Saturday, August 23, 2008
Go Team Vagina!
Sometimes I fantasize about moving away from the San Francisco Bay Area, and then I learn that I am privileged enough to share this unusual city with fantastic people like The Vagina Lady. This fabulous female spends her time making elaborate vagina costumes. No, silly! Not costumes you put on your vagina (that's a different post), but big, pink, shiny fabric vaginas with a perfectly placed face hole where a clitoris would normally live. Not only does she create these fabulous outfits, she wears them around town and smiles and waves and hands out chocolate. Jeez, vaginas that give out chocolate? Maybe I should consider the whole lesbian thing more seriously.
When The Vagina Lady is not dressed as a big, beautiful vagina at events like Bay to Breakers and The Exotic Erotic Ball, she is making vagina art and composing comprehensive lists of vagina vocab. Thanks to her, I now have more words than I ever needed. I am having a hard time picking favorites between "mouth that cannot bite" and "cunnikin." And I thought "vajayjay" was novel. Thank you, Vagina Lady. I am glad to be your neighbor.Labels: body image, rant
tidbit posted by Mosa @ 9:27 PM
Wednesday, July 23, 2008
Color Me Excited!
Right. So I have talked way more about my pubic hair on this blog than I ever imagined I would. Ever. Yet here I am again with my nether regions on my mind (not literally; I am not quite that flexible). Back in the day when Natasha Senior (my salon had the distinction of employing two Natashas) was my waxer-extraordinaire, there was talk of something dazzling and cutting edge. Some of the beauticians at this posh San Francisco salon were using cookie cutters and hair dye to dramatically transform bikini lines. Natasha Senior herself spoke of a beautiful blue dolphin she had recently emblazoned on a client's mons pubis. I remember thinking how outrageous it was at the time. Ridiculous even. I thought colorful, decorative pubic hair was soon to go the way of banana clips and zipper jeans.
Flash forward six years or so, and, much to my surprise, here I am staring at a box of do-it-yourself pubic hair dye. Betty Beauty comes in a wide variety of colors from natural (brown and black) to not so (blue and hot pink). Nancy Jarecki, the creator, got the idea when she saw colorists at a Roman salon slipping little brown bags to their clients as they left. She learned that the bags contained a small bit of the hair color that had been used on the clients' heads so they could take care of making "downstairs" match in the privacy of their own homes. Brilliant!
In addition to these fantastic colors, that come with a lightening creme and fat mascara-wand-looking applicator, Betty Beauty has also provided the stencils. For just $9.99, you can purchase a whole collection of fun shapes from hearts and lightening bolts to peace signs and dollar signs. I have always aspired to profess my political ideology with the hair on my vagina. Now I need only decide if my dollar sign will look better in Malibu Betty Blue or Fun Betty Pink. Decisions, decisions...Labels: beauty, rant, review, wax
tidbit posted by Mosa @ 12:38 PM
Monday, July 21, 2008
Dead Mouse
Recently, and unexpectedly, I found myself at Disneyland. My hubby had to go to Anaheim for work, and one of the perks was that he got free passes to the Magic Kingdom. While Pirates of the Caribbean and the Haunted Mansion thrilled me just as much as they did throughout my childhood (perhaps even more so now that they have added Johnny Depp to the slew of animatronic singing pirates), I have to admit the the rides were not my favorite part of the trip.
While I certainly appreciate the creativity behind some of the rides at Disneyland, I am generally sickened by the Disney culture. By this I mean adults who are trapped in their childhood obsession with a mouse and his cohorts. I had a colleague once who used her wedding registry to try and complete her set of Winnie the Pooh dishes. I am all for maintaining a connection with one's childhood and relishing in eternal youth, but there is something saccharin sweet about the Disney experience generally. It kinda makes me want to yack (and yes, that is even before I consume mass amounts of amusement park food). Maybe I am the sicko, but the frenzied Disney obsession makes me kind of sick.
It is because of this feeling of nausea and my disturbance that Mickey Mouse hats now come with optional earrings, that I derived (perhaps an obscene amount of) pleasure from lobotomizing Mickey, spilling his brains on the bathroom counter, and recording the evidence. I hope you are able to delight in the ghastly image as much as I do.Labels: rant, travel
tidbit posted by Mosa @ 5:47 PM
Saturday, July 12, 2008
All Nude All the Time
My S Factor class meets Fridays at 4:30. Yesterday, like most Fridays, I writhed around on the floor with nine other scantily-clad women for two hours. Loud music engulfed us, and warm, dim light surrounded us. After a three week summer hiatus, I had forgotten how much I value this weekly ritual of paying homage to my body and soul. This sexual, sensual revelry is a source of profound joy and satisfaction in my life.
I started taking class a little over a year and a half ago because I thought pole dancing would be a cool skill to have (it so is), and because I aspired to increase the ripped-ness of my biceps. I didn't realize that that was only one small part of a much bigger picture. In fact, I scoffed at the notion that pole dancing and stripteese could be anything more than a sexy workout. Over the course of the last eighteen months, I have learned far more than how to hang upside down and take off my shirt. I have gained far more than I could have ever imagined.
As I sat yesterday and watched my classmates bare their souls through their dances, I felt insanely lucky. How often is it that I get to bask in the presence of sexually confident and alert beings? How frequently do I get to experience completely honest and vulnerable communication, let alone communication of a physical, sensual variety? The answer is, once a week on Fridays at 4:30.
