Because Nudity is Only Skin-Deep

The Close Shave

When I am an old woman I shall wear purple
With a red hat which doesn't go and doesn't suit me.
And I shall spend my pension on brandy and summer gloves
And satin sandals, and say we've no money for butter.
I shall sit down on the pavement when I'm tired
And gobble up samples in shops and press alarm bells
And run my stick along the public railings
And make up for the sobriety of my youth.
I shall go out in my slippers in the rain
And pick the flowers in other people's gardens . . .
So maybe I ought to practise a little now?
So people who know me are not too shocked and surprised
When suddenly I am old, and start to wear purple.
"Warning" by Jenny Joseph

This poem is more or less how I live my life, but the words are still missing something. They are missing the hideousness incipient in many old women. I used to look at some scary old ladies with beards, moustaches, and big dangling wattles with enormous black hairs, and I'd shudder. Now I know that if I make it to that age, I'll probably end up resembling them. Rather than fear the thought, I delight in it. I can't wait to be a hideous old woman. I want to be able to scare small children with a single glance. I want the power to shrivel men's dicks with a mere glance at my hirsute visage. I plan on being the ancient Medusa of hairiness.

My earliest memory involves hair. I was very young--I couldn't walk yet--and my father was holding me in his arms. I was staring at his face, and then I started staring up his nose. That's
when I saw the nose hairs. I didn't have nose hairs at this point, at least, not lustrous black ones like he did, so I was pretty fascinated. I reached up to yank them out, and Dad pushed my
hand away saying, "No, no." It's a pretty silly first memory, but the depilatory characteristics of it seem to have set the stage for my life.

Sometimes I think my life can be encapsulated as a losing battle against hair. When I was a little girl, I used to have long, glorious dark blonde tresses. I was an active child, and my hair was very curly, so my frustrated mother finally had my locks chopped off after too many tangles with my malevolent tresses and too many combs losing teeth in my scalp. My hair remained relatively short until I was in grade five and I decided to grow it out again. Then it became almost non-existent. I went to the barber shop for a trim one day back in 1981, and the barber mistook my ten-year old androgynous form for that of a boy and gave me a serious military brush cut. I went home crying, but was somehow vindicated when I became the first punk skinhead in my school.

As my hair grew out, the old battles with the comb came back. My hair was an enormous ball of frizz: a Caucasian Afro of magnificent proportions. When I'd go to a beauty salon, hairdressers
would stare slack jawed with their shears dangling helplessly by their sides. They'd make a few tentative stabs at getting my unruly hair under control, but it would invariably go back into its
giant poof.

Even in the 1980s when big hair was de rigueur, my mane would not fit into even the largest of banana clips. People would stop and stare, and I was often referred to as "Hey! You with the hair!" I tried in vain to make my hair conform to the styles of the time. I had my hair hacked into a mullet, and I tried to tease my fringe up nice and high. This only made me look like a puffer fish with a perm. Besides, I couldn't get the back of my hair flat to my head. This was the style of the day: skyscraper tall in front, and flat as a flapjack in back. The style was very similar to those false-front shops so prevalent in old Western towns.

It's just as well. This hairstyle is as ugly and ridiculous as any mullet could ever hope to be.

At some point in my mid-20s, my hair decided it was too old to rebel, and settled down into an easily-coiffed wave. I don't know what good thing I did to deserve this boon, but I didn't dare
question it. However, I was now left with all sorts of spare hair time. I took notice of other hairy bits which had previously escaped my attention, such as my unibrow. In folklore, a singular eyebrow is symptomatic of lycanthropy. Maybe I was a werewolf. Or maybe I was a muppet. After all, Bert from Sesame Street sports the same sort of facial hair. My attempts at plucking were uneven and sometimes resulted in bizarre divots. I was in modelling school at this point, and my instructor suggested I get my brows done professionally. I trooped off to a beauty salon and was introduced to the horrors of waxing.

The aesthetician sat me back in a reclining chair, much like a dentist would use. The similarities between dentist and aesthetician did not end there. The pain was also similar. First of all, she gently washed and massaged my face, then applied hot strips of wax above my eyes. Then, with a mighty RRRIPP! she tore the wax (and half of my face from the feel of it) off. My eyebrows felt like they had fresh half-moon shaped brands. My eyes filled with tears, but the aesthetician didn't stop this horrid torture until the job was done.

