The Male Bikini Wax Diaries: In Which Eric Gets Made Fun of By His Boyfriendby Eric E. on April 30, 2012
Editor’s note: We asked three of our male contributors to get bikini waxes and write about it — and they actually did. Here’s the backstory; here’s Kevin’s story; and here’s Walker’s story (complete with video). Below, Eric’s story.
As a gay man in New York, the notion of removing body hair is not a foreign one to me. In fact, I’m pretty sure I know some Chelsea residents who regularly pay people to forcefully remove their body hair; however I never though that I would find myself ass-up on a padded table with a middle-aged Latina woman tearing out my follicles in swift and terrifying blows.
Signing up for the “Ultimate He-Wax”, which is described as “the bare ‘man’-imum that will ‘wax’-imize your confidence”, my first thought was “what the f*ck am I thinking.” My second thought was “I hope my waxer is a good looking man,” shortly followed by “is ‘waxer’ the correct term?” Though the thought of someone getting all up in my man parts in search of unwanted hair is fairly awkward, I’d rather it be a young stud than some Hungarian-beast-lady.
As I checked into the swank spa where the deed was to be done, I was instructed to wait for my esthetician, Marina, down the hall. As soon as I sat down on the plush powder blue couch, directly across from the complimentary spread of olives, tea and brownies the size of sugar cubes, this linebacker of a broad comes out of what I assume is the wax-room with a stern look on her face. She was most definitely Hungarian. As luck would have it, the Hungarian was not for me, and Marina turned out to be a lovely woman with a warm smile and a quick hand.
Marina lead me into a small room covered in teal tiles, and instructed me to strip from the waist down, mount the waxing table face down, and cover my ass with what I can only describe as a towel-sized sheet of 1-ply gas-station-brand toilet paper. When Marina re-entered the room, she promptly took off my shame-hiding-toilet-blanky and got to work.
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She started with the backside. I donned the glamorous position of reaching back with one arm and peeling back one cheek while she filled my crack with oozing blue gel. After great anticipation and even greater dread, she let the first strip rip. To my amazement, I didn’t drop dead on the spot from pain. In fact, it really wasn’t that bad. It just kind of felt like someone snapped a rubber band on my skin. She kept going. And each strip continued to not hurt that bad. By this point in the session I was so proud of my bad-ass-wax-takin’ self that I practically started shaking my fists in the air triumphantly.
Then I was told to turn over.
Now I’m not exactly sure why I thought that the ass would be the hard part — maybe something to do with the tender sphincter and such — but I was wrong. Dead wrong.
She started my front side with the delicate area of a man’s body fondly known as the taint. This area hurt considerably worse than the backside. Marina then began working her way around my front-bits with some urgency, much to my dismay. Almost more humiliating than the pain was the way Marina handled my lifeless penis. Even through searing pain I kept wishing my member would look a little more ample (I think it was scared). Why do I care what this South American Wax Master thinks of my endowment? I can’t answer that. But I do care.
Almost as jarring as the half-hearted weiner handling was Marina’s constant advice to “take deep breaths,” advice she would only impart mid-rip while tearing the life out of my nether-regions — as if I was supposed to instantly get all zen.
Eventually Marina got to the standard pube area directly above the shaft. I figured that compared to my taint and balls this would be a breeze. Once again, my wax-related predictions were incorrect. For some ungodly reason, this area hurt the most by far. The only time I really made noise (save some nervous laughing) was while she was waxing this area. I didn’t exactly scream, but it wasn’t just a grunt either. It was kind of a scrunt. And it was kind of pathetic.
Finally my efficient esthetician broke the good news to me that we were finished. I was thrilled. Almost immediately I felt like some sort of He-God who could take any amount of pain. Fight club? I’m in. Childbirth? Puh-lease. And then I remembered that I looked like my 11-year-old self with a groin-specific sunburn, and my ego deflated somewhat. I tried to maintain my pride as I walked past the ladies getting pedicures (who I’m certain were silently judging me between pages of Marie Claire), towards the cashier, and finally out the door.
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The final assessment? My groin feels like a drunk skinned knee and I smell like Nickelodeon Gak. My boyfriend, who was overall unimpressed with my hairless sex-parts, told me it looked “bumpy.” Thanks. I’m hoping in a few days the little red bumps that used to hold hairs will go away and my penis will suddenly look twice its normal size. And as I sit here, drinking whiskey and trying to claim any semblance of masculinity, I have to say: it wasn’t so bad. If you’re going for that hairless look, I’d say go for it. The pain isn’t that terrible, and my ass has never been smoother.
While I may never join the ranks of those Chelsea gays and their bi-weekly waxes, I will forever have a respect for the pain they go through to look so gay.