Surely, I have opportunities for open communication in other aspects of my life. In fact, I seek them out. But there is something uber-exciting about experiencing this communication in such a focused and charged setting (OK, I admit the lacy underwear help, too). In my day-to-day life I see women spending so much time tearing one another down -- tearing themselves down -- "Am I too fat?" "She's too fat." "I can't believe you're wearing that." "I could never wear that." "What a slut." "What a prude." My class provides a fantastically refreshing respite from this storm of negativity. It is full of supportive women -- women who cheer you up when you fall, and cheer you on when you soar, both in class and out.
Of course it takes a degree of confidence to strip out of one's clothes in front of others, and the results can be electrifying, but it is even more risky and exhilarating to expose one's soul, one's self. Each week in class we have the opportunity to do this. To be real.
I relish the high I feel having exposed myself, and I am honored that others trust me and the rest of our class with their bare souls. This nudity of the spirit is not limited to the classroom. We can't help but carry it away with us each week. Maybe it manifests in the courage to admit new love or the strength to give honest feedback to a friend. As layers of clothing come off in class and I fly around the pole, I am able to expose more of myself in life and test my wings. Damn! Nudity is hot!
(Image courtesy of Eric C. Carter at Dizzy Pixel.)Labels: body image, dance, fitness, rant
tidbit posted by Mosa @ 10:56 PM
Tuesday, July 8, 2008
Paper or Plastic?
Sex is sometimes a dirty business, and while you can protect yourself from germs of the genital variety with condoms and dental damns, no one has made latex that appropriately protects one from the germs spread via US currency involved in monetary transactions, sexual and otherwise. Think about it, even nose-pickers pass the bucks. In fact, it is arguable that many people fondle dollars more often than they fondle their privates, or even whist fondling their privates. Just imagine all of that dirty money.
Prostitute, Angela Eversole, of Kentucky has the solution. Instead of accepting filthy cash from her johns, she, allegedly, accepted a $100 gas card in exchange for sex. Right on, sister! In addition to being far less absorbent than paper, plastic gift cards are also handled by fewer specimens of questionable cleanliness.
Unfortunately, Ms. Eversole and her gas daddy were picked up after a police stakeout at a local Day’s Inn where they were accused of having their gaseous tryst. Angela Eversole’s story and her mug shot have been gleefully spattered all over the headlines by media equally eager to condemn consensual sexual relationships and whine about rising gas prices. What a rare opportunity! I only hope Ms. Eversole will serve as an inspiration to others; safe sex is important. Choose plastic over paper when you have the option.Labels: germs, law, rant
tidbit posted by Mosa @ 4:22 PM
Tuesday, June 10, 2008
Buzz Kill
I love vibrators. I love the continual, rolling orgasms they produce. I love the pretty colors and bright packaging. I love the novelty of the industry and how new people and new products are constantly making it over for the better. I love the taboo, and I love the empowerment. I own vibrators, have given them as gifts and recommended my favorites to friends and strangers, but I am going to take a break.
I am going to take a break not out of some sort of masochistic withholding self-torture, but precisely because I want to experience more pleasure, more fully.
A few weeks ago, I took a class part of which focused on increasing sexual pleasure. I was told that the intense vibrations of vibrators could diminish clitoral sensitivity. Upon further research I learned that Steve and Vera Bodansky supported this theory in their book, Extended Massive Orgasm. While I wanted to scoff at this notion and continue my fun with Mr. Rabbit and other phthalate-free favorites, I was forced to concede that there might be some validity to this claim.
Back in the summer of ’06, my own personal summer of love, I, unwittingly, gathered evidence to prove this very point. My husband was traveling a good deal, and I decided, in his absence, to work on getting comfortable with my expanding sex toy collection.
As a child, I had masturbated regularly. I was very secretive about it. I even had code names and special locations and all sorts of stuff. I was an undercover masturbating super spy. As a young adult I swore off masturbation in favor of “hysteria” and serial monogamous encounters at not so regular intervals. Needless to say, I had been a little unfulfilled.
By 2006, three years into my marriage, I was still uncomfortable with masturbation generally and vibrators specifically, but I decided it was time to get over it. I went on a two-week long sexploration of myself. Wow. Such a highflying adventure was long overdue, and I reaped the benefits. I basked in the freedom of trying new things and exploring different motor speeds. I learned more about my genitalia that summer than I think I had since I first discovered it.
I giddily shared my electronic exploits with my traveling husband via all electronic media available: Skype, email, my (holy crap how much does it cost per minute?) phone. I think it was fun for both of us, and I eagerly anticipated his return so I could share my newfound obsession with him.
His homecoming was not as happy as I had imagined. After gleefully showing him some of what I had described to him in his absence, I was excited to have sex with a human again, specifically my husband.
While I had not embraced masturbation previously, I had been quite easily and readily satisfied by intercourse. I was looking forward to that satisfaction that I had had at the ready all my sexual life; it was painfully slow in coming (so to speak). Suddenly my body felt rather foreign. The easy wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am on which I had come to rely was out of my grasp. I am not saying I didn’t enjoy the ride, but suddenly the process of getting off, was much longer than it had ever been. I began to fear that the pink bunny had ruined me forever. Out damn pearl encrusted oscillating shaft, out!
It took a while, but ultimately I got my mojo back. Yeah, baby. At the time, I made a connection between the increase in my vibrating, plastic orgasms and the decrease in those more “manmade,” but, as sensation began to return to normal, I began to forget that I’d ever seen such a connection.
When I heard it proposed as a theory in my class, memories of 2006 came flooding back to me. Duh! Of course so much vibration can decrease sensitivity. Of course touching your body with a machine rather than actual flesh of some kind can diminish intimacy. I get it.
