Page 19 of The Virgin Romance Novelist Chronicles
Waiting for Marta was pure torture. Was she going to make a grand entrance? Bust through the door with a chainsaw, asking if I was ready to be trimmed? Or was she going to sweetly warm me up before getting down to business? My hopes were on the latter.
The soothing sounds of rain in spring meadows filtered in the room, just loud enough to drown out the shrill cries from the rooms next to me, but on the rare occasion I could still vaguely hear the cries of pain coming from every woman in the salon. Maybe it was my heightened anxiety, or the way it felt like the walls were closing in on me, but I could feel the crying vaginas, calling out to all other vaginas in the vicinity to clam up, to turn inside out, and run for their damn lives, to never show fold in a salon like this again.
Lord help me.
Pictures of trees and meadows scoured the walls, an obvious attempt to distract me from what was about to happen. But I saw right through their tactics, because all my mind was focused on was the wax heating up to the side and the strips waiting to be stuck to my milky white skin.
That’s right . . . milky white.
“What am I doing?” I asked myself as I pressed my fingers to my eyebrows.
I was seconds from getting up and putting my pants back on when the door to my room opened and in walked an oversized, unibrow-sporting, perverse-looking she-man wearing an ill-fitting dress, knee-high white stockings, and her hair in two pigtail buns. Her unibrow snarled at me as she grew closer and I could hear my vagina weep from a distance—so not the dream I was hoping for.
Horrified, I tried to do some Kegel exercises, communicating through Morse code that I was gravely sorry for what was about to happen to my vagina, but the damn bitch gave me the old middle clit and told me to fuck off by instantly turning into a world of itch.
Uncomfortable in so many ways, I shifted on the table—trying to look nervous—but aimed to scratch that unscratchable itch that only a finger to the vag would get.
“You look ill. You okay?” Marta asked in a heavy accent I could only assumed was Hungarian.
“Just nervous,” I admitted while I continued to shift.
“No need to be nervous. Marta knows what to do.”
She better.
Marta pulled a rolling table with wax and strips close to me. A light sheen of sweat broke out on my skin as Marta whipped off my cloth and placed her hands on my knees and spread my legs as wide as they could go.
Oh hello, aren’t we invasive.
Her head lowered, eyes narrowed, a pinch in her brow as she studied me closely. My gynecologist wasn’t even this thorough when examining me and she sure as hell wasn’t this close. Marta’s dense breath hit me hard and thick between my legs, making the juncture between my thighs feel like Cuba in August: humid and sticky.
“Whatcha looking for down there?” I asked, wishing her nose wasn’t so close to my vagina.
“Want to see what kind of thickness I will be working with. Looks like I will need to use more wax than expected.”
“What? Why?”
“Your hair is thick. It’s like rain forest. Too many heavy vines, especially in the dark areas,” Marta said without sugarcoating it.
“Dark areas?”
“Yes, inside of vagina and around anus, but we will get to that.”
“I’m sorry, did you say anus?”
Marta was mixing the wax as she spoke, “Yes, your anus, it’s the hole between the two butt cheeks.”
“I know what an anus is, Marta,” I said exasperated. “I’m just wondering why you’re talking about it.”
“You are signed up for Brazilian, yes?”
“And your point?” I asked, sweating more with each second, the sanitary paper beneath me getting stuck on my perspiring skin every time I moved.
“Hole to hole,” Marta said while picking up a wide Popsicle stick—they don’t seem so magical now—and placing a thick coat of wax on it.
“Hole to . . . holy prepubescent hairs,” I yelled as Marta coated my vagina with some wax.
“Hold on,” Marta said as she placed a strip on my skin.