After she rubbed cold cream on my throbbing eyebrows, I looked in the proffered mirror to survey the damage. My unibrow was gone, and if I ignored the fluorescent swollen pink bits, the brows looked pretty damned good. The swelling only went down a day later. Now, I keep my eyebrows carefully tweezed lest I go through the wax torture again.

Ironically enough, I have since begun getting what is colloquially known as my bikini area waxed. Apparently, I don't have enough pain in my life. However, I do loathe body hair, and sometimes believe the world would be a better place if it had never been invented. I mean, whose idea was this, anyway? Did some great creator decide, hey, wouldn't it be funny if men could have more hair on their backs than on their heads?

The first time I had the timber line clear-cut off Mount Venus was early in the summer of 2001. I was really sick of my groin looking like a scalded and freshly-plucked chicken every time I went swimming. With a certain amount of trepidation, I made an appointment to see an aesthetician up at a mall. It was all rather seedy and tawdry, actually. I paid a woman to flip up my skirt and maul my crotch, and I didn't even get a half second's enjoyment out of the experience. I could hear mall muzak playing in the hallways, loud hip hop music in the trendy clothing shop next door, and the top 40 pabulum playing on the radio in the salon.

I don't think the aesthetician relished the experience any more than I did. Yanking the hair out of strange women's crotches just doesn't seem like a very rewarding job. Once again, I was plunked down on an inclined chair/bench. This time, my skirt was hauled up around my waist. The woman gave me a tissue. "Wrap this around the edge of your panties so I don't get gunk on 'em."

I did as she requested.

She dipped a spatula into a tub of warm wax and smeared it onto my upper thigh. She laid a strip of gauze over top, patted it down, then yanked it off. My eyes teared slightly at the sting, but it wasn't that bad. "That didn't hurt too much," I said.

She smiled grimly. "Good."

Then she moved in a bit closer to my grotto of love. Once again, the waxy spatula smeared itself onto my hirsute bits. The cloth was patted on, and then my leg and crotch were torn asunder. At least, that's what it felt like, to put it mildly. It was as if the top eight layers had been ripped off me. If Shakespeare had only known about waxing, he would have written it into The Merchant of Venice as a good way to obtain the pound of flesh.

Somehow, I managed not to scream or recoil. Perhaps I am a closeted masochist. I hope not.

Yet I stayed in position as this Torquemama repeated the process even closer to my holiest of holies. This time, my eyes teared up in anticipation. This was really going to hurt, I thought.

I was right.

The process was repeated on the other side. When the waxing was over, I felt both relieved and sore. Unfortunately, she wasn't yet finished. She reached for a pair of tweezers and began methodically tearing out all the survivors of the molten wax blitzkrieg. I'm sure she was pinching me in the process. Although the tweezing didn't have the all-over style of searing pain that the waxing did, it felt like she was grasping below the surface of my skin (catching skin in the process) before yanking.

When it was all through, she said, "How does that look?"

"Great," I said. The Black Forest could have flourished in my lap and I would have told her it looked dandy. The truth is, I once again looked like a freshly scalded and plucked chicken. The skin was red, and bumps showed where all my hairs had been pulled out. My skin was suffering from follicular dry heaves. Later, when I got home, I discovered she had missed several patches, but there was no way I was going back to see her.

Believe it or not, about a month and a half later, I went and did it again at a different salon. This time, the experience was much better. The hair no longer looked like a brillo pad, to begin with, and the yanker-outer-woman was much more experienced. The pain was nowhere near as intense. In fact, it was quite bearable, and although my skin was once again red and swollen afterwards, it looked fine by the evening. Also, she didn't leave any hirsute patches.

The experience was vastly superior to the time I decided to do my own depilation in a place I couldn't actually see. If you ever get the sudden urge to shave your butt cleavage, do not give in to it. It can only lead to a literal pain in the arse. Trust me on this.

Hair has also been a big part of my life as a dancer, and plays an important role in Zar trance rituals.


(To be continued....)

I'm not pointing fingers at anyone in particular, because this is an issue I've been encountering over and over again for decades. But, I am intrigued by how it's more culturally acceptable for a man to show progress photos of physique development than it is for a woman. Why is this the case? Discuss!