All of that said, there is no way in hell I am getting rid of my vibrators. The thing about vibrators is they are more that just merchandised orgasms. The fact that someone is making them – lots of someones are making them – means that someone – lots of someones – are frequently thinking about vaginas and how to make them happy. I am glad about that. I am glad that I am seeing “personal massagers” at Target and Walgreen’s. I am thrilled that Fred Segal is selling the OhMiBod.
The vibrator's rise in popularity represents an increased focus on sex as a positive, life-affirming activity. My love of vibrators is more than just physical pleasure; it is a political and social statement. I love sex, but I would choose my husband over a vibrator any day. I want to do everything in my power to make my sex life as fantastic as possible. This means I will practice as often as possible. I will take classes and read books and work on increasing the sensitivity of my clitoris. It also means that, every once in a while, when the mood strikes me, I might get a little buzzed.
Labels: rant, toys
tidbit posted by Mosa @ 12:03 PM
Monday, June 2, 2008
Sucky Advice
It is not everyday that I get new birth control advice. It is rarer still when that advice comes from my mother. To my mother’s credit, she has always tried to maintain a dialogue with me about sex. When I was in sixth grade and walked into the kitchen wearing my brand new piña colada lip gloss my mom shocked the pants off of me by informing me that I looked like I’d just given someone a blow job. Moooooom!!! When I was fifteen, and she began to suspect that I had presented my virginity to my skateboarding boyfriend, she asked me if we ought to install mirrors on my ceiling. Again with the, “Mooooom!!!!”
While each “sex talk” my mom and I had left the adolescent me red-faced and mortified, I am thankful that my mother continued talking. My mom wanted me to have a different experience than she had had growing up. She explained how my grandmother’s knuckles grew white and her face stern when she attempted to pass along vague knowledge of the carnal to my mother. I can’t imagine what it might have been like to grow up in a home where I was deprived of information, even though I often felt my mother was giving me too much of it (“TMI, Mooooom!”).
Today I had a chat with my mother. We talked about the Bar Mitzvah of my first cousin once removed. We talked about movies and plane rides and my friends from high school. And then, when I wasn’t expecting it, my mom shared the birth control secret that is, if true, the dream of every man.
My mom explained to me that, in homeopathic medicine, ailments are treated by minute doses of substances that normally produce like ailments in a healthy person. For example, belladonna, which can cause dry throats and flushing (not to mention death), is prescribed by homeopaths, in a very dilute form, to treat those same symptoms (except for the death-thingy… I don’t think they have that one worked out yet). Using this theory, my mom went on to explain how a colleague of hers saw a connection between swallowing semen and decreased female fertility. This colleague (he was, of course male) suggested that the diluted seaman that made its way through a woman’s digestive system fought off the cute little spermies trying to fertilize her eggs. Ha!
Can you imagine? “Honey, I have the answer! Throw away your pills today! No shots either, at least not in the arm. I have a magical elixir, and all you have to do is swallow it, and you won’t get pregnant. Don’t worry, it’s natural. I brew it myself. I have been saving some up, just for you. We’ll save loads of money on condoms!”
As my mother and I giggled about the soundness of such advice and the male who might have thought it up, visions of piña colada lip gloss danced through my head. Over the years my mom has suggested many a remedy, each taken (and given) with a grain of salt. My husband has often balked at her suggestions. I think this is the first time ever that he might be sad that I don’t believe in homeopathy. I am not quite ready to swallow this one.Labels: rant
tidbit posted by Mosa @ 5:03 PM
Saturday, April 12, 2008
Shameless
Feet firmly planted in a wide stance, knees slightly bowed she stood in front of the full-length mirror, naked for all the world to see – at least all the world currently inhabiting the women’s locker room. She was not naked in the transition from swimsuit to sweat pants or the one from towel to tank top, she was just plain ol’ naked. Her flesh was not hidden by the open door of a locker or a strategically placed duffle bag. She stood in the sink area away from the lockers and the other semi-clad women. She flossed her teeth as one roll of fat rested upon another around her middle and her breasts draped across that, her nipples like two cherries on her melting sundae best.
I caught a glimpse of her on my way to the toilet and thought about her the whole time I was peeing. I have not been consistent in my views on public nudity. On the one hand, I had to give her a silent, “Right on, Sister!” for displaying with pride her whole self. On the other hand, isn’t it polite to show a little more modesty and a little less mons pubis when removing clothes in front of others? By the time I made it to the sink, the first hand had won – hands down. As if to answer my question of modesty, the fat, naked, grandma – still in front of the mirror – took a swig of mouth wash and began to gargle. Her short dark hair stood at attention in all directions, much like the mane of lion who’d had a run-in with an electric fence. Like the queen of her pride, she began to arch her head back; I could almost hear her Listerine-scented roar: “Damn right I am naked. I own my body, and right now I own the whole damn locker room. Whatcha gonna do about it?” Grandma arched until the back of her skull was level with her ample bottom, gargling the whole way.
In my mind, she is still arching backwards. The image of the naked, lioness grandma is tattooed on my brain (it wouldn’t fit on my ankle). I have spent years practicing my awkward dance of trying to avoid nipple or pubic hair exposure while changing in front of others. I have balanced a bra here and shimmied a skirt there in order to keep from view no more than a square foot of my fleshy real estate. Why?
When I was a kid, I was naked all of the time; I showered in front of my mother and sister right through the sixth grade. Even in high school I had a group of friends with whom I’d roam the halls, and the woods, sans clothes. It wasn’t even a sexual thing (most of the time); we just enjoyed being naked. I still enjoy being naked. My husband sometimes has to give me a not-so-gentle reminder that we “live in a goddamn fishbowl!” so that I will put on a robe or turn off the lights.
