The Gray Side!

There comes a time when one realizes that they are officially getting old. 

I realized that not only was I getting old, but my southern parts had officially crossed over to the gray side.

I started waxing almost a decade ago. Not only was it less of a headache to keep clean razors around, but it also helped me have fewer outbreaks brought on by the microtears using a razor would cause. Over the years, I’d had an array of wax technicians, my favorite being Stephanie. I followed her from EWC to a salon in Washington Heights. I even made the trek to her home in the Bronx during the pandemic. Ultimately the commute was too much for me, so I had to part ways. 

The thing I loved about Stephanie was that we got really close. I mean, you kind of have to be when your labia and booty-hole are spread open, and hair is being ripped from your body. She knew damn near everything about me, and I learned a lot about her. One of the reasons I stayed with her for so long was that she, hands down, has given me the best Brazilians. 

Here’s the thing; full Brazilian waxes can cost anywhere from $50-$75 depending on the location, tax, and tip. After shelling out that much money and enduring much discomfort, the last thing you want to do is go home and find tiny stray hairs. There’s a reason why people go to the same wax person once they find a good fit instead of bouncing around. When I first worked with her, I had to let her know to pull back the folds of my labia to get those pesky hairs, and after a time or two, I never had to mention it again. It was a match made in heaven. 

When I could no longer make the journey, I returned to my local stomping grounds. I enjoyed walking through Central Park to get my wax, then getting a burger and cocktail next door at Bareburger. But when I returned to working in the office, it was no longer convenient for me. I changed my location from the UWS to a Times Square location closer to my job and easy to go during my lunch break.

I had an appointment scheduled the week after I got sick with Covid. Naturally, I had to let my hair continue to grow since I had to quarantine. Two weeks passed, and I was finally able to go and get my wax.

I arrived downtown, checked in, and waited 15 minutes for my appointment; the lady didn’t come out. I asked the desk associate how much longer she would be, to which she responded, “she’s finishing up.” Another 15 minutes passed, and I grew livid. I asked the desk lady again if she could knock on the door and notify her that she had a client that’s been waiting for 30 minutes. It was only after I made a fuss that the desk clerk let me know I could be seen by another wax technician –Like really Bitch!–

The lady that performed my wax was sweet. I wanted to make sure she did a thorough job, so I gave her full permission to get up close and personal with my pussy. Peel back the skin and rip the hair out. I thought she took care of it (as many times as she passed over certain spots). But when I got home and finally used the bathroom, I was annoyed, to say the least. 

It started with a finger graze by the opening of my vagina; I could feel stray hairs just chilling. Annoyed, I began pulling the ones I could out with my index and thumb fingers. A few longer than usual curly hairs had serious staying power, and then I pulled out one single solitary gray strand. 

FUCK! My pussy is getting old!!

Now, I know it’s superficial as I get no complaints about my biological sex. My partners love to eat, finger, feel, and anything else you could imagine my pussy. But a fucking gray hair. How am I supposed to get over that? I could blame the fact that, of course, I’m getting older, and it’s only natural. But I blame the wax lady. 

My pussy would be as bald as a newborn if she did her job correctly. So, instead of just enjoying the beauty of my wax, I have to pull out a new razor and make sure all the stray hairs that survived the battle lose the war.

Usually, I wouldn’t make a big deal of it. But I gave the woman an 20% tip. I shouldn’t have to fix what I already paid for, but I’ll do what I need to and tip her less next time. And before she commences to consider the wax done, I’ll be sure to do my own visual and physical inspection. Because that’s the last time a gray bitch will take real estate on my pussy.

SIR, YOU NEED TO PUT YOUR SHIRT BACK ON

It’s always interesting to see how a person acts when you take them out of their comfort zone. Someone who’s amazing in bed and fantastic on intimate dates can be a total disaster when you toss in a little too much alcohol and mixed company. This was my experience with one of my partners early on.   

