It’s been a while since I’ve felt this level of excitement for a rugby tournament.  As the Springboks enter the home stretch of the 2009 Tri-Nations Rugby Tournament, butterflies dive-bomb my stomach every time I think about their next, exhilarating clash.

Update: 6 Sep 2009 – Find out from this post what the standings look like after Saturday, 5 Sep’s game between the Springboks and The Wallabies.

Rugby’s Spectacular Tri-Nations Tournament

If you’re not a rugby fan, or ignore Tri-Nations because it’s an all southern hemisphere affair, you’re missing out on the most spectacular full-contact team sport tournament on the planet.

The world’s top 3 rugby playing nations clash in this annual affair; South Africa’s Springboks, current rugby world champions and International Rugby Board (IRB) No.1, New Zealand’s All Blacks, who usually lead the IRB rankings, but are currently No.2, and Australia’s Wallabies who complete the trio of powerhouse rugby nations and are positioned on the IRB rankings at No.3.

The 2009 Tri-Nations started on July 18 and the last match will be in Wellington, New Zealand on September 19. Two grueling months of action packed rugby with 9 fixtures in as many locations in 3 countries.

Getting up to Speed with Springbok Domination

Last year’s Tri-Nations was a dismal affair for the Springboks who where pretty much out of the running just over halfway through the tournament.  This year the boot is quite on the other foot, and we’re just over halfway again, this time the Springboks are virtually a shoe-in to win.

Since their first game in this year’s tournament on 25 July against the All Blacks in Bloemfontein, the Springboks have made it clear that they were in it to win the 2009 Tri-Nations. The Springboks beat New Zealand in that game 28-19 and took the Tri-Nations standings’ lead over New Zealand who in turn out-played the Wallabies the week before, beating them 22-16.

The following weekend on August 1st, the Springboks reaffirmed the commitment by again beating the All Blacks 31-19. Morne Steyn was the poison on the unbeatable dart of the Springboks that day, scoring all the points with 8 penalty conversions and a try. South Africa then met the Wallabies for the first time on August 8 in Cape Town and made them feel quite unwelcome by handing them a 29-17 loss as souvenir.

Morne Steyn again booted 24 of the points, whilst Victor Matfield crashed the try-line as a reminder that the Boks can still score points on the ground too.  Reminiscent of the Naas Botha-era of rugby, the Springboks were then accused of playing boring rugby, winning with the boot, etc.  But the Springboks knew then, as they do now, that they dictate the game and paid no attention.

After the rest weekend and following the All Black / Wallabies clash the weekend after, the Springboks arrived in Perth 72 hours before their 29 August match against the Aussies.  Reminding fans and critics why the Springboks are the world champions, they plowed the fields of the Sabiaco Oval in Perth with spectacularly annihilating, ground-based rugby. The Wallabies, dazed and confused by a 22-6 half-time score, rallied valiantly to stop the Boks, but failed and the Springboks won 32-25.

What’s left of the 2009 Tri-Nations Tournament

Right, so here’s everything you need to know about the 2009 Tri Nations Rugby Tournament so far…

Scoreboard:

Opportunities to score more points:

Fixtures:

From the tables above, with 2 games left per team, you’ll note the following:

• Even if Australia score maximum points of 5 per game they will only end on 13 points, almost sure losers;
• New Zealand still have a snowball’s chance in hell at winning the tournament by 1 point, but only if
  1. they can win both their remaining games (4 x 2 = 8);
  2. they can score 4 tries or more in each of those games (2 x 1 = 2);
  3. they can prevent South Africa from scoring 4 tries;
  4. they can ensure South Africa loses by more than 7 points;
  5. Australia also manages 3 and 4 above;
• South Africa, who only needs 2 points to be out of reach of New Zealand, will win the 2009 Tri-Nations Rugby Tournament if they
  1. win any of their 2 remaining games;
  2. draw any of their remaining games;
  3. score 4 tries or more in both their remaining games;
  4. lose by less than 7 points in both their remaining games;
  5. score 4 tries or more in 1 game and lose by less than 7 points in another;

Essentially, if you’ve bet on the Springboks to do anything other than win this Tri-Nations Tournament, you’ve probably already lost your money.