The locker room has been a different story for me. Perhaps I fear the scrutiny of others; if I keep a towel around my waist they won’t be able to see exactly how many dimples reside on the flesh of my bottom. Further, I seek not to offend. I don’t want to make other people feel uncomfortable by subjecting them to a fuller view than they had anticipated. I want to be polite.
Wow! What a load of BS!! Who the hell cares how many dimples I have on my ass? Why should it matter if a nipple or two comes into contact with an eyeball or two? Who made these stupid rules, and why the hell have I been politely following them?
Grandma makes her own rules, and I thought of her today as I emerged from the public shower post work out. Instead of awkwardly squirming and wriggling to make myself invisible while I reached for my towel, I stood up straight and dried myself as I would in the privacy of my own home. I took my time getting dressed. I didn’t quite make it to flossing in the buff, but I didn’t hide either. As ridiculous as the image of a naked, gargling grandma may be, it is not nearly as ridiculous as the concept of a grown woman so afraid of revealing her own body that she foolishly dances with her towel to avoid, at all costs, the dreaded exposure of a nipple. Right on, Grandma! By the time I’m sixty, I hope to be gargling right along side you.
Labels: body image, fitness, rant
tidbit posted by Mosa @ 10:09 AM
Wednesday, April 9, 2008
Like a Bull...
So a man walks into a sex toy shop, marches right up to a woman he’s never met, and offers her advice about her potential vibrator purchase. “You know what you should get? You should get this one. Look at what it does…” The man breaks the vibrator shopping etiquette of keeping one’s focus firmly on the products to be perused. He removes the blinders everyone dons upon entry into a sex shop (maybe he forgot to pick up his complimentary pair to begin with). The man looks the woman right in the eye and suggests what she might shove up her vagina. My stomach is in my throat, and I can feel my eyes bulging from my skull with the thought of his audacity. The woman, to my surprise, appreciates the advice. She thanks the man and looks more intently at the product he so enthusiastically suggested. The man, who is my husband, flashes me a winning grin, and I love him even more than I did when he entered the shop sans blinders, nostrils flaring. Sometimes bulls are good for china.Labels: rant, toys
tidbit posted by Mosa @ 10:09 PM
Monday, April 7, 2008
You Can Take the Girl out of the Valley…
After the arrival of my little sister in mid-1980, likely in order to give my poor mom a much-needed break, I began going on regular trips to the mall with my Dad – the Sherman Oaks Galleria, no less. Like totally. We would stroll about, making sure to stop at the pet store and the ice cream shop, maybe the bookstore. Unbeknownst to my father, I would spend a good deal of the time soaking up the fashion sense of the cool teenagers who dwelled permanently in their mall habitat.
By the time I was five or six, I had absorbed enough that I would make these trips outfitted in a purple striped miniskirt and fringed, suede boots. My thin, brittle hair had gone through several stringy, stinky, perms by the time I was seven-and-a-half. I was born into the Valley, and, from a very young age, I felt an uncontrollable pull to epitomize this hotbed of cutting-edge fashion.
Before I hit double-digits, I was so obsessed with the movie Flashdance, that I would wait until my mom was distracted or on the phone so that my friends and I could sneak off and try to make it to the “forbidden” nude scenes before getting caught. My best friend and I would wrap our dancing feet in masking tape and reenact Jennifer Beals’s sweat-pumping dance montage right along with the grainy VHS tape. Sex and dance and legwarmers were forever, and inextricably, mixed in my young mind.
By the time I was ten and taking modern dance class, I made my mom alter my leotard to have high, French cut, wedgy-producing leg holes; I was sure this made it more stylish and sexy. I wasn’t even out of the sixth grade. (The sixth grade where Sarah and I pretended to be prostitutes to Todd and Ryan’s mock-pimps -- I am not sure I even really understood what a pimp was, but I knew it was fun to walk arm-in-arm with a boy.) The outfit I ultimately wore to my sixth grade graduation was based largely on an outfit I’d seen on a carefree model in a cigarette billboard. It involved a red crinoline and suspenders.
Once I was in junior high, I debated at least weekly with my mother about the appropriateness and length of my skirts. “No, Mom! It is a skirt, not a belt! Really!” I never went so far as to pack extra clothes for school in my white, Esprit bag, but I did roll up my skirt a waistband width or two before entering Mrs. Warnock’s homeroom most mornings.
As I began to get a whiff of ninth grade and a new decade around the corner, I buried my memories of fluorescent fishnet socks and white, rhinestone high-tops. My ponytails got lower, my bangs flatter, and my attitude decidedly more “artsy.” By the time I graduated high school, I think most people would have called me a hippy. I had ditched the neon and the miniskirts for Doc Marten’s and long, drab dresses. I chose black over hot pink and bragged about my recycling habits rather than my lip-gloss collection. The eighties were, most definitely, over
Last month, my friend Emily invited me to her birthday party. Her stylish Evite announced that the theme was, “Fairy Slut Bus.” Yes, Emily planned to make her party a moving experience by packing her scantily clad friends into a party bus and taking us to various clubs around town. Emily is pretty darn cool. I began to contemplate how to interpret the “Fairy Slut” mandate. By the night of the party I had it all figured out; the outfit seemed to put itself together.