I was challenged to write something truly horrible, and not being one to refuse such a revulsive challenge, I went for it.

This is probably not safe for your lunchtime.

It is the tale of a rhyming disease-smith, magical components which emit potent emotions, and two hapless elves.

I've done better endings, but I was eager for this one to be finished. Enjoy.

( NSFW )

Get well, soon! ( So NSFW. Only safe for Bevin, really. )

More later.

Too much caffeine. My interior is vibrating like mad. Ack!

I want to share a few print oddities with you. First up is a spam I received. Mary Atoo writes,

hi
Greetings to you in the name of our Lord Jesus christ.Please i really need a bible.this is my main purpose of contacting.hope my humble request will be granted.thank you and God Bless you.this is my address.
MARY OTOO
NAZARETH ASSEMBLY
P.O.BOX1931,
MAMPROBI-ACCRA
GHANA

If this is a 419 scam, I don't get it. Weird.

Next up is an excerpt from an "erotic" tale called Shards down south? I'm down south in Kagome!:

Drawing one hadn out of her shirt, trailing his claws softly over her skin, Inuyasha tore each side of her cloth barrier before he plunged his head inside her craving pussy. He slowly inched into her until he felt her hymen, "This is gonna hurt," Inuyasha cautioned her before bucking into her womb and breaking her woman barrier.

Wow. Such a short excerpt, and so much that is wrong....

And finally, an excerpt from a 1936 booklet called "The Art of Kissing" written by Hugh Morris wherein we learn that short men and tall women are terrible kissers:

It is, therefore, necessary that the man be taller than the woman. The psychological reason for this is that he must always give the impression of being his woman's superior, both mentally and especially physically. The physical reason, with which we are more concerned, is that if he is taller than his woman, he is better able to kiss her. He must be able to sweep her into his strong arms, and tower over her, and look down into her eyes, and cup her chin in his fingers and then, bend over her face and plant his eager, virile lips on her moist, slightly parted, inviting ones. All of this he must do with the vigor of an assertive male. And all of these are impossible when the woman is the taller of the two. For when the situation is reversed, the kiss becomes only a ludicrous banality. The physical mastery is gone but the fact that two lips are touching two other lips. Nothing can be more disappointing.

tailchaser? I love ya!

She sent me this. Do not click it. No, it's not safe for work. Don't click it. Don't click it.

I was awakened this morning by redlyra grasping my foot and giving it a little shake. I couldn't hear her voice because I'd gone to sleep wearing ear plugs--an necessity because of street noise. I arose in a panic; if I didn't act quickly, I was certain she would think I was dead. I jumped up, pulling out the ear plugs. "I'm all right! I'm ok! I was just wearing ear plugs!"

I think she was more confused than I was. Heh...

....

Although details of my life are all over the blooming internet, I am in many respects a very private and emotionally withdrawn person. I think that's fine. There are plenty of thoughts and experiences which are no one's business but my own, and it's my prerogative to choose which to dole out and to whom. That being said, I find it interesting that even when I'm writing fiction or participating in a role-playing game, I find it very challenging to communicate deep emotional aspects of my characters. It's not that the words are any more difficult to come up with--it's that sharing them makes me feel naked.

Every character I come up with, no matter how pure or twisted, is a facet of my own personality. My head is full of many people, and my imagination gives them voice.

....

Link time, and then I'm off to bed.

Pulmonary Breath Sounds: Different breathing sounds, including the death rattle.

Fluffy Sweater Fetish: Glen or Glenda? I say Glenda. Nice fluffy thong, too. Er, possibly NSFW.

French wine-growers go guerrilla: If plonk doesn't go up in price, blood will be shed.

Kinky Elephant: Pachyderm using its trunk to go spelunking.

I dated this guy a few weeks ago who liked the dirty talk.: Best dirty talk, ever!

Merry Cemetery in Sapanta,Romania: "The unusual feature of this cemetery is that it grows apart from most of the European cultures, that consider death something solemn. Sometimes this is put in connection with the Dacian culture, whose philosophy was based on the immortality of the soul and the belief that somebody's death was a joyful moment, as that person was getting to a better life."

My nose hairs are indistinguishable from my eyelashes.

Think I should use mascara on 'em?

On that note, it's time to do more housework....

