Confessions of an Alli Cat (9 page)

“I’m not getting a Brazilian,”I insist. 

“Yes, you are,” she insists back.  “You’re going to love it.  You’re a strong, independent cougar.  And as such, you need a Brazilian.  All sexy cougars have Brazilians.  Have I steered you wrong yet?”

“How about that time that…” I pause, trying to think of something. “Okay, how about that time when…” I pause again. “Okay, fine. I’ve got nothing right this second.  But there have been times.  I know it.”

Sara grins beatifically at me. 

“Perhaps.  But those times aren’t right now.  You’re going to be smooth and silky as a baby’s bum.  You’re going to love it. And Shade’s gonna love it.  I’ll pick you up at 6:45.  Oh, and you might want to take two ibuprofen ahead of time.”

“What?” I yelp. 

But she’s already walking away in her strikingly gorgeous Jimmy Choos, swishing her hips so emphatically that every man in the near vicinity is gazing at her ass.  And since I personally hate to disrupt a good exit, I let her go. 

I’ll think on the Brazilian.

Unfortunately, I get side-tracked by work and life, and I forget to think about it.  And I forget to do research on it. 

It isn’t until 6:45 the following night when I am clearing away the dinner dishes and I hear a car in my drive that I remember.

And I curse loudly enough to make any sailor or truck-driver proud.

“What?” Sophie looks up from where she has settled in to do homework as she eats a brownie.  I shake my head.

“Nothing, sweets.  I just forgot that I promised Aunt Sara that I would help her this evening.”

“With what?” Sophie asks curiously.  I draw a blank.

“Um, nothing,” I stutter. 

And I am saved by Sara’s red head poking into my kitchen. 

“Are you ready?” she calls.  “And I don’t want to hear any arguments.  Oh, hi, Soph,” she coos to my daughter. 

“What are you two up to?” Sophie asks suspiciously, narrowing her hazel eyes. 

“Us?” Sara splays a manicured hand across her bosom, which is perfectly displayed in a low-cut, tight blouse.  I’ve got to hand it to her. Sara is truly playing up this cougar thing. 

“We’re doing nothing.  Your mom simply needs my help tonight.”

Sophie’s eyes instantly grow narrower.  “Mom said she was helping
you.”

“Oh, that’s right,” Sara gushes.  “She’s helping me.  With something.”

Sophie rolls her eyes.  “You guys are weird.  I’ve got homework to do anyway.”  She picks up her books and trudges down the hall toward her bedroom. 

“I won’t be late!” I call after her.  She waves at me over her shoulder without saying anything. 

I turn to Sara with a sigh. “Alright, fine.  I’ll do it.”

She looks at me innocently.  “Was it ever a question?”

I sigh again.  I am clearly surrounded by lunatics. 

********

Twenty minutes later, I am terrified. 

I am naked from the waist down, flat on my back with a tiny towel covering up my female parts.  A tiny little chick with an eyebrow ring is getting the wax ready and I’m panting again.  Did I mention that the wax will be hot?  And that it is going on my private, tender female parts?  I pant harder.

“Calm down,” Sara instructs, sitting next to me. 

They don’t usually allow spectators in, but Sara convinced them that I would need my hand held.  At the moment, I think I would rather hold hands with the devil himself, considering how it is Sara’s fault that I am in this predicament in the first place.

“Your vagina will thank you,” she announces to me.  “So suck it up and put your big girl panties on.  You’re going to be fine.”

“I can’t put my big girl panties on,” I hiss.  “Because I’m getting the hair on my vagina ripped out by the roots.  So, obviously, I can’t pull up any panties, big-girl or otherwise.”

Sara rolls her eyes. 

“Why do you have to be so melodramatic?” she asks, peering at me over the top of her fashion magazine. “This is for your own good.  Do you really want to walk around with something that needs a weed-wacker?”

The Waxer-Girl (because I have no idea what her true title is) giggles as she turns around, a wooden spatula thingie in her hand.  I gulp and I know my eyes are wild as I assess the room for an escape hatch.  Without even looking up, Sara puts a hand on my arm.

“Don’t even think about it,” she says, while still reading her article. 

“I’m going to throw up,” I try. 

“No, you’re not,” she answers.

“I have cramps,” I attempt.

“Doesn’t matter,” she replies. 

“I think I’m pregnant,” I hedge, as a last attempt. 