Later, looking at pictures of the event, I realized that my inner Valley Girl had come out to dress me for the party. She had expertly paired my high heals with glitter legwarmers and used scissors to alter a watermelon pink top so it hung off one shoulder strategically revealing a teal, sequined bra strap. She made my hair huge with hot rollers, and, like totally, coated my eyes in bold purple and green shadow! In the absence of my mother to object to my inappropriate attire, I chose a fantastically short skort (I’ve developed a little modesty in my old age and thought a skirt might be too much). Thanks to Emily, I got to live the dream of my ten year-old-self. I realized that my inner slut, like totally, dwells in ‘8o’s, and she, is still, like fully, from The Valley. Sorry, Mom.
Labels: dance, rant
tidbit posted by Mosa @ 4:02 PM
Sunday, April 6, 2008
Jack of No Trades
Yesterday, I scrubbed two toilets, completed three loads of laundry and stared at my reflection in two freshly glistening mirrors. I was a personal shopper (I am a person), a cook, and a film critic. I was not a writer. During fleeting moments in my head, I wrote on the imaginary paper of my brain. I weighed semi-colons and considered ellipses. I thought flowery language, and I contemplated action verbs, but I was not a writer. I cleaned out my closet and Dust-Busted under the bed. I was a personal chef and a personal planner (again, the person being me), but I was not a writer.
It is 8:06 on a Sunday night. For a mere paragraph I am a writer. Maybe I will sleep better tonight.
Labels: rant
tidbit posted by Mosa @ 8:08 PM
Wednesday, March 19, 2008
Waxing Philosophic, Part Three: Color Me Embarrassed
I am not someone who is easily embarrassed. I mean, please – I’ve been waxing on about my vagina for the last three days. That said, I have had some waxing experiences that have left me scrambling for my panties and my dignity.
I grew up in the infamous valley of Martha Coolidge’s 1983 film classic, Valley Girl. Like totally, fur sure. In my early twenties, after swearing off college for a few years to pursue my babysitting career, I decided, much to the relief of my parents, to finish my formal education, or at least get a BA in something. I was accepted to UC Riverside, about seventy miles east-ish of my totally rad digs in the Valley. I moved myself to Riverside, with roommates and everything, and drove back to LA nearly every weekend. On these weekend sojourns I would make money babysitting and spend it swing dancing. I would also schedule appointments to see my regular bikini waxer, Christina. She, like totally, worked in the mall. It was like awesomely convenient, and Christina knew her stuff.
One day in Riverside, I got an invitation from a classmate, a cute, male classmate to go to the beach on a Saturday. “Um, yes. Ok. Great! Yeah, I’d love to. Thanks.” After accepting the invitation, I realized that I would not make it to LA to see Christina before the beach trip. The horrors! I decided the best option would be to find some one locally to help me keep my swimsuit from revealing too much on a first date. I mean, all I wanted was a regular ol’ bikini wax. How hard could that be? Heh.
When I arrived at the salon, a strip mall getup that was buzzing in a gossipy Steele Magnolia’s kind of way, I was informed that the woman I had spoken to on the phone would not be able to see me. Instead, a girl about my age led me back to the small waxing room. She looked at me as a reluctant prostitute might look at a fat, ugly john – a fat, ugly john with a vomitously pungent odor. Her disdain was palpable. I should have left then.
After I stripped out of my jeans and tried to make myself comfortable in what felt like a dentist’s chair, Waxing Girl, whose name and face I have thankfully forgotten, timidly looked at my crotch. Her touch was even more timid than her look as she gingerly spread wax on a very small square of my skin. It soon became painfully (quite literally painfully) apparent that this woman had little or no experience waxing anything at all, let alone another woman’s pubic hair. Once the small patch of skin was covered in wax, that was not quite hot enough to spread comfortably, she reached for a small piece of paper. “What’s that?” I questioned.
“Oh, it’s a curling paper.”
“Curling paper?
“You know, you put it around the curler when you’re doing a perm. We find it works well for taking off the wax.”
Really? How does one find that? “Oops, I was perming your hair and one of the papers happened to fall on your wax-covered crotch, and eureka!” I mean, forget Archimedes and his stinkin’ bathtub; these ladies were on to something! Or not. Using her index figure, Waxing Girl pressed the thin curling paper into the nearly dry wax on the skin just above my femoral artery. She gently rubbed the area for a moment and then pulled the edge of the paper leaving my skin covered in wax and strips of torn paper. “Really, you find this works better?”
Waxing girl and I were locked in that small room for what seemed like hours (Christina would have had me in and out in 20 minutes). I think she even ducked out to ask for advice at one point. I thought about standing up and saying, “Just forget it,” as I figured out a way not to get wax on my jeans, but then what would I do to prepare for my beach date? I don’t know why shaving didn’t occur to me – it couldn’t have been any more painful and annoying – but it didn’t.
The conversations that punctuated our silences were brief and infrequent. “Um, could you give me something to use to try and get the wax off of my sleeve?”
“Oh, whoops.”
During these silences we heard the pick-a-little-talk-a-little ooze under the door from the main part of the salon. We also heard the excited utterances of children at play; someone had brought her children, presumably to increase the noise level in the already bustling salon. Generous. Normally, I would have welcomed an interruption to my misery, but the one that ultimately came was far from desirable. Suddenly, and without warning, the children became louder as the door to the waxing room swung open violently.
As if in a tableau, we all froze – me spread eagle on my back, Waxing Girl with her face in my crotch and her hand on my hip, and the thirteen year-old boy framed by the small doorway. I held my breath and looked at Waxing Girl. We were the dear and he was the headlights. “Riley! Close that door, and get your butt over here!” Slam! I never thought I would be happy to be alone with Waxing Girl. Now I wished to stay with her, with the door closed, at least until the permanently scarred boy and his negligent mother left.