However, with both New Zealand and Australia now playing for honour and respect in this tough world of rugby (add New Zealand’s slim chance to still win plus probably wanting IRB No.1 slot back), the remaining games promise to be filled with brutal, action-packed and ferocious rugby.  Which is exactly the reason why the mere thought of this Saturday’s clash and the next, is giving me heart palpitations.

There will be blood.

Were you aware that AirAsia has an On-Time Guarantee? Nope? Neither was I. Until, that is, last night when I received a pleasant surprise in my Inbox.

AirAsia To Singapore

The Journo and I went to Singapore in August for the Singapore Ultimate Open. Partly because of the price, but mainly because of the flight timing, we chose AirAsia, which flew out from KK Friday night and returned from Singapore on Sunday evening. Perfect for a weekend of Ultimate excess.

I have to say, I have no recent memory of major AirAsia delays on any of my flights and as such, the Friday night flight, as expected, went off without a hitch.

Bloody Sunday

We returned to Shangi Airport on Sunday evening with a good 2 hours before departure, which put us there at just after 6pm.

It had been a long grueling weekend of Ultimate, playing 5 almost-1-hour long games on Saturday and 2 70-minute games on Sunday against teams much better than us.  Sunburned, fatigued and in desperate need of sleep, getting onto the flight and settling in was a serious priority.

Our queueless check-in went smooth and we even managed to get seats next to each other on our separately booked tickets. It was when the check-in assistant casually confirmed our boarding time that we were unpleasantly surprised, “… and the flight boards at 10.15pm…”

I did a double take and said “What? That’s not right”, to which she calmly replied as if it was common knowledge, “oh, the flight has been re-timed to 10.45pm due to the late arrival of the incoming flight”, and, in defense of why we hadn’t be alerted, “… it was last-minute, sorry”.

My mind went numb with conflict about what to be angry about:

• that we were not alerted via the cellphone numbers that AirAsia had for us,
• that we now had to wait more than 4 hours to board our flight,
• that we had to miss most of the exciting Ultimate finals to get to the airport on time, or
• that we didn’t get to drink as much of the free beer sponsored by Brewerkz as I wanted to.

Stewing, we stomped off, did some shopping, explored Shangi’s thankfully interesting terminal, had dinner and eventually fell into uncomfortable sleep on seats near the boarding gate with about 90 minutes to go.

Ladies & Gentlemen, this is not your captain speaking

An announcement woke us up before my alarm could: “… AirAsia to Kota Kinabalu has now been retimed to 1am…”. Sunburned, tired, in need of sleep and stewing turned to raging frustration. “I can’t take it anymore, I have to sleep”, I told the Journo, “let’s go to the transit hotel”.

Expensive, this decision, but so worth it. We got nearly 2 hours of solid sleep cuddled under warm blankets on a comfortable bed. Until the phone rang, again, beating my alarm. Dazed and confused I found the phone only to hear the lady from the check-in desk say “Sir, your flight was brought forward to 12.30am. You have 10 minutes to get to the gate. Hurry”.

As if in one motion, we jumped straight out of bed and opened the door while picking up our stuff. I ran to the gate a good 500m aways and stalled for time as the Journo caught up. The security staff looked like they were packing up already, but luckily we made it through. Mere minutes after we boarded they closed the door and we were off.

I couldn’t help but wonder how many people got left behind.

Home Sweet Home in Time for Dawn

As we touched down in KK the clock struck 3am and after I unpacked, did a forced load of washing (can’t let sweaty clothes dry, man), I eventually hit the pillows hard at 4am.

Not one to carry grudges for long, the AirAsia ordeal was forgotten soon after ranting about it to friends for a day or so.

Happy Ending

Last night, just as I was about to shut down for the night, this whole mis-adventure committed to the hardly-ever-accessed part of my memory, I got an email from AirAsia. Subject: Retrieve your OTG Gift Voucher.

With much curiosity I opened the email, checked its authenticity (phishing victim, me? Never.) and followed the instructions. Moments later I received another email with a claim-code for a voucher to the value of RM200 to be used on my next flight or on other AirAsia services.