“Impossible,” she says heartlessly. “And irrelevant.  Preggos need bald vajayjays too.  Now, let’s get on with it, shall we?”

She’s looking at me now, with one thinly sculpted brow practically raised into her red hairline.  I gulp and nod, squeezing my eyes shut.  I do not want to watch this.  At all. 

“For the record,” I tell Sara while keeping my eyes tightly closed, “I do not need a weed-wacker.”

“Irrelevant,” she says again, her attention once again absorbed by her magazine.

I sigh. 

Waxer-Girl clatters around a little bit by my elbow and then examines my vag. 

“Okay, Ms. Lancaster,” she says. “I’m just going to first spread the wax, then…”

I interrupt her.  “I don’t want to know,” I say firmly.  “Just do it.  I’m not looking.”

“Okay, m’am,” she says.  I can tell she’s smiling, but I don’t care.  Considering the circumstances, I also overlook the fact that she called me the dreaded
m’am.
 

I feel the wax, hotter than I would have imagined, getting spread on the part of me that should never be exposed in a salon or anywhere else with fluorescent lighting.  Ever. Except in a doctor’s office which can’t be helped.

She puts something thin on top of the wax.  Then she pats it down.  And pats some more.  And since I have had my eyebrows waxed faithfully every six weeks like clockwork since I was a teenager, I know what comes next. I brace for it.  And brace for it.  And hold my breath and brace for it again.

And then it comes. 

Riiiiiiippppppppp.

The room literally blurs for a second.  I think I might actually be having an aneurysm from the white-hot pain. I can barely even see straight.

“Holy shit!” I yelp. I grab ahold of Sara’s arm now and sink my fingernails into it. 

“Oh, so now you want to hold my hand?” Sara says with interest.  And a little bit of snark. 

“No,” I snarl.  “Now I would like to rip your hand off.  Just like you just had my pubic hairs ripped off.  It’s only fitting, don’t you think?”

She shakes her head.  “Oh, Alli. You truly are a drama queen. Now I know where Sophie gets it. You’re going to survive, trust me.”

“I might,” I tell her confidently.  “But I doubt
you
will.”

Sara rolls her eyes as the second round of wax gets applied.

Pat, pat, pat. 

I cringe, getting ready.

Riiiiiippppppp.

I yelp again.  And dig my nails deeper into Sara’s arm. If possible, that was worse than the first time. 

“Oh, holy pygmy monkeys,” I moan, wanting desperately to cradle my vagina and sing to it. 

I’m sorry, my pet
, I tell it silently
.  I know I promised that I wouldn’t hurt you.  It was her idea.  Not mine.

“Alli, you’re going to be fine,” Sara says impatiently. “Beauty comes with a price.”  I can hear a tiny bit of sympathy in her voice now, though.  Because of that, I wonder if I’m bleeding down there. 

“Not now, Sara,” I say through gritted teeth.  “I’m apologizing to my vagina.”

Waxer-Girl laughs aloud now, and I glare at her.  She averts her gaze instantly and applies more wax.

Holy Sheep Shit.

“How many rounds of wax does this usually take?” I manage to ask finally. 

Pat, pat, pat. 

Riiiiiiippppppp. 

I’m literally sweating now. I think I’m pale too, like all of the color has leached out of my skin.  This waxer girl from hell has taken my pigment along with my pubes, apparently.

“I don’t know,” Waxer Girl From Hell answers cheerfully.  “Several.”

Seven
rounds later, I am drenched through to the bone.  Sweat pours off my forehead and I think I am shaking uncontrollably.  I’m also weeping in my head.

Waxer-Girl finally tells me, “Okay, that should do it.  Now I need you to turn over.”

I twist around and look at her.  Turn over??

“And spread your butt cheeks.”

I think I faint. 

I do. 

I definitely faint. 

Because when I wake up, I have been turned over onto my stomach and Sara is holding my butt cheeks open.

“What the hell?” I screech, trying to get up.

“Do it!” Sara yells to Waxer-Girl.  “Hurry up!”

Riiiiiiipppppppp.

I might never walk again.

Chapter Nine

(Or:  There is a reason why God created razors)

“I can’t believe you did this to me,” I moan as I hobble out to Sara’s car.  Thank god she told me not to wear jeans.  I wouldn’t be able to tolerate anything rubbing against my girl right now. And by girl, I of course mean my vagina.