I got my wish. When we finally emerged from the torture chamber, me with slightly less hair than I had when we began, the children were gone. I felt red from head to toe as I imagined that everyone in the salon had caught a glimpse of me sans pants. Waxing Girl delivered me to the salon owner to pay and started to walk back towards her lair. I began to pull out whatever amount of money it was that I had agreed to over the phone when the owner hollered to Waxing Girl, “What kind of wax did you do?”
Waxing Girl had that fawn-like stare again, so I butt in, “Just a regular bikini wax.” The owner must have heard me, but she pretended I didn’t exist and yelled to Waxing Girl, over the heads of the other customers, “How much hair was it.” She then turned to me for the first time, and explained that they had different prices depending on the quality and thickness of one’s pubic hair. Go ahead. Put that in your add. Waxing Girl’s eyes got even bigger as she tried to describe the quantity and quality of my hair. Didn’t everyone freakin’ see my hair when that Ritalin-lacking kid barged in on me? Ultimately we agreed on a price. I consider it hush money; I paid her to hush up her obstreperous analysis of my vaginal hair growth patterns.
I left feeling ashamed. How dare I ask someone to perform a service that they advertise? How dare I have more than two pubic hairs? How dare I get upset when my clothing gets wax on it? What kind of freak am I? I think I went home and tried to repair the damage as best I could with tweezers and olive oil. Sadly, I wore shorts to the beach. I, like totally, should have driven back to the Valley. Christina would have beat that little boy’s ass. Waxing Girl’s, too. No charge.Labels: rant, wax
tidbit posted by Mosa @ 4:49 PM
Monday, March 17, 2008
Waxing Philosophic, Part Two: A Hair Ahead of Her Time
I was about twenty-one before I let anyone, self included, get wax anywhere near my panty line. Back then, Brazilians were not something that were part of the cultural psyche, let alone my psyche. In fact, I had been told by one waxer, whom I had no reason to disbelieve, that getting wax on the actual lips of the vagina was dangerous and could cause skin removal.
At this point in my life, I had no regular waxer. I was shopping around for a keeper, my main criterion being low price. This was also before the Internet was really hopping with mom and pop businesses. I remember using the yellow pages and calling around to find the cheapest quote.
Ultimately, I found a woman who agreed to wax me cheaply and soon. I am always nervous when I meet a new waxer, and this time was no exception. As Rosa of Magic Hair Cut led me back to her small “room” separated from the rest of the salon with a faded curtain, my feet stuck to the dirty white linoleum, and my palms gathered sweat.
I noticed that instead of sheets of white muslin, to which I was accustomed, she had colorful sheets of cloth set-up next to the vat of wax. Ever the cost cutter, Rosa had torn up old bed sheets in lieu of paying for waxing strips. I suppose I ought to have thanked her for her frugality – clearly she was passing her savings on to her customers – but instead I pondered whether the sheets had been washed first.
Before I started getting Brazilians, I always made sure to wear the perfect undies to the salon. They had to be cute enough that I wouldn’t be embarrassed when the esthetician saw them, and not so cute that I would be forever grumpy if they got some wax on them. After stripping down to my plain black skivvies in the privacy of the curtained room, Rosa reentered ready to go.
She got right to work, and despite my concern about the cleanliness of the bed sheet strips, they seemed to work pretty well. Rosa was cheap and fast – my kind of woman. Before I knew it, she had finished removing the hair from what I called, at the time, my sideburns – the strips of hair on either side of my panty line that didn’t exactly make it into my swimsuit. She then began to pull my conservative underwear to one side. “What are you doing?” I managed to mumble.
“Oh honey, we get a little bit more. It look better. Trust me.”
“Is that safe? I don’t know if I want that.”
“Honey, ‘course it’s safe. You need it. Trust me.”
What can you say to that? Now, Rosa certainly didn’t do a full Brazilian by today’s standards, but she definitely pushed my boundaries, and my panty line to the limit. She never stopped telling me how much I would like it, and how much I should also get my brows done, too. “You need it, honey. It is too much… Too much hair.”
Growing up in a house with a fair-haired mom who didn’t even shave her light leg hair for most of my life, the thought of removing hair from my brows had not occurred to me. Rosa found my soft spot, though, and kept pushing. “You will look so much better… We just do a little bit… I can’t believe you no do before… You need so much.”
I left Magic Hair Cut with bare lips and thin brows. I thought I looked ridiculous, and was shocked when no one seemed to notice my new brow line. I mocked Rosa openly and explained how I was lucky to have any skin on my vagina after what she had done. It would be five years before I had my first intentional Brazilian wax, and ten before I paid anyone to wax my brows again. I never went back to Rosa.
As I sit here now, with my well-groomed brows and hairless vagina, I think back on Rosa with fondness. She Knew what I needed before I knew what I needed. She was fast and cheap and honest… I really did need it so much. Thanks, Rosa.Labels: rant, wax
tidbit posted by Mosa @ 4:30 PM
Waxing Philosophic, Part One: Close Encounters of the Waxing Kind
I have been paying people to wax my vajayjay since long before it was called a vajayjay. Over the course of my ten-plus years of paying women to spread hot waxy goo all over my nether regions and then rip it off, along with my stubborn dark hairs, I have had some pretty interesting, and disturbing, experiences. I found myself ruminating on these adventures recently when I received a seemingly innocuous email that was circulated around my office. I work with a bunch of women, so it was a no-brainer for one of my colleagues to send a notice out to everyone that her local salon was offering low-cost Brazilians in order to train some of their newer techs.
