I reach over and snatch my panties from off the toilet. It takes less than ten seconds for me to realize I’ve successfully fused a pair of pink lace undies to myself. In a flurry, I snap my makeup bag off the counter, and the contents rain down over me, landing an eye shadow applicator, a spongy wedge, my favorite pink lip-gloss, and a pair of tweezers all in the gooey pit amassed at the base of my legs.
“Oh hell.” I give an exasperated cry at the chaotic collection adhering to my body. “Okay, don’t panic.” My chest heaves because it’s pretty damn clear there’s no other alternative at the moment.
I’ll just grab on to the panties and mimic the motion I remember from Scarlett’s visit to the beauty salon. I massage the pink lace onto the wax andriiiip!
“HOLYHELLMOTHERFUCKER!”
The door rattles and cracks before it bursts open, sending a piñata of trash to the four corners of the room, along with the scale which has morphed into a flying missile.
“Shit!” Jet pants, wild-eyed, trying to take in the carnage all at once, but I’m in too much agonizing pain to care. “What the hell is going on?” He roars so loud his voice reverberates through my chest.
“I think I’ve scalped myself!” I pant, carefully looking down, totally expecting to find a raw bloody mess, but—I’m still completely intact, sponges, cosmetics, panties, and all. “What the hell? It didn’t move! Oh my God!” I shout so loud my throat rubs raw.
“What did you do?”
“I sealed myself shut!” My body starts in on an involuntary tremor. “My God, I’ll eventually have to urinate, and where the hell will it go?” A guttural sob works its way up my throat until I’m boo-hooing like a six-year-old who accidently glued her vagina shut, because, well—hello.
“Shit. Come here.” Jet scoops me into his arms and lands me onto his mattress before I can protest or scream—God knows I can’t run. “I’ll be right back.” He winces down at the pink ponytail my girl parts are sporting before ditching out of the room.
Great. I really am the Pink Panther now. Tail and all. Not to mention a drug store-worthy goody bag of items I’ll never use again.
Jet comes back in with a clean towel, which he promptly lays over my chest.
“We’ll save the girls for later.” He gives a little wink.
“Presumptuous, are we?”
“I’m a realist, hon.” He gives my thigh a light tap, and his bicep jumps. “Open your knees. Let’s have a look.”
I assume the butterfly position once again and allow him to peer at the caked and clotted mass where my vagina once stood proud.
“Opening a department store?”
“You’re not funny.”
“I’m not kidding. What is this? Are purses suddenly overrated?”
“The only thing overrated here is your sense of humor. I happen to have a simple waxing mishap. I dropped a few things onto my lap, and now, well, they’re sort of a part of me, and I’d like to lose that part as soon as I can.”
“I see.” Jet gives a depleted smile as he inspects the madness. He holds up a tiny pair of stainless scissors and snips through the air. “This should only take a few minutes.”
“Oh, right.” I bite down hard over my bottom lip, trying somehow to transcend the humiliation. “You don’t have to do that. I’m sure I can do it myself—or I can call Scarlett.” There’s one phone call she’ll never forget.
“I do this all the time.” My knees collapse over his hand without meaning to.
“You dothisall the time?” I don’t know whether to laugh or to cry. Jet Madden is a well-rounded ladies’ man who has not only singlehandedly “fed” half the kitties at WB, but, apparently, he’s aided in a few waxing debacles to boot.
“Not this.” He pries my knees apart and kneels in front of me. “Thisposition.”
“Now that I believe.”
He glances up and sheds a dirty grin that has my stomach doing a backflip and my modesty begging for relief. This isn’t exactly something that will go down as a sexy encounter.
Before I can truly protest, Jet goes to work with the meticulous precision of a surgeon and frees my panties, lip-gloss, sponges, et al., while regaling me with stories of piercings that make my skin crawl. Who knew the clitoris was such a popular place to land a needle?
“I can take it from here.” I glance down at what once was a happy, fluffy prairie of unadulterated desire that has been replaced with what looks like a defunct beehive.
I wrap myself in a towel, not sure why I bothered, and head for the bathroom once again. Three and a half hours later I finally emerge sans the sticky mass or nary a whisker from the eyebrows down.
