“A hundred fifty dollars an hour.” I can keep my car! “Um—naked, huh?”
“Fig leaf.”
“Fig leaf.”
It turns out, as luck would have it, that the Geisha Grill has a “gig” for me tomorrow night, which means I have a hell of a lot of hair to remove and just one night to do it. Thankfully, Jet’s house allows me to have my very own commode, which I’ll be living in for the next few hours if my waxing math is spot-on. The old spendy version of myself would have happily trotted off to the nearest spa, and considering that my girl bits are involved, it would have been a pricey spa at that. The financially frugal part of me—meager as it might have been—would have insisted I at least visit one of the many nail salons in Hollow Brook that willingly rips the hair off your privates on top of doing a mani/pedi for an extra ten bucks. But this new fiscally sound version of myself, that needs every single penny, insists I do my own nails in cheery shades of Mustang orange and blue before I purchase a wax kit from the local drugstore. Of course, my nails look like crap with polish bleeding over the sides, encrusting onto my skin, but a dollar saved is a dollar I don’t need to earn, so there’s that.
Jet is out in the living room watching television with his hand down his pants for all I know. For the most part, Jet and I are business as usual during waking hours, which consists of letting the sarcasm rip and or virtually ignoring one another’s existence. As opposed to when darkness falls and all penile hell breaks loose. Still not sure what I’ve gotten myself into with that one, but I’m sure once I secure a few more sushi gigs, I might just be able to afford my own place—one in which I’ll need about thirteen roommates in order to make rent, but hey, it’s a start.
I hop into the shower and shave my legs and arms—the latter of which totally gives me the willies as if at any moment the razor might slip and I’ll end up slitting my wrists. Not the way I want to go, and definitely not before I earn three hundred big ones for sitting on a sushi table. I’m so psyched about the huge haul I’ll be making off with tomorrow night I practically do the happy dance under this power sprayer Jet calls a shower nozzle. I put an end to the dance party before I end up on an episode ofRazors Gone Wildand quickly pat myself dry. I’ve had a mini slow cooker at work for the better part of the evening melting wax like it’s nobody’s business—I borrowed it from Scarlett who borrowed it from Roxy. I’m pretty sure if Roxy knew I was using her chocolate chip emulsifier to assist in stripping off my pubes, it wouldn’t go over so well. Roxy is famous, or perhaps more aptly putinfamousfor her not-so even-keeled temper.
I lift the mini lid, and sure enough, the wax has formed a smooth, velvety surface that affords me to see straight to the bottom just the way the instructional manual suggested. You wouldn’t think a block of wax that set me back a measly two ninety-nine would come with a dictionary length missive on hair removal. And while we’re on the subject of the Brazilian manifesto, logic would only dictate there would be at least one fucking photo to visually depict the “mane” event, but nary a cartoon pictorial awaits. It’s all dry reading, sit with your feet together, and blah, blah, blah. I refuse to study this guide to all things depilatory. Don’t have to. I’ve watched Scarlett have her legs waxed at the salon on at least two different occasions. All the beautician did was slip on a smooth layer of wax as if she were icing a cake—waited a moment before taking what looked like a strip of cotton, ironing it over the wax with the palm of her hand, and voila! Scarlett was bald as a baby’s bottom and cursing up a storm.
I lay a towel down on the floor and assume the butterfly position, flapping my knees like I’m about to take flight.
Hey, this is kind of freeing, what with the breeze in places breezes shouldn’t be, and the fact I have a total clear visual of Jet Madden’s favorite red rose with what feels like a white-hot spotlight over my privates. So this is what he sees—orfeelsnight after night. The perverted boy probably wishes he had this bird’s eye view, but we haven’t hit it with the lights on yet.
Yet? I shake the thought out of my head. Being Geisha Grill’s number one sushi girl is my new life goal. Who would have thought hot wax and raw fish would go hand in hand in securing my financial future? Let’s not forget the fig leaf that will somehow demand to protect my honor.
My fingers dance over the counter until I land on the giant Popsicle stick that came with the wax kit. I pop the lid off the slow cooker one last time and dip and stir from this awkward position. I figure I’d best leave it plugged in, melting away, in the event it takes me a little longer to frost my landing strip than anticipated. I give the wax a hearty swirl, and the pot tips sideways.