While the thought of hot wax applied to one’s vagina by anyone, let alone a novice, might be enough to make most women glisten with a cold sweat, my interest was peaked; I am a cheap skate, after all. Why pay full price when discounts are an option? After reading further, I learned that this was not an option I could take. The salon, a posh, trendy operation with locations in Union Square and Mill Valley, was one I had been to before, and one that was responsible for causing me some severe waxing trauma.
This was the very salon, the very upscale, expensive salon, that, last September, provided me with an esthetician who didn’t wear gloves and who dipped her wax-spreading stick into the community pool of warm wax multiple times before and after smoothing it over my delicate flower. No, this was not my own, personal, hundred-calorie pack of wax as some salons now provide. It was a big ol’ vat good for a myriad of wax jobs and a myriad of cooties and other infectious diseases. Gross with a capital “Gro.”
Looking back on this incident, I realize that I should have confronted the woman spreading communal wax on my most private of parts right then and there. I did ask her about the practice, and when she replied that the wax was hot enough to kill all manner of microscopic beasties, I wish I’d at least pulled one of those “bullshit” mumbling coughs into the crook of my arm.
After the pillaging of my crotch, on the BART ride home, I composed mental tirades and imaginary letters to the Better Business Bureau. But while I lay on my back, my sweat soaking through the thin table paper, feeling my flesh begin to stick to the vinyl underneath, I was silent. I lay there in that closet of a room in the upscale salon and listened to the waxing woman wax on in her staccato Russian accent about how having children was a burden I should avoid, and how politics would be the death of us all. I didn’t say a word as she dipped and spread and dipped and spread. I lay still and tried to hide the grimace that I felt welling-up from the core of my germ-a-phobic being. And then I paid her. I think I even gave her a tip. Later, I comforted myself by promising that I would never go back and expose my womanhood to such cruelty. I am not that kind of masochist.
A few days ago, when I saw the email singing the praises of this very salon, I thought about keeping quiet again. I decided instead to speak-up and protect my coworkers from suffering a similar fate. Wow! Maybe I do learn things.
I formulated a “reply all” email explaining my plight while trying not to be a biatch to the woman who had so kindly put forth the offer in the first place. Now, I send out a ton of emails at work. Most of them are about work. In fact, with the exception of the wax warning, nearly all of them are work related. Usually, it is like pulling teeth to get my colleagues to respond to my diatribes. Amazing shit happens when you mention your vagina.
Within minutes, my inbox was full of new mail on the subject. I ended up with everything from effusive thanks for protecting the vajayjays of the world from peril to recommendations for a good laser hair removal medspa. Even the sender of the initial email, the woman whose feelings I had been concerned I might hurt if I sent out a word of warning, thanked me for speaking up. She went on to tell me that her friend was actually a co-owner of the salon in question and that she was working to retrain the older employees who insisted on double-dipping and barehanded waxing.
Wow! Not only did my words have an impact on my co-workers, but the unhygienic, cootie-spreading practice may stop at the actual salon. Son of a gun! As I turned the pages of my memory through wax jobs I wish I didn’t remember, I realized that I am chalk-full of cautionary tales of waxings gone wrong – or at least gone interesting. In the spirit of protecting the vageens of the world, and also because they make me laugh, I thought I would share them here as well. So, here I go, waxing on…Labels: rant, wax
tidbit posted by Mosa @ 2:49 PM
Monday, February 25, 2008
I Am a Spoiled Brat!
So I whine and balk at the gross and ridiculous injustices in this country: it is illegal to buy a vibrator in Texas; porn actresses are legally forbidden to show their nipples at porn conventions in the United States. I am outraged and amazed and flabbergasted that such things could happen in this day and age. And then I hear the international news. Holy crap!
On January 13, 2008, four men in Cairo were convicted under Egyptian Article 9(c) of law 10/1961 of the “habitual practice of debauchery.” According to Amnesty International, this law exists to “penalize consensual homosexual conduct.”
These latest convictions are part of a larger Egyptian crackdown on men suspected of being HIV-positive. Over the course of the last five months, the Egyptian government has subjected some of its citizens to forced anal examinations to “prove” their homosexual behavior. Others were made to take HIV tests against their will and chained to hospital beds when their results came back positive. Some of the suspects (the men suspected of having the “wrong” kind of sex) were, according to their lawyers, beaten by police when they refused to sign statements the police had written for them. According to Amnesty International, a prosecutor told one of the men who had tested positive, “People like you should be burnt alive. You do not deserve to live.”
Is it still wrong that I can’t buy a Pearl Rabbit in Texas? Hell yes! That said, my relative sexual freedom, when juxtaposed with the gross injustices that human beings suffer in other parts of the world, makes my complaints seem like trifle. I am disgusted that what someone does in the privacy of his or her own home with a consenting partner (or two, or seventeen) can result in abuse by the government and time in jail. Although the men appealed, on February 2, 2008, the January 13, ruling was upheld. Four men who may have put their penises in a spot or two not approved by the government, are faced with year-long prison sentences. As if the sexual discrimination, forced HIV testing, and anal probes weren’t enough! Talk about the government being a pain the ass!
Source: Amnesty International, AustraliaLabels: human rights, rant
tidbit posted by Mosa @ 1:36 PM
Monday, January 21, 2008
"There are no new stories..."
Remember that episode of South Park when the kids realized that every storyline they wanted to explore had already been done by The Simpsons? Yeah... I am relating. I am so blown away by all of the talented women sharing their stories online, that sometimes I think, "Why the heck am I doing this?" I can't possibly have anything new to offer. Besides, The Simpsons probably did it better in the first place. That darned Lisa -- always thinkin' of everything!
