I’ve toyed with the idea of a boy-zillian for a while now, so last Sunday I finally took a deep breath, and had it done.
Depilation – The Art of Pulling Hair
For the naïve, innocent and potential virginal amongst us, a Brazilian wax refers to the removal of all hair around your fun parts and butt crack. Women started doing it to get rid of stray hairs when bikinis went micro until somebody said “Oh what the hell, just take it all off.”
I can only imagine that men who enjoyed the smoothness of their female partners weren’t left alone for long. So she was smooth, but still had to dive into her man’s jungle during their sexual adventures. I also imagine how the first guy was extorted into giving as good as he got, probably agreeing to clipping, or at worst, a shave down there.
But it never stops at clipping, and shaving is no fun, so eventually the boy-zillian was born.
My motivation to get a bru-zillian (short for brother/broer), as we call them in South Africa, was part practical and part morbid fascination.
I’ve been fairly hairy on the front of my body below my neck (curse you bald head) for most of my adult life. And seeing parts of my usually hair-covered body without hair is simply fascinating. As for the practical part… ok fine, there is no practical part, it’s all just vanity and curiosity.
Get Naked and Prepare for Pain – And Not In a Fun Away Either
Needless to say, there’s various aspects to consider when getting waxed at all, never mind around your boy parts. Consideration supreme is the pain. I avoid pain as much as the next guy, especially when it’s pretty much the same as having tens of plasters ripped off your hairy arm.
The second nearly equal major consideration is the embarrassment factor. I’m quite a pervy collector of experiences, with added value for the ones that make me feel awkward, but to open my legs and expose my hairy genitals to the gaze and touch of an unknown woman who I’m not about to have sex with, stirs uneasiness in me equal to what the thought of having my mom walk in on me masturbating would.
As fate would have it, being in Kuala Lumpur over the weekend presented the opportunity to have this experience. Fear be damned, because I was staying in Bangsar, literally a short walk from Strip, a waxing salon that the Journo has alerted me to, which also specialises in boy-zillians. My big chance to face and overcome awkwardness. Yay!
On Saturday night I popped in to Strip, which looks like a funky bar rather than a wax treatment centre, to make an appointment for Sunday. However, their specially-trained-for-boy-zillian waxing therapist was unavailable. I was offered The Curve and Sunway as an alternative, and opted for The Curve, which was substantially closer. Appointment set for 12pm.
I arrived an hour early and nervous, with all my potential areas of contact shower-fresh and squeaky clean. I popped in to Strip just to confirm my appointment and couldn’t help but notice that all the therapists were young and cute. I started to cringe as I went for a coffee to kill time – old would have meant they’ve probably seen it all, but young and cute? Shrug.
By the time I returned my therapist was waiting and she bounced out from behind the counter, slapped her hands together and said “Let’s start then, shall we?”.
We walked into one of a several waxing rooms, which was brightly lit, clean and modern. A high-table perched on-top of a laminated wood floor, cupboards lining the one side, part of which held the wax pots and paraphernalia. The other half, she explained, was for my clothes and personal belongings. “Boy-zillian and chest-and-stomach, right?”, she confirmed and said “put your personal belongings in there and just take everything off, ok?” and she disappeared behind and sealed the heavy curtain that covered the door.
I was left with a full-length mirror on the wall and as much trepidation. All I could do was strip down to nothing and look in the mirror for one last mental picture of my hairy body. Positioning myself on the bed I tried to drape the towel in a way as to at least appear modest. “Are you ready?”, she called from outside, and as I confirmed she entered, face-mask on, me lying down as per her instructions ready to start first on my stomach, working up to my chest, before going down for the kill.
She chatted away, coaxing answers from me as she put me at ease and easily won my trust. Her confidence and easy going personality made me completely forget that I was about to be as physically vulnerable with her as I’ve ever been in my life with a stranger.
My stomach and chest would be cleared with soft wax, she explained, whilst the harder, less painful hard-wax was saved for my bits. She applied two quick, warm strokes of wax to the first part of my stomach, and without stopping her chat, applied a strip, rubbed a few times and effortless yanked it off along with all the hair it touched.
The Difference Between Pleasure and Pain Is Very Little. Supposedly.
The ripping noise echoed in my head. But I didn’t scream, although I can’t lie; it hurt.
It didn’t hurt as much as I thought it would though, but it hurt nevertheless. I have paid for pain before – a medical massage by a blind therapist when I was in China – which was the closest that I’ve ever come to what I can imagine death would feel like – so I have a bar for pain against which I was measuring this experience. Yank No.1 wasn’t yet halfway there.
“What’s your name”, I asked her. “Elaine”, she replied. “Hi, Elaine, it’s nice to know the name of the person who tortures me”. She laughed as I told her the story of the blind man, but she only paused for a moment before continuing. I looked at the pinkish-red bare patch of skin on the side of my hairy stomach and liked it, lied back and prepared for more. Expertly and quickly, always diverting my attention by keeping the conversation going, she proceeded to clear my stomach, matching, on scale, the rate at which the Brazilian (pun) rain forest is being cleared.
Apply wax. Wait. Apply wax strip. Rub. Rip. Repeat.
Before very long my stomach laid bare below my still overgrown chest. If there was sun shining in, it would have gleamed off my belly, but instead my belly simply glowed red under the glare of the light. “Right,” said Elaine as she dabbed the last few stray hairs on my stomach, “many say the chest is the worst part of the entire experience.”
Up until now she’d been very caring and attentive, and the excruciating pain had been bearable. I tried not to anticipate anything more intense, so as to avoid any mental exaggeration of what might actually not be bad at all.
