Today I got the second-most painful cooter wax I’ve ever had in my whole life! (For those of you just jumping up and down with desperate curiosity about my first-most painful cooter wax ever, you can reference my yelp review of The G Spot in Providence, RI. [That's right: it's called The G Spot.] It’s the only yelp review I’ve ever written. I’m…not going to link to it, after all. I just re-read it and it’s not actually funny or anything. I just sound like one of those people to whom a waiter was rude, and so they decided to rain down fire via yelp. But if you do decide to go looking for it, it’s not one of the “recommended” reviews, so you have to dig a little. I don’t blame yelp for this. This was probably a good decision on their part.)
I have this weird stubborn insistence on refusing to let a little thing like “losing the top layer of flesh from my taint” affect my tip. Or, rather, affect it negatively, I mean. I tip the best when it hurts the most. Like, out of pure spite.
This was also my creepiest cooter wax, I think. There were two different disembodied heads in the room with me: one had too much makeup, a crooked wig, and a large chunk of plaster violently chipped out of her nose. The other was snowy white, bald-headed, and with a long thin agony-wrenched neck that kind of looked like John Connor’s adopted mom’s arm when she stabbed the milk carton?
There was an open pipe coming out of the wall near the floor that was caked in some kind of browned Vaseline-y goo. A small wooden Popsicle stick was plunked casually down in it. I don’t know how many of you out there know what a cooter wax entails, but…the imagery there was far, far too uncomfortably accurate.
The table was covered with a zebra-stripe pillow. That was covered with disposable, roll-down butcher paper. I’m pretty sure I could see some dots on the zebra-stripe pillow, through the paper, which…I mean, I bet were just red nail polish, right? I mean, that makes sense. That seems most likely.
I would have taken photos of all of this, but the woman who was doing my wax, like, entered the room with me and just sort of stood there and waited for me. Maybe…this is also a thing that those of you unfamiliar with what a cooter wax entails will not get, but…that shit’s creepy. Most ladies just point you in and then politely leave to let you take your pants off in peace, fumble your pale naked thighs up onto the table, and then try to find the most modest possible arrangement for the tiny kitchen-towel-sized piece of tissue paper they’ve given you for this 4-second moment during which they knock and sneak back inside and walk over. It’s all very civilized.
The woman who was doing my wax – and I keep calling her “the woman who was doing my wax” because she never introduced herself to me; the person smearing hot wax on my labia majora did not give me her first name – was talking on an earpiece phone the whole time. It was disconcerting. She kept slipping into and out of English just to pass along things like: “Oh! That one hurt,” and “Ooof! Almost done, though,” and “Oh no! It’s okay!”
It was upstairs from what was basically an off-brand CVS.
You know what? I googled the difference between “vulva” and “pudendum,” because, like, I wasn’t sure? And then I googled “labia majora,” because Chrome thinks I’m misspelling it, and I wanted to see. And then…well, and then I realized that I’d looked at both of those pages on Wikipedia so far tonight, and well heck a girl gets curious, you know, so then I went ahead and also checked Wikipedia for “penis.” (FRIDAY NIIIIIIIIIIIIIIYYTT!)
And you know what?? I suspect I’ve found some sexism on the internet! I KNOW! IT’S CRAZY! BUT I THINK IT HAPPENED!
The photos on the lady-parts pages are all closely-cropped photos of mostly-white, mostly-waxed-completely-bare cooters. In fact, let’s just go ahead and admit that I counted them. There are 24 photos of vulvas on the vulva page (if you count the one of a 14-week-old vulva), 1 photo of a fully-clothed Labia Pride Muff March, and 5 pictures of vulvas depicted in pieces of art from various cultures and eras. The page for “penis” boasts, in order of appearance, a collection of “penises of minke whales on display at the Icelandic Phallological Museum,” the penis of an Asian elephant, a mallard duck pseudo-penis, the “penis of a male human” (that’s right; they specified its gender), and “the spine-covered penis of Callosobruchus analis, a Bean weevil.”
I’m just saying. Maybe I want to see 24 different male human penises on Wikipedia, you know? THAT’S SEXIST.
Hey, remember when you were seven and you looked up “sex” in the dictionary? I guess nobody does that anymore these days. SIGH, THE FUTURE.
What I’m say here is, my junk’s just a tender little pink mess, you guys.
Hey! Guess what this is!
P.S. – “Pudendum” is a way funnier word than “vulva,” right? They’re both pretty good, actually. I dunno. but “pudendum” is better. Pooo-den-dumm.
EDIT: I forgot a funny part of the story! ALSO, during…I don’t know, ONE of the awful stretches of this awful process, the song on the intercom radio in the place was playing that one Gwen Stefani song that keeps going: “Don’t tell me cause it hurts….”