Friday, November 13, 2009
Hair
Last night over dinner, Daisy made a jibe about me having a predilection for men “without hair”. What she meant was that I seemed to always pick out the bald or rather, guys with shaved heads on the street as my eye candies.
Soci’s cheeky mind had instead wandered off the track and interpreted my attraction to men who like to shave themselves down south. He started teasing me.
Whoa, where did that come from, Daisy and I soon realised where the conversation was going.
“Oh don’t be shy. It’s the 21st Century, you are entitled to whatever suits you...” he continued teasing me.
“No, no, no... that’s not what I mean,” Daisy interjected.
We were all laughing.
I then commented that I honestly don’t fancy guys who are too particular or high maintenance when it comes to gardening their own hair, especially in the arm pits, legs and private departments. They tend to be people who are either gay (which is fine by me) or anal, fussy, vain, having low tolerance or are highly critical about things (especially the physical appearance), traits I cannot stand in a man. Men should be like men- that is, low maintenance, easy-going and not a whinger. And they can take dirt. Period.
Which brings me down to a few memory lanes...
*****
I heard from my principal at fashion school that the typical French woman doesn’t care about waxing or shaving. Basically, their personal grooming so much extends to allowing their fauna grow free willy in areas that I thought most females would pay particular attention to, namely the armpits and possibly the bikini area.
In Paris, I had come to share a sensual encounter with a French by the name of Aura. Some of you long-time readers may remember this character in P’s life as the half-stranger who gave her the most mind blowingly orgasmic sex she had ever had and from that day on, she strangely regained the libido she thought she had lost forever.
That night of pure lust, in his dimly-lit studio apartment, I curiously noticed that the Aura had his armpit shaved. I thought to myself that was very un-French and didn’t think very much afterwards.
While we were drunk with lust, sex and alcohol, in my naked state, I lifted my arm. In the dark, I noticed that he took a curious interest in my bare armpits. He took a double take, like he was drawn to the bareness. I felt a little self conscious and tried de-tracting his attention by climbing on top of him, arms wrapped around his neck.
******
After sex, Ted and I took to the ensuite bathroom. He wanted to freshen himself up before he took leave. His chauffer and friend was waiting in the car.
The mirror at the sink was one of those horizontal full length across the wall, like what you get in the hotels.
Ted admired his smooth tight naked six-pack body in the mirror. He had been training boxing at the gym with his personal trainer almost everyday in the week.
Ted was shaved at the armpits and around his manhood (which made the act of fellacio more hygienic for me, I reckon;)) Basically, he was bare in areas that supposedly asserted a person’s manliness.
“Am I fat?” He kept flexing slightly in front the mirror.
He could well be talking to himself.
He was absorbed in examining his own image.
Must be a converted fat man still trapped in his old fat soul or self-image.
“No baby, of course not...” was all I said.
Last night over dinner, Daisy made a jibe about me having a predilection for men “without hair”. What she meant was that I seemed to always pick out the bald or rather, guys with shaved heads on the street as my eye candies.
Soci’s cheeky mind had instead wandered off the track and interpreted my attraction to men who like to shave themselves down south. He started teasing me.
Whoa, where did that come from, Daisy and I soon realised where the conversation was going.
“Oh don’t be shy. It’s the 21st Century, you are entitled to whatever suits you...” he continued teasing me.
“No, no, no... that’s not what I mean,” Daisy interjected.
We were all laughing.
I then commented that I honestly don’t fancy guys who are too particular or high maintenance when it comes to gardening their own hair, especially in the arm pits, legs and private departments. They tend to be people who are either gay (which is fine by me) or anal, fussy, vain, having low tolerance or are highly critical about things (especially the physical appearance), traits I cannot stand in a man. Men should be like men- that is, low maintenance, easy-going and not a whinger. And they can take dirt. Period.
Which brings me down to a few memory lanes...
*****
I heard from my principal at fashion school that the typical French woman doesn’t care about waxing or shaving. Basically, their personal grooming so much extends to allowing their fauna grow free willy in areas that I thought most females would pay particular attention to, namely the armpits and possibly the bikini area.
In Paris, I had come to share a sensual encounter with a French by the name of Aura. Some of you long-time readers may remember this character in P’s life as the half-stranger who gave her the most mind blowingly orgasmic sex she had ever had and from that day on, she strangely regained the libido she thought she had lost forever.
That night of pure lust, in his dimly-lit studio apartment, I curiously noticed that the Aura had his armpit shaved. I thought to myself that was very un-French and didn’t think very much afterwards.
While we were drunk with lust, sex and alcohol, in my naked state, I lifted my arm. In the dark, I noticed that he took a curious interest in my bare armpits. He took a double take, like he was drawn to the bareness. I felt a little self conscious and tried de-tracting his attention by climbing on top of him, arms wrapped around his neck.
******
After sex, Ted and I took to the ensuite bathroom. He wanted to freshen himself up before he took leave. His chauffer and friend was waiting in the car.
The mirror at the sink was one of those horizontal full length across the wall, like what you get in the hotels.
Ted admired his smooth tight naked six-pack body in the mirror. He had been training boxing at the gym with his personal trainer almost everyday in the week.
Ted was shaved at the armpits and around his manhood (which made the act of fellacio more hygienic for me, I reckon;)) Basically, he was bare in areas that supposedly asserted a person’s manliness.
“Am I fat?” He kept flexing slightly in front the mirror.
He could well be talking to himself.
He was absorbed in examining his own image.
Must be a converted fat man still trapped in his old fat soul or self-image.
“No baby, of course not...” was all I said.