OTG, as it turns out, stands for On-Time Guarantee.

Having never seen any literature about this before, I did a quick search and found this press release dated 23 October 2008, in which AirAsia announces that customers inconvenienced by a delay longer than 2 hours on an AirAsia flight, will be eligible for a RM200 voucher.

Bonus!  With our next flight planned (but thankfully not booked yet), this voucher will be a mighty handy discount and a pleasant offset against those expensive 2-hours of sleep I bought in Singapore.

And although I had forgiven AirAsia for that hideous delay already, this vouchers goes an infinite distance towards establishing goodwill and restoring confidence in Asia’s favourite airline and proving why they are the top dog.  If only other companies demonstrated their commitment to their customers in such ways.

Good work, AirAsia.

I normally don’t go shopping on Sundays. It’s chaos.  I normally don’t go to City Mall on Sundays. For exactly that reason too. The first Sunday after payday and it being the eve of a public holiday… well, that’s really just standing under the crazy shower and getting soaked.

But I was trapped. I had no food and, you know, a man’s gotta eat. So I thought of a place where I was most likely to find everything I want in one place. There’s my local corner shop, Pick ‘n Pay. But I won’t find the household goods I need there. There’s Merdeka Supermarket a little further away, they’re weak in the toiletries department, if not unnecessarily expensive.

And then there’s the Giant super store at City Mall. They might have most of what I need.  But it’s at City Mall. Crazy, chaotic City Mall. For the sake of a 1-stop-shop, I go there anyway. The 10 minutes I take to drive there is immediately doubled by the 10 minutes it takes me to get into the property and around the building to the open parking lot.

Traffic in the Isles

By the time I’m parked and walking towards Giant with my save-the-earth enviro bags in my hand, I’m already agitated, because I know Giant is a human scale model of the parking lot. People blocking lanes with trolleys and screaming kids, needlessly hanging around the free-sample booths to taste every flavour of Nestle Probiotic yogurt or Maggie mee-in-a-cup the promoter has. I’ve got a shopping list, loosely based on where I think my required items are located in the store, hopefully helping me to navigate through the store as quickly as possible.

I hit a snag on my first 5 items, which suddenly Giant does haven’t. Low fat tuna in water. Don’t have. Really!? My spirits drop. Long beans; don’t have. Celery; don’t have. Gillette Foamy; don’t have.

Inflation mate, free has also gone up

While I’m in the toiletries isle I look for toothpaste. I’m attracted by a free toothbrush, because as it happens, I need 1 of those too. Colgate comes handily packed with a ‘free toothbrush’ already. Only RM6.69, which seems  a bit pricey for something free. I try to find a 175g tube to compare prices and see how much free free really is. I can’t find it. There’s a 100g tube, and a 75g tube, but no 175g tube. Coincidence, or diabolical plot?

Diabolical plot, I decide when I see that the 250g tube is only RM4.99. So if per gram the 175g is the same as the 250g, then the FREE toothbrush actually costs RM2.30!! It must be for that fancy packaging. How many suckers did they catch with this one, I wonder?

Cashing in. Whoa, not so quick, big fella

For a moment I consider leaving my basket right there in protest, but I figure the effort would go to waste. Eventually, after locating 60% of my list, I head over the tills. More chaos.  I try to look for the most intelligent face behind the tills. Their lines usually moves the fastest.

But between some sort of promo that requires the cashiers to give patrons a flier and some stamps according to how much they’ve spent, swiping bar-codes over the laser 3, 4 sometimes 5 times (before manually entering it), packing 2 items only in every cheapo, wafer thin plastic bag and counting every hand full of change 3 times before handing it over to the customer, I’m out of luck.

I choose a lane with 2 brimming trolleys. It takes forever.  Eventually it’s my turn. I empty my basket with deft precision, heavy items in front, light ones  behind. I’m packing my own bags. I intercept the packer on the other side and say “Thanks, I got it”. I don’t think I smiled.

He looks at me the way packers always look at me when I use my own bag and he probably thinks what they all think “hmmm, another one of those strange foreigners”.