I went to the gym today, where I cycled a stationary bike like mad. On the way back, I decided to stop in a little salon run by a cranky-looking Asian lady. I paid her money to tear the hairs out of my armpits.

Owie. OWIE!

In other news, I suspect I may be suddenly coming down with the plague which just as suddenly has stricken gha5t (who is currently busy trying to sleep it off). I get no such rest. I teach dance tonight. And again tomorrow night. And then I model on Wednesday night. Sigh....

In other news, I wrote some backstory for my Vampire character, Margd. ( You can read it, if you're a geek and so inclined. )

Last night, I was sitting at my computer feeling very tired (from the Tylenol 3) and sore (from having a bone pulled out of my face) when things started to shut down. And by things, I don't mean anything computer-related. My vision started to grey. My hearing collapsed down to a pin-prick. "Dave!" I yelled. "I'm blacking out!"

And then I don't remember anything until I heard f00dave saying, "Wake up. Wake up. You're scaring me!"

I felt like I was in the middle of a fathoms-deep sleep, and f00's voice was miles above me. Apparently, he was lightly slapping my face, but I have no recollection of that. When my eyes finally opened, he said, "Let's get you to bed."

"But I am in bed," I said.

f00's eyes were huge and round as he stared at me.

He tried to carry me to bed, but I couldn't lift my arm, so he helped me stumble to the room.

As I laid in bed, tinnitus began playing a symphony. A loud, high-pitched whistle filled my hearing. And as the whistle died down, I heard a loud, whispy computer fan. "What's that noise?" I asked.

"What noise?" said big-eyed f00.

"That computer fan noise."

And then I realized that this was just another flavour of the tinnitus, and it too began to fade.

f00 wanted to call 911, but I thought that was an over-reaction, so he called Telecare instead. After asking me a bunch of questions, I was told to get myself to emergency.

And so I took the elevator downstairs (leaving me feeling gross from the movement), and into a waiting taxi. Halfway to the hospital (which is really quite close), a tsunami of nausea rushed over my body. "I'm going to be sick," I announced. Suitably horrified, the cab driver rolled the windows down, and I was able to keep the burgeoning tides of butternut squash soup within.

But once the cab stopped, I jumped out and barfed through mouth and nose into a nearby garbage receptacle.

Inside the hospital, I went to triage, and after a short wait, was taken to a bed. By this point, I was very dizzy and seriously contemplating the nurse's offer of a wheelchair. But I managed to walk to the bed, get into my johnny shirt, and lay down.

A nurse came in to check my pulse, blood pressure, ears, eyes, and all that other fun stuff. I sat up in bed with my johnny shirt pulled down to my waist, top half nekkid except for a bunch of sticky tapes attached to a heart-rate monitor. With my somewhat greenish pallor, puke-flecked glasses, and tape-spackled tits hanging out, I was dead sexy.

I guess all my vitals seemed in order, so I removed the tapes (missing a few which I only just found a couple of minutes ago), and dozed off.

About an hour later, I felt another wave of nausea crashing over me. With stentorian tones, I cried, "Bucket! Bucket!" f00 fetched me a puny kidney-shaped pan, and more soup poured out of me.

"Bigger bucket!"

And he fetched a larger bucket just in time for me to fill it with more soup than I'm sure I ate. And half-melted cheese. Eugh.

I felt sorry for the woman in the bed next to mine. She had suffered a head injury and was feeling nauseated. I'm sure my bucket-filling endeavours were not appreciated by her.

But once I got the soup and the cheese and the Tylenol 3s and all the leaking tooth hole blood out of me, I felt much better. The doctor gave me a shot of an anti-nauseant/analgesic, and a half-hour later, I was good to go. The diagnosis? A reaction to the pain of the tooth extraction coupled with too much swallowed blood. The codeine apparently did me in, too, although I've had it before with no ill effects. And in retrospect, I think all of this was exacerbated by my having eaten very, very little yesterday (soup, cheese, a handful of nuts, a cookie, and a square are not enough to keep me going for a whole day).

This morning, I feel pretty good, aside from a sore (but not agonizingly-so) mouth and a FOUL taste in my mouth.

The worst part is the dentist told me I'm not allowed to brush my teeth or use mouthwash for a few days. Blargh!

And how did you spend last night?