“Oh no, no, no!” I manage to bump it into place, but not before a tiny wax waterfall dribbles down the front of the cabinetry. Not a big deal. I’ll just wait until morning, and it’ll practically chip itself off. This is wax, not rocket science. This is simply an exercise in thermodynamics—temperature, energy, and entropy. I studied all about it last spring in my physics class, which I totally didn’t even need, but I figured what the hell. I can’t take all art classes and expect it to look great when I app for law school.
Once I finally manage to scoop a decent dollop of wax onto the stick, a tiny bit of it drips onto my pinkie.
“Oh my shit!” I bark out at the top of my lungs without meaning to. It’s hella hotter than I thought it would be, which just made my vaginal rose clench as if Jet were coming at it. If that boy can do one thing right, it’s administer a proper pounding to my love canal.
“Everything all right in there?” a deep voice strums from the other side of the door.
“Just fine!” I sing back. Crap. The last thing I need is Jet trying to play superhero—Vagina Man. In a fit of self-preservation, I kick the scale, trashcan, and throw the rug against the door in an effort to barricade it from his efforts. By the time I get back to the stick at hand, the wax has already coagulated to its opaque state.
“No!” I pluck it off, burning the hell out of my fingers in the process. “Geez.” Now that I’ve ridded myself of fingerprints, I can get on that bank heist I’ve been meaning to get to. God knows if it doesn’t involve losing the hair below my eyebrows, I’m in like sin.
I make another feeble attempt to dip that ridiculous stick into the melter, and the pot almost tips for good this time.
“Dammit.” I unplug the stupid device and bring that melted bowl of hell right to my lap where it belongs. I’ll just pour the wax on before the entire thing turns to stone. God knows I need to get this over with so I can get some shut-eye before midnight. It’s sort of a Cinderella moment, if Cinderella were about to become a sushi girl and have the royal court dine on deep-sea creatures off her naked flesh before midnight, lest her godmother, thestripper, unwittingly has Cindy’s pumpkin impounded.
“Okay, God—here we go.” I tip the small jar over my pink panther, or in this case dark coarse curly panther, and watch as the slow thick stream of molten lava makes its way down. “Ooh!” It’s warm, very,verywarm, but not unbearable. Ha! It sort ofdoesfeel like a spa treatment. They’re forever doing wild things to you at the spa, like rubbing mud all over your body and playing toss the lava rocks onto your back. This is totally up-that-insane-feel-good-alley. “Oh,yes!” I groan a little too loud without meaning to.
“Still good?” Jet’s deep, well meaning voice calls to me from the living room, and there’s something about having my legs parted, the warm sensation dripping down to my sweet spot that makes me yearn to have him near.
“Still good!” Just a few more hours and I’ll get to surprise him with my newly shorn nether regions. I might be staunch on the fact there will be a Jet Madden moratorium in my very near future, but tonight there are a few pressing needs he should tend to.
The wax begins to thicken, so I dump the pot upside down, making sure to cover every square inch of this shag rug I’ve successfully hidden from the free world.
“Ooh, ooh, ooh!Ahh, ahh, ahh!” It comes out as sing-song and cheery as possible in the event my superhero roomie feels the need to burst onto the scene.
Why did I wait so long to do this? God, I’m nothing but wall-to-wall carpeting down south. It’s a wonder Jet hasn’t lost his way in the molasses forest and demanded I mind the landscaping before he suffocated to death.
I pull the box my way and turn it upside down, fully expecting a tiny little cotton rag to burp on out, but there’s nothing.
“Wait a minute…” I do a frantic search of the area, and the only thing I come up with is that stupid phone book they sold me. I quickly riffle through it. Included in this package: one tongue depressor, one cube of wax.
Ironic. They forgot to list their procedural policy for all things pubic. Wait a minute. A sweeping panic fills me as the wax turns opaque.
What do you mean it doesn’t come with a ridiculous little rag? I paid two fucking ninety-nine for this damn thing!
“Oh God! OhGod!” Quick! I need to use the towel. Wait—that won’t do. It’s too damn big.
