I haven’t been to many book launches but, if they’re all like the one I checked out the other night, I may have to turn it into a habit. I was there to support a friend, a man whose work reflects a soul of genuine depth. While listening to him discuss writing as an act of healing, I heard the word, “Pussy,” spoken by a woman standing less than a body length behind me. There, she said it again.
She wasn’t questioning anybody’s courage or manhood. Nor was she using the word to define women as exclusively sexual beings. She said it, casual as hell, the word rolling free of her lips with an accent that softened it into “Poosie,” real friendly-like. And that’s how she meant it.
This woman wouldn’t be caught dead discussing “Vaginas” the way most people do, with all the humanity of a police report. “The individual, my husband, commenced to circle the vaginal area for a marital obligation when the perpetrator’s crucifix became ensnared in the pubic hair of the victim, myself, which has yet to grow back, your honor.”
This fascinating, olive-skinned temptress with a Portuguese accent was just talking Business, the life of a Brazilian bikini waxer, but making it sound like much more than a commercial transaction. In her skilled hands, the practice became a mix of hygiene, esthetics, erotica, emotional therapy, and friendship. She warned the women at her table, “You go to a Russian waxer, your poosie, she takes a beating.”
I continued listening, chewing my guacamole-topped turkey dog when I felt a hair latch onto the middle of my tongue. My immune system’s powerful front line defenders, thumb and forefinger, encircled it and, no more than two gagging noises later, managed to fish out the clever invader. Brazil took it as a wry comment and flashed me a smile. A samba began to roll around inside my head.
She was sexy as hell and pretty damned fascinating but her smile was in the wattage range you use to invite new clients more than romantic connections. And being slow-witted in the romance department anyway, I rarely figure out when a woman’s coming on to me until the moment I tumble out of the bed, the hammock, or the leather mask. She could drop a roofie into her own drink and I wouldn’t know it. Still, at the risk of alienating my new friend, I let her know that empowering strangers to rip the hair from my brows, pecs, or scrotum ain’t never gonna be my idea of a party.
Any woman willing to sprinkle pussy into a conversation sure as hell wasn’t going to be put off by a little frankness. So we had a friendly chat.
She wrote a book called “Confessions of a Brazilian Bikini Waxer.” Attesting to her commercial savvy, she’s made it available in several languages including one version–resembling American sign language–where letters and words are not written but shaped into the freshly waxed pudenda of her clientele. The rainforest should have it so good.
She didn’t invent the bush wax but, by force of personality and patent law, has come to dominate the field. The Bikini Wax is now her exclusive intellectual property. She gets a royalty on every hair torn from your genitalia, double on fashioning the letter “O” into your crotch. And that’s how she’s on track to become the richest woman in South America. Resettling in the US, she extended her control of the market. Her legal representatives wrote a mass warning to rogue waxers threatening them with violations of US Copyright law if they removed one pubic hair without her express written consent. Anyone who does a self wax or inadvertently touches herself below the waist can’t announce it publicly without paying a license fee.
Happy grooming, y’all.