So yesterday we had one of our mass movie outings to go see District 9.  Up until last Wednesday night I’ve seen the posters and I’ve read the tag-lines, but I haven’t really paid attention to it, until the Journo told me that it’s a South African director and it’s set in South Africa.

Well, immediately my interest was piqued and I zoomed on over to IMdb to read all about it.  In deed, written and directed by Neill Blomkamp, born in Johannesburg, South Africa and studied visual effects in Canada.  He was slated to film a movie based on Halo, but the stakeholders (Microsoft was mentioned), couldn’t agree on the terms, so it fell through.  The financiers, however, then apparently gave him US$ 30 million and told him to make anything he wanted.

Back in the day he made a short called Alive in Joburg, which is what District 9 was borne from.  Pretty low key in comparison, but it was only a 6 minute short.  He was also in cahoots with Sharlto Copley, another prominent figure in South Africa’s not-yet-prominent movie industry. Sharlto was responsible, amongst other things, for shorts like 2001: A Space Oddity and Hellweek (about extreme animator training), both set in Cape Town.

Then the great minds got together and created District 9, which is now a block buster.  In the vein of low budget box office hits like The Blairwitch Project and Cloverfield, District 9 is filmed part in documentary style.  But before you think “oh, more pukable visuals”, the docu-movie style is blended with normal view and even CCTV cameras, so you don’t have to endure an entire movie of shaking visuals and unbelievable surely-he-would-have-dropped-the-camera-or-ran-out-of-battery moments. In fact, the blend is smooth and effortless and doesn’t distract from the story.

The story is set in Johannesburg, South Africa and, according to the IMdb’s trivia, only the shack in which the main alien character lives was constructed – the others were all there already.  So aliens land on earth, and for a change they don’t do it above New York, but they choose humble Johannesburg.  Americans, as Hollywood have taught us, will shoot the crap out of any alien.  South Africans are much friendlier, and we carjack, so they break into the spaceship instead – there’s irony in that.

Long story short, temporary housing, ala South African squatter camp, is given to the aliens while the world decides what to do, until it becomes unbearable due to crime, violence and appalling living conditions and the government decides to relocate the 1.8 million aliens. Parallels with apartheid are rife and deliberate, but subtle to the uninformed. District 9 apparently is a play on District 6 – an actual housing situation from the apartheid era where the storyline was very similar, humans only a metaphore for whites only – if you’ve read the history of apartheid and the brutality of the police against activists, there will be more than just one hair-raising moment in District 9, and not because of human-on-alien violence either.

The unlikely hero of the story is Wikus Van Der Merwe and if you love South African accents, you’re going to love this guy. Obviously not the sharpest tool in the box, Wikus is appointed to lead the moving of the not-always-friendly aliens. Things go awry and the story gets interesting. Greed and hate fuels the story line.

The movie is multi-faceted. Those with no knowledge of or interest in South Africa’s past will still enjoy this movie as a sci-fi adventure. There’s plenty of action, people die and get hurt, it’s not unrealistic. There’s tons of special effects, but the way it was supposed to be, the CGI supports the story and isn’t the story (Transformers, GI Joe anybody?).

If you do know something about South Africa’s past, there are scenes from the movie that will have you thinking about it a little more.  The comments on the past and questions asked about the future – the reason why we can’t stop talking about apartheid – because like WWII we need to remember it so that it doesn’t happen again. Even if it is to aliens.

Like all great not-so-main-stream movies, District 9 relied heavily on viral marketing for it’s exposure.  MNU (Multi-National United) is the greedy corporate company tasked with moving the aliens (and getting their weaponry to work).  Visit their website as either an human (friendly, informative), or as an alien (commanding, alien script can be translated to English).  Also read an alien activist’s blog (MNUSpreadsLies.com) to find out more about how aliens are treated.

I really enjoyed District 9.  For everything I said above and for its obvious South Africaness.  I’m not sure how much the South African film industry can claim credit for this – all the special effects were created  by overseas companies, albeit with the involvement of South Africans – but it’s an awesome movie shot on my home soil with home-grown actors, and it rocks.

I’m going to go see it again.

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.

Waxing Lyrical

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.