Sara, Miss Masochism herself, is marching briskly along like she didn’t just have her pubic hairs all yanked out. 

“I also can’t believe that it didn’t hurt you like it hurt me and that you also held my butt cheeks apart with your bare hands.  What is wrong with you??”

I try to glare at her but am interrupted by the shooting pains originating from my vaginal region when I try to sit in Sara’s car. 

“Owwwwww!” I howl.  “Holy shit, I think I’m going to die. How am I going to sit in my office chair tomorrow?”

I curl carefully onto my side, balancing precariously on one butt cheek, trying to avoid any and all pressure on my private parts. 

Sara glances at me. “It doesn’t hurt nearly so much after the first time,” she tells me.  “And I held your butt cheeks apart because I thought it would be best to have her finish while you were out.”

“Yes!” I hiss. “I passed out.  Shouldn’t that have told you something?  Like it hurt too effing much to continue, maybe?  Owwwww!” I howl again.

By this time, passersby are staring at us in concern.  I roll my window up. 

Sara turns up the radio so she doesn’t have to hear me complain.

And then I give up and internally sob for the rest of the drive to my house instead. 

“See you at lunch?” Sara asks cheerfully as I crawl carefully out of her car and into my driveway. 

I growl in response and she drives away.

I hobble into my house, digging for a bag of frozen peas and collapse onto a loveseat in the living room with the bag firmly planted between my legs.

Since every light in the house is off, I am guessing that Sophie has gone down the street to her best friend Hayley’s house.  I am safe lying here like this for a while. 

I close my eyes. 

And I must drift off because I am awakened by a male voice.

“Alli, are you alright?”

My eyes fly open to find Shade standing above me. 

I am confused. 

“Am I dreaming?” I ask groggily.  He smiles, like an angel or something equally as beautiful. 

“No. I texted you. I left my watch by your pool- I just realized it today.  I texted you a few times and you didn’t answer, so I texted Sophie and asked if I could stop by and get it.  I hope that’s okay.  I saw you from the window so I just walked in your door.  It was open.”

What the hell?  People can see me lying here with peas on my crotch from the window??

I look in that direction in alarm and quickly sit up, wincing in pain as I do.

“What’s wrong?” Shade asks in concern, bending down to examine me. 

“Don’t,” I push him away self-consciously.  “It’s nothing.”

My cheeks flush and I am dying of embarrassment.  Beautiful, perfect Shade doesn’t need to know what I just did to my vagina. 

“You had a Brazilian, didn’t you?” he asks knowingly, as he straightens back up.

Correction. I only thought I wanted to die before.  In actuality, I want to die
now.
 

I nod pitifully.

He shakes his head and scoops me up, carrying me easily. 

“Which way to your bedroom?” he asks.  I point and he carries. 

“Do you have aloe?” he asks, sitting me carefully on my bed.

I nod.  “In the hall closet.” 

He leaves to get it and closes my bedroom door behind him when he returns.

“In case Sophie comes home,” he explains. 

Good idea. 

He approaches me again and bends, wriggling my skirt up gently.  With the most feather-light of touches, he applies the aloe.  And I do feel better. 

He straightens. 

“Do you have any tea bags?”

I stare at him.  What kind of question is that? 

“In the kitchen,” I answer uncertainly. 

He ducks out.  And then returns a few minutes later with some soaking wet teabags on a saucer.  I eye him with a raised and suspicious eyebrow.

“Trust me,” he says.  “This will make you feel better.  We just have to let them cool for a bit.”

He sets the saucer next to me and then examines my poor, bald vag area.  And I do have to admit that it looks amazing, even though it feels like freaking hell. 

“It would be a good idea to get some tea-tree oil tomorrow,” he tells me, as he sits down next to me “It prevents any ingrown hairs.  Whatever possessed you to get this done?”

He’s curious now and watching me. He’s also picked up my hand and is stroking my thumb.  I force my heart beat to slow. Obviously, he’s used to touching people, considering his profession.  This doesn’t mean anything special.  He’s just being sweet. 

“I don’t know,” I mumble.  “Well, actually I do.  Sara talked me into it.”

He nods. “Red-headed friend from the other night?”

I nod.

“Figures,” he mutters.  Then he looks at me again.  “You don’t need to do shit like this, Allison.  You’re beautiful the way you are.  God invented razors for a reason- to use.  You don’t need to get waxed.”

I smile for the first time this evening.