In February, a good friend of mine invited me to a burlesque show. I mulled over the invite for a few days, and when I finally agreed and she got our tickets. A week later, she messaged me that her husband surprised her with tickets to the very same burlesque show. I didn’t want to be the awkward third wheel, so I invited Milo, a dance instructor I was dating. I often hesitated to bring men I dated around my friends, especially when it’s still new. In the past, when things would end, I hated having to explain why we broke up or stopped seeing each other. But luckily, both her and her husband were in the lifestyle, and that awkward conversation could be avoided. When I decided to invite him, it was for multiple good reasons. Not only was the sex amazing, but he was also reliable, and since he was a dance instructor, I knew he owned formal attire that the event called for.  

It was agreed that he would pay her husband for his ticket. They would pick us up in the city, we would drive out to Brooklyn, see the show, then go dancing. It was a simple enough agenda, but the night went a bit array.   

The night of the show, I met Milo at a Mexican restaurant downtown for a quick drink. When I saw him at the bar, I could tell he already had a few too many. While we waited for my friend to arrive, I got us each a margarita against my better judgment. Right when we finished our drinks, she and her husband pulled up. When we got into the car, she reminded us that she had made a pre-game drink to avoid the overpriced ones. But, because the drink was too strong for me, she and Milo finished most of it.   

When we arrived at the loft, the atmosphere was incredibly sexy. It reminded me of a scene from the 1920s speakeasy, and I loved it. We walked up the stairs, greeted the host, and looked for the right spot to view the show. The show progressed nicely, the dancers were beautiful, and their sets were entertaining. All would have been amazing had it not been for my date.   

When we first met, I asked him if he smoked, to which he said no. I had to remind myself that a person that smokes when they’re drinking will never admit they’re a smoker. Many times, throughout the show, he would disappear onto the balcony to take a smoke. When he wasn’t inhaling toxic fumes, he was poorly executing a whisper that everyone within earshot could hear. I had to tell him multiple times to be quiet, and I began to get embarrassed. The next thing I knew, when I turned back around, his shirt was off. I guess he figured that since the dancers were taking off their clothes, and he too was a dancer, it was an open invitation for all dancers to strip. I saw the hostess strut over, perky breasts exposed, landing strip visible, and wearing a feather-trimmed sheer robe; into his ear, she whispered, “Sir, you need you to put your shirt back on.” She stood firm, waited for him to follow her instructions, and she walked away. Two acts before the last, I turned around, and he was nowhere to be found. I walked downstairs and out of the building to see him walking back. Where he went, I will never know; but when we got back upstairs, it was the final act. — Thank God! — After the show, we all chatted for a bit, then left to go dancing.   

We bopped around from bar to bar, drinking, dancing, and hoping to find the spot that would keep us going to the sun came up. The final place we ended was tight as a virgin, but the energy was amazing. I was still reeling from his earlier behavior, and to rid myself of the ordeal, I passionately kissed him with a touch of anger. When we kissed, I felt my annoyance change into arousal. I felt a pinch on my ass that I swore came from my friend or her husband (which I would’ve happily invited), but nothing else happened. We left in search of food, then he whispered that we should head back to his place. Once again, I got the impression that they wanted the night to end with all of us possibly together, but I kept my mouth shut.   

We sat back as they drove to his place and dropped us off. Once upstairs, I was overcome with so many emotions, I had to end the night on a good note. So, I made sure to fuck all the bad parts away. Despite how I described the events of the evening, make no mistake, I was mortified. I seriously debated seeing him again, so I had no option but to erase it with sex. I sucked his dick, he ate my pussy until I came, and we fucked like it was the end of the world. When it was all done, and we were both orgasmed out, we passed out.   

In the morning, I took a shower, and on my way out, he apologized for getting that drunk. I told him, “I forgive you, but let it be the last time.” We kissed, and I left. Over a year later, we still see each other, and I’m happy to say, that was the first and only time he got that drunk in my presence.