In Which Direction Does Chest Hair Grow? Ah, Therein Lies The Problem.
Swish, swish, and Elaine had applied two strips of hot wax, one of which covered my nipple. Rub rub, and on went the strip. She lifted the corner ready to pull. I braced myself just as I heard the sound of wax strip separating hair from tender skin.
The pain meter shot up deep into the red. I could hear the Blind Therapist laughing all the way from China. It hurt and it smarted and it wasn’t letting up.
Elaine paused and, as a statement more than question, she said “Pain?”. I groaned, trying to imagine how near to the border of pleasure I could possibly be and how I could get there quickly. Her eyes showed sympathy and she paused, but I said with a smile that was partly mutilated by the stinging pain “there’s nothing you can do for me Elaine, it has to be done”.
She laughed. “Once I did a hairy guy”, she said, trying as ever to divert my attention from the smarting patch of hairless skin around nipple, “and when I did this part he shot up and grabbed his nipple screaming ‘ it is still there!?’, and that’s how painful I know it can be.”
I could believe it. Only the fact that I didn’t see blood spurting out of a nipple-sized hole in my chest assured me that my nipple was in fact still attached. The smarting partly subsided relatively quickly and Elaine continued. My stomach had already stopped smarting and my attention was now fully focused on my chest. Each strip was as excruciating as the one it succeeded, the pain from my stomach area paled in comparison to the fire that was scorching my chest, burning embers added with every rip.
I clenched my jaw and didn’t make a peep. I’m a man, men don’t scream (not while they’re getting a wax at least).
Lucid with agony I heard Elaine say, “Ok, last one”, and after a final sting she was done. I looked down and saw my pecks radiating red as if I was lying on the pavement beneath the red glow of a S&M Club’s neon sign. It smarted, hard.
My Fun Bits Have Never Been This Much Un-fun
The pain on my chest, not unlike that of being slapped repeatedly with a flat, wet hand, was instantly diluted as Elaine ever-so-lightly adjusted the towel over my bits, as if to remind me where she was about to wax next. “For this part”, she said as she prepared the next pot, “we’ll be using the hard wax. No strips, just wax”. The hard wax is said to be less painful – I’m not sure why, but it’s applied as hot, liquid wax, which instantly solidifies. It is then just pulled off, not with a wax strip, just as it is.
Elaine grabbed the lower side of the towel and unceremoniously moved it up to my stomach. There it was, the moment I dreaded. Exposed, naked, a young woman – not a medical practitioner, not a sexual partner – standing there, looking down on my manhood thinking god-knows what. I sighed and said to myself, it is what it is, no use agonizing over it.
“The hair might be a bit short”, said Elaine, not letting on that she had observed anything other than those pesky hairs, “but it should be ok”. She lightly tapped my thigh indicating direction before saying “Open your leg a bit”. As if I wasn’t feeling violated enough.
I opened just one leg, much less intrusive than opening both. Without skipping a beat she started applying the wax. It’s hot, but it doesn’t burn, in fact, in the air-conditioned room it actually felt quite pleasant. “It shouldn’t hurt too much”, she said as she grabbed hold of one end of the wax whilst holding down my groin with her other hand.
A quick rip later and my first patch of highly sensitive area was bare. She was right, it hurt less than my chest or stomach did, in fact, with my chest still smarting, the little yanks of pain coming from my genital area were a welcome distraction, if not a little pleasant. My god, I thought, what if I got aroused? Thankfully, there was still sufficient pain to numb whatever amorous feelings where around, because that never happened.
She expertly worked her way along the hairy bits, swiftly extracting hair from what I would consider impossible places. Yes, there was contact, loads, but she handled my anatomy just enough to do what she needed, to get the wax on and off. Her professionalism never wavered and continued her chatting as if she didn’t at all have my genitals in her hands rubbing wax all over it. 10 minutes later she said “Almost done, now just the back”.
Ten Minutes in the Valley
Again, dread besieged me. Elaine was about to witness my butt crack. In my life, not many people have witnessed my butt crack, it is, contrary to popular belief, not exhibited all that often. Bum cheeks, maybe, butt crack, no. However, by now it was clear that Elaine is quite the consummate professional, and turning on my stomach I found myself relieved to remove my privates from her sight.
“Put your legs here”, she said as she tapped on the back of my knees and then on the bed, a position that had me open my legs just a little. Gloved fingers gently pulled my cheeks apart for a little room to move and in a few brisk strokes the wax was applied. Swiftly, and surprisingly quite without pain, the undergrowth was cleared from the valley. Whether she was just such an expert, or whether my mind blanked out the embarrassing experience, I now cannot say, but I couldn’t feel the details of which part she was working on.
As the quickest section of the entire adventure, she was done in what felt like 5 minutes and asked me to turn back over. A quick rub of soothing oil on all the waxed areas tied up the treatment, and an hour after I walked into Strip at The Curve, I was smooth from chest to… erm, coxis.
All Waxed Out
“Ok, all done – thank you”, she said as she dropped her gloves in the bin and headed for the door. “No, no, Elaine”, I said as I sat upright returning the towel, together with my modesty, to a more suitable position, even managing a coy smile, “thank you”.
And with that she disappeared behind the curtain again, leaving me to get dressed. Of course, the first thing I did was get up to look at my new, hairless self in the mirror. All my hairy bits were clear, skin that I haven’t seen in decades bare and exposed without any cover, areas clearly highlighted by the deep red glow of freshly waxed skin.
All that remained was to settle the bill, where I saw Elaine again one more time to say goodbye. “We hope to see you again soon,” said the cashier as I walked away, “you certainly will”, I said, this time sporting a big ol’ smile.