The agony and the ecstasy
Is waxing down under really worth it? As more and more men opt
for bizarre downstairs topiary, our writer finds himself seduced
Nirpal Dhaliwal London Sunday Times
Is waxing down under really worth it? As more and more men opt
for bizarre downstairs topiary, our writer finds himself seducedNirpal Dhaliwal London Sunday Times
I have always been a pubic snob. Nothing delights me more than a fragrant, lovingly tended lady garden that invites one to linger for hours. Equally, I never hide my disappointment when presented not with a seductive purring kitten, but something wild and ugly that, frankly, I’d rather fend off with a stick.
Having now had my own bits’n’pieces waxed and bejewelled, however, I shall never again tolerate an unkempt hedge. That said, I also have a deeper respect for women in general, appreciating the pressure they’re under to be beautiful and the excruciating steps they take to achieve it.
I like to keep myself fairly tidy down there, passing my beard trimmer through whenever it gets out of hand. But with the recent revelation in the Manchester United official club magazine that a member of the team had burnt his baby-maker in a depilating accident (the finger was being pointed at Cristiano Ronaldo), I realised I wasn’t keeping to the latest standards of grooming. While gay men have always led the way in male vanity, straight ones are increasingly catching up. Emulating the six-packs, smooth chests and sexual technique of their online porn heroes, they now also want the bald look downstairs. Hirsuteness is no longer a sign of masculinity, but a mark of monogamy, proof you are out of the high-octane sexual loop that keeps young people working hard to be desirable.
“Lots of men shave their testicles,” Suzanne Barker, of the Glamour spa at GL-14 health club, in Manchester, told me. (All sorts of football royalty go there, so she really ought to know.) “But it’s better to wax. It lasts longer and feels much more comfortable.” I related to this, having once shaved myself out of boredom in adolescence, only to be tormented for weeks with a rough and itchy crotch.
So I agreed to head undergo a Bollywood waxing, a treatment the pioneers at the spa have brought to Britain, hoping to tap into men’s growing obsession with personal styling of all varieties. “It’s called that because of how Indian women prepare and decorate themselves for their wedding night,” Barker explains, showing me a range of studded diamanté ornamentations.
For, while a Brazilian would leave my manhood topped with an elegant furry triangle, the Bollywood denudes it completely and adorns it with a sparkly design that looks like something you might see in the window of a sari shop. I opted for a pretty multicoloured butterfly. Well, why not?
My first ever waxing was, at times, a horror, incomparable to anything I’ve experienced in life. Each time Barker tore the hair from me, I gasped in shock. One small tuft proved particularly stubborn. Tears in my eyes, I pulled my willy as hard as possible, stretching the skin to make it easier for the hair to come away. When it did, in a yank that shook my very soul, the pain reached a level I hadn’t imagined possible. After that, anything was possible. Having my bum strip-waxed was almost pleasurable, like a series of saucy, stinging spanks.
Afterwards, Suzanne and I agreed the hairless little trooper looked rather cute with a diamanté butterfly glittering above him, appearing longer, thicker and more sensuous, too. The beauty of waxing is that the moment it ends, the pain is forgotten and you’re left excitedly enjoying your new creation — much like childbirth, I imagine.
Being completely smooth feels deliciously fresh, clean and sexy. It gives me the constant mischievous smirk of someone with a naughty little secret. Women intuit that I’m hiding something and ask me what I’ve been up to. When I did tell one friend, she simply had to see it, and then couldn’t keep herself from touching. Loving how it looked and felt, she resolved to persuade her boyfriend to have the same.
Knowing the first waxing is by far the most painful, I’m tempted to keep it up. And given how sensual my skin now is, I may even wax my whole body, imagining the exquisite sensation of making love with a soft, hairless body. Waxing has inspired a new level of eroticism I’m keen to explore.
Having now had my own bits’n’pieces waxed and bejewelled, however, I shall never again tolerate an unkempt hedge. That said, I also have a deeper respect for women in general, appreciating the pressure they’re under to be beautiful and the excruciating steps they take to achieve it.
I like to keep myself fairly tidy down there, passing my beard trimmer through whenever it gets out of hand. But with the recent revelation in the Manchester United official club magazine that a member of the team had burnt his baby-maker in a depilating accident (the finger was being pointed at Cristiano Ronaldo), I realised I wasn’t keeping to the latest standards of grooming. While gay men have always led the way in male vanity, straight ones are increasingly catching up. Emulating the six-packs, smooth chests and sexual technique of their online porn heroes, they now also want the bald look downstairs. Hirsuteness is no longer a sign of masculinity, but a mark of monogamy, proof you are out of the high-octane sexual loop that keeps young people working hard to be desirable.
“Lots of men shave their testicles,” Suzanne Barker, of the Glamour spa at GL-14 health club, in Manchester, told me. (All sorts of football royalty go there, so she really ought to know.) “But it’s better to wax. It lasts longer and feels much more comfortable.” I related to this, having once shaved myself out of boredom in adolescence, only to be tormented for weeks with a rough and itchy crotch.
So I agreed to head undergo a Bollywood waxing, a treatment the pioneers at the spa have brought to Britain, hoping to tap into men’s growing obsession with personal styling of all varieties. “It’s called that because of how Indian women prepare and decorate themselves for their wedding night,” Barker explains, showing me a range of studded diamanté ornamentations.
For, while a Brazilian would leave my manhood topped with an elegant furry triangle, the Bollywood denudes it completely and adorns it with a sparkly design that looks like something you might see in the window of a sari shop. I opted for a pretty multicoloured butterfly. Well, why not?
My first ever waxing was, at times, a horror, incomparable to anything I’ve experienced in life. Each time Barker tore the hair from me, I gasped in shock. One small tuft proved particularly stubborn. Tears in my eyes, I pulled my willy as hard as possible, stretching the skin to make it easier for the hair to come away. When it did, in a yank that shook my very soul, the pain reached a level I hadn’t imagined possible. After that, anything was possible. Having my bum strip-waxed was almost pleasurable, like a series of saucy, stinging spanks.
Afterwards, Suzanne and I agreed the hairless little trooper looked rather cute with a diamanté butterfly glittering above him, appearing longer, thicker and more sensuous, too. The beauty of waxing is that the moment it ends, the pain is forgotten and you’re left excitedly enjoying your new creation — much like childbirth, I imagine.
Being completely smooth feels deliciously fresh, clean and sexy. It gives me the constant mischievous smirk of someone with a naughty little secret. Women intuit that I’m hiding something and ask me what I’ve been up to. When I did tell one friend, she simply had to see it, and then couldn’t keep herself from touching. Loving how it looked and felt, she resolved to persuade her boyfriend to have the same.
Knowing the first waxing is by far the most painful, I’m tempted to keep it up. And given how sensual my skin now is, I may even wax my whole body, imagining the exquisite sensation of making love with a soft, hairless body. Waxing has inspired a new level of eroticism I’m keen to explore.
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