by Meghan Quinn
What the hell kind of thought was that?
Shaking my head, I lay down and told myself to sleep. The porn was starting to get to me.
Chapter Four
The Red Brick Road
Fabio was lying across the bed waiting for his medieval mistress to release her chastity belt and finally let him claim Mayberry’s flower from the garden she’d beautifully prepared for him. He watched as she walked toward him while shedding her clothes, starting with her white cotton bra. He noticed her breasts were significantly different sizes but he shook the revelation out of his head and focused on the belt she was loosening around her waist. She dropped her underwear to reveal a silky patch of bright red curls that matched the same curls on her head. Fabio started to drool over the idea of being able to get lost in the curls on her head and in her magical garden . . .
“No, you can’t write about curtains matching the drapes. Are you insane?” Delaney asked from over my shoulder, scaring the ever-loving crap out of me.
“You guys can’t keep doing that,” I yelled while covering my computer screen with my hand.
“Medieval mistress? You’re better than that, Rosie.”
“I know I am,” I said, but I felt deflated. “To be honest, I don’t even know if I want to do a medieval book anymore. The sex seems so clumsy with all that armor and whatnot. I mean, where does he put his sword? Just throw it to the side?”
“No, he sticks it in her pussy, duh.”
Rolling my eyes, I shut my computer and grabbed my purse. “I’m not talking about his pork sword.”
“Wow.” Delaney laughed. “Henry told me you watched porn last night but I didn’t think he rubbed off on you that much.”
“I can be sassy if I want,” I responded with my head held high.
We both walked out of the apartment and headed down our stairs where we ran into Henry carrying a box of pizza and a six-pack of beer. The man could eat and drink anything he wanted and not gain a pound. How was that fair?
“Dinner, ladies?” he offered.
“Sorry, we have an appointment,” I said quickly as I tried to pass him. But of course, the smile on his face stopped that.
“What kind of appointment?”
“Time to pluck the bush out of the ‘lady garden’,” Delaney said while using air quotes. “Shredding the weeds.”
Henry raised an eyebrow at me and then glanced at my crotch.
“You all natural down there, love?” This was mortifying. First I tell him the size of my nipples, now if I’m au naturel? Why am I so open with my friends again?
Covering my crotch with my hands—because when he looked at me like that I felt as though I wasn’t wearing pants—I said, “Don’t stare, and no. I’m trimmed.”
“Then what’s the problem?”
“She’s getting a wax,” Delaney stated.
Cringing, he looked at me with pity. “Damn, have fun with that. Show me later?” He wiggled his eyebrows. Always a tease.
“Get out of here.” I pushed him to the side and exited our apartment building.
As Delaney and I walked to the subway, she talked about her day at Cosmo and having to test out different kinds of tampons, at least it wasn’t cat poop scoopers. I would rather fondle a tampon any day over a certified shit sifter.
“So, Henry seems to be interested in your new endeavors,” Delaney said while we were on the subway heading to the salon.
“Doesn’t seem different to me.” I shrugged my shoulders and checked my Instagram feed.
“Oh come on, he’s clearly interested in taking your virginity.”
“What?” I started chocking on my own saliva.
There was no way Henry was interested in having sex with me. We’d been friends since freshman year, practically brother and sister. The thought that he was even semi-interested in me was actually kind of hilarious. The man saw me through my overall days my freshman year in college, so he definitely wasn’t interested.
“He’s all over you. I saw the way he was looking at you in the hallway, and the porn date last night, not to mention the vibrator and Kindle. He wants in your pants.”
“That is so not true and stop talking about it. I don’t want to feel uncomfortable around him. We’re just friends. That would be like you saying you want in my pants.”
Delaney looked me up and down and smirked. “I’d tap that.”
“Flattering, but no.” She was a nut. I loved her . . . but Henry interested in me? Just the idea of it made me almost bust out in hysterical laughter.
We got off the subway and headed up the pee-covered stairs. The stench of the New York subways was something I would never get over. If anything, pee on the subway tracks, not on the stairs. My biggest fear was tripping while climbing them and catching myself in a puddle of human urine. I wouldn’t be able to handle living my life after such a traumatic event.
“You know he’s a virgin chaser, right?”
“Who?” I asked, still thinking about the subway stairs.
“Henry. He loves welcoming virgins into the world of sex.”