After I bathe myself in a bit of frustration, I step back and try to be thankful for what is. How cool is it that I get to read what so many talented, interesting, experienced women have to say? How lucky am I that I live in a world where such words are starting to proliferate and become more accepted? It's pretty darned cool, and I'm pretty darned lucky.
So why am I continuing to write? Why not just read the clever musings of others? Because I am a selfish bitch. I want to write more. I want to learn more. I want to explore more ideas. I want to do this for me. Maybe someone else has talked about it before. Maybe my point has already been made more eloquently, but it's still my point. I still thought it and felt it and needed to splurt it all out in words, even if Lisa said it first somewhere else.
So while I am getting my bearings I say thank you to all of you badass women who are already speaking your minds at full throttle. You inspire and excite me and make me want to be better. Thanks.
Labels: rant
tidbit posted by Mosa @ 9:25 PM
Sunday, January 6, 2008
A Low-Down Dirty Shame
Today, without blushing, I pole danced in front of my father. In the pole-dancing studio where I take classes, some women don’t even tell their husbands what happens in class… or even that they are taking class in the first place. I told my gynecologist, my former colleagues from the grammar school where I taught fourth grade, and my neighbors. I couldn’t keep my big, fat, pole-dancing mouth shut.
When my mom wanted to learn a few moves, I confidently pointed her in the right direction, and helped her take her first spins around the pole. I bought my sister a class. Today, as I was spinning around the pole demonstrating my cool moves for my mother and sister, my father walked in. While I hadn’t intended to dance in front of him, I decided to be okay with it. Perhaps a few years ago, or even a few months ago, this wouldn’t have been my reaction. I haven’t always felt this comfortable with my sexuality, and I still have growing to do.
I remember being in the seventh grade and having my first “boyfriend” and thinking that I could never get married, because then I would have to admit to my parents that I liked boys and, worse yet, that I liked touching them and being touched by them; the horrors! Why would anyone ever admit such a thing to her parents? I certainly knew I never would. What has changed?
When I was a teenager and had sex for the first time, I was torn between wanting desperately to tell my mother and wanting to take that secret with me to the grave. My mother, a woman of the sixties, guessed my news, and timidly asked me if we ought to install mirrors on my ceiling. My reaction is best summed-up by my dueling thoughts: “Ma-aaa-aaah-aam! How could you say such a thing?” and “Oh, by the way, yes, what a great idea!”
I am married now. Every night I sleep in the same bed with my husband. When my parents came to visit us this past weekend, they knew full well that I went to bed each night with my husband. I didn’t feel the need to hide my affection for him. I have, I suppose, grown into my sexuality as I have aged. While I couldn’t even imagine admitting that Jason Katchum was my boyfriend when I was twelve, I, now freely, disclose my status as a married woman, and, before that, as a single woman who liked men. I think, and hope, that most women have achieved this level of comfort with their sexuality. Some, however, have not. I have a friend who, perhaps stuck in seventh grade, felt embarrassed while she was pregnant because she knew it meant that everyone knew what she had done to get into that “shameful” state. She was forty and married at the time.
Why do so many of us continue to be embarrassed about our sexuality?
Sex is part of life. More specifically, sex is the reason (most likely) that we are all alive. It would never cross my mind to be ashamed of breathing. And yet, I have struggled with feeling shame because I like sex. Eleanor Roosevelt said, “No one can make you feel inferior without your consent.” Well, isn’t that applicable to shame as well?
When I was about seven, I was invited to dinner a neighbor kid’s house. After dinner, Mrs. Potter served ice cream which, as I did on the rare occasions I was served ice cream at home, I happily mashed into a delicious ice cream stew (I didn’t have the patience for full-blown soup). After my ice cream was transformed into liquid-y chocolate goo, I picked-up my bowl and drank it.
Although I was oblivious to it at the time, the Potters were horrified. All four of the Potter children and the Potter mom and dad looked right at me, rubbed their right index fingers over their left and chided, in sing-songy unison, “Shame, shame, shame!” Well, I, quite literally, knew no shame. While I had learned manners at home, drinking out of bowls was not something I’d been taught to avoid. I mean, please! My mom served miso soup with tofu which, our Japanese exchange students taught us, is customarily sipped straight from the bowl. I still remember looking around at all the Potter children and the Potter mom and dad and thinking, “This is great! I have all of their attention. I must be doing something pretty special for all of them to be looking at me. Shucks! Lemme do that again.” Like many who attempt to use shame to illicit “proper behavior,” none of the Potters wanted to come right out and say what I was doing wrong, and their “subtlety” was lost on me. Man, was that a good night: sugar and an attentive audience. A girl could scarcely ask for more.
Looking back on this incident, I realize that people who try to shame other people are often trapped by their own embarrassment or shame. If we choose not to feel shame for our actions, specifically those not shame-worthy, such as breathing and enjoying orgasms and the like, those trying to administer the shame will be hard-pressed to do so, and likely will lack the courage to come right out and say what they are really thinking. Why give them the power? Why let them control our actions and our desires? Instead, why not look them right in the eye and dance on a pole, or smooch our lovers, or drink our ice cream?
Shame is a choice, and it would be a shame to feel it when it is undeserved.
Labels: rant
tidbit posted by Mosa @ 8:30 PM
archives
Recently, and unexpectedly, I found myself at Disneyland. My hubby had to go to Anaheim for work, and one of the perks was that he got free passes to the Magic Kingdom. While Pirates of the Caribbean and the Haunted Mansion thrilled me just as much as they did throughout my childhood (perhaps even more so now that they have added Johnny Depp to the slew of animatronic singing pirates), I have to admit the the rides were not my favorite part of the trip.
