I hunger for your painful touch, Wantana. I need you.