“That’s not true,” I said, actually not knowing if I was right or not. It didn’t seem like Henry. Yes, he liked to bring a lot of women back to the apartment, but he was a genuine guy, sweet, kind. There wasn’t a mean or manipulative bone in his body, which was why I loved him so much.
He was a ladies’ man though. The majority of women Henry brought back to the apartment looked more like two-cent hookers rather than chastity belt-wearing nuns, so to say he was a cherry chaser seemed absurd to me.
“Think what you want but he loves a virgin.”
Not wanting to talk about Henry behind his back, I dropped the subject the moment we walked in the salon. It was a soothing environment, which was surprising, given what was going on in the back rooms. The walls were a neutral tan color with green hues and bamboo surrounded the room, making it almost serene. Maybe the waxing wasn’t going to be so terrible. Nothing terrible could go on in a place like this where waterfalls winked at you and the sweet scent of tenderness greeted you at the door.
“Miss Bloom,” the receptionist said with a smile. “Right this way.”
Before walking away, I turned and gave Delaney a nervous look and in return she squeezed my hand with a wink and said, “Don’t scream too loud.”
That wasn’t reassuring.
The receptionist spoke to me as she led me down the dark, yet tranquil hallway that was filtered with soft lighting and calming music. When we passed doors on either side, I would occasionally hear a yelp or the sound of what seemed like Velcro being pulled off magnetic fabric. Fear started to tickle down my back as I tried to think about what Delaney got me into.
“You’ll be with Marta, and she is one of our best technicians. I informed Marta this was your first time so she is aware to be gentle with you.”
As opposed to rough? Why wouldn’t you be gentle when you were pulling out every last hair from your most sensitive lady area?
“Marta will be with you in a moment,” the receptionist continued. “For now, take off your pants and panties. You can place them in the dresser over there and then lie on the table with that cloth over your lap for privacy. Would you like any tea?”
“I’m good,” I said as I peered around the room. It looked like a relaxing place, almost too relaxing, like the calm before the storm. I wasn’t naïve, I knew sadistic things occurred in here. The walls were talking to me, speaking of the torture chamber this room morphed into, telling me to run. Run like hell.
Maybe I should . . .
Before I could say I wasn’t quite ready, the receptionist shut the door and left me to strip.
Well there went that idea. I took a deep breath. Everything was going to be okay.
Look, there was popsicle sticks on the side table. Anything that had ever involved popsicle sticks had been a dream in my experience. So, maybe this would be a dream too.
Giving myself a small pep talk, I peeked into my pants
and told my vagina that even though what was about to happen to her was construed by the devil himself, I still loved her and hopefully, such actions would bring great rewards in the future. And hey, maybe I was one of those girls who had a high threshold for pain.
I could to this.
With all the bravado I had, I took my pants off, folded them, placed them into the dresser—which was an odd thing to me but I wasn’t going to focus on it—and then took off my boy shorts. I owned thongs and only wore them when absolutely necessary. I’d lived in boy shorts my whole life and didn’t plan on changing, even if I wanted some action.
After everything was tucked away, I hopped on the table and placed the cloth over my lap, which seemed completely useless, given that Marta would soon be spreading hot wax all over my vagina.
Waiting for Marta was pure torture. Was she going to make a grand entrance? Bust through the door with a chainsaw, asking if I was ready to be trimmed? Or was she going to sweetly warm me up before getting down to business? My hopes were on the latter.
The soothing sounds of rain in spring meadows filtered in the room, just loud enough to drown out the shrill cries from the rooms next to me, but on the rare occasion I could still vaguely hear the cries of pain coming from every woman in the salon. Maybe it was my heightened anxiety, or the way it felt like the walls were closing in on me, but I could feel the crying vaginas, calling out to all other vaginas in the vicinity to clam up, to turn inside out, and run for their damn lives, to never show fold in a salon like this again.
Lord help me.
Pictures of trees and meadows scoured the walls, an obvious attempt to distract me from what was about to happen. But I saw right through their tactics, because all my mind was focused on was the wax heating up to the side and the strips waiting to be stuck to my milky white skin.
That’s right . . . milky white.
“What am I doing?” I asked myself as I pressed my fingers to my eyebrows.
I was seconds from getting up and putting my pants back on when the door to my room opened and in walked an oversized, unibrow-sporting, perverse-looking she-man wearing an ill-fitting dress, knee-high white stockings, and her hair in two pigtail buns. Her unibrow snarled at me as she grew closer and I could hear my vagina weep from a distance—so not the dream I was hoping for.
Horrified, I tried to do some Kegel exercises, communicating through Morse code that I was gravely sorry for what was about to happen to my vagina, but the damn bitch gave me the old middle clit and told me to fuck off by instantly turning into a world of itch.
Uncomfortable in so many ways, I shifted on the table—trying to look nervous—but aimed to scratch that unscratchable itch that only a finger to the vag would get.
“You look ill. You okay?” Marta asked in a heavy accent I could only assumed was Hungarian.
“Just nervous,” I admitted while I continued to shift.
“No need to be nervous. Marta knows what to do.”
She better.
Marta pulled a rolling table with wax and strips close to me. A light sheen of sweat broke out on my skin as Marta whipped off my cloth and placed her hands on my knees and spread my legs as wide as they could go.
Oh hello, aren’t we invasive.
Her head lowered, eyes narrowed, a pinch in her brow as she studied me closely. My gynecologist wasn’t even this thorough when examining me and she sure as hell wasn’t this close. Marta’s dense breath hit me hard and thick between my legs, making the juncture between my thighs feel like Cuba in August: humid and sticky.
“Whatcha looking for down there?” I asked, wishing her nose wasn’t so close to my vagina.
“Want to see what kind of thickness I will be working with. Looks like I will need to use more wax than expected.”
“What? Why?”
“Your hair is thick. It’s like rain forest. Too many heavy vines, especially in the dark areas,” Marta said without sugarcoating it.
“Dark areas?”
“Yes, inside of vagina and around anus, but we will get to that.”
“I’m sorry, did you say anus?”
Marta was mixing the wax as she spoke, “Yes, your anus, it’s the hole between the two butt cheeks.”
“I know what an anus is, Marta,” I said exasperated. “I’m just wondering why you’re talking about it.”
“You are signed up for Brazilian, yes?”
“And your point?” I asked, sweating more with each second, the sanitary paper beneath me getting stuck on my perspiring skin every time I moved.
“Hole to hole,” Marta said while picking up a wide Popsicle stick—they don’t seem so magical now—and placing a thick coat of wax on it.
“Hole to . . . holy prepubescent hairs,” I yelled as Marta coated my vagina with some wax.
“Hold on,” Marta said as she placed a strip on my skin.
Wait . . . what?
Where was the bedside manner?
Why wasn’t she whispering sweet nothings to me, coaxing me into thinking this was the best idea I’d ever had?
Marta positioned herself, the tendons in her hand flexed as she gripped the strip of paper. Oh God. Oh God. Oh God. There were bars on the side of the table that my hands instinctively grabbed as I wondered what the hell was going to happen next.
And then Marta opened her mouth, “Three, two, one . . .”
Rip!
Fire shot straight up my spine as heavy black spots scattered over my vision, pain ricocheting over my skin like a maniacal pinball pouncing freely about.
I was pretty sure she just ruined me . . .
“My clit. You tore my clit off,” I screamed as my hands went to my crotch, frightened to find that the little nub was missing. But before I could conduct a proper search and rescue, my hands were ruthlessly swatted away by Marta, who placed another wax strip and then ripped it off in the matter of seconds.
My head flew back against the table, a searing shock of agony paraded down my leg.
Why? Why was this a service women paid for?
Hearing impaired from the thump of my heart in my throat, I could barely hear myself as I begged for her to stop, but the she-devil didn’t listen as she continued to rip hair after hair right out of me.
Rip . . . cry.
Rip . . . cry. . . laugh.
Laugh?
Through a blindfold of fingers, I eyed Marta and the cruel smile she wore. She was becoming amused with every tear, it was evident in the vicious gleam in her eye that spoke of tragedy being her joy.
She tossed pubic-covered wax strips to the side, and I searched them for signs of my lady folds. I swore to the heavens above they were glued to them, because I was almost one hundred percent positive they were no longer attached to my body.
“I’m bleeding, I know I am. Just tell me. Am I bleeding? Sometimes I have a hard time clotting. Does it look like that?”
“You’re fine,” Marta said matter-of-factly as she placed a strip right over my vagina. “Three . . .”
“No Marta, please, not there.”
“Two . . .”
“Marta, I thought we were friends. Leave the vagina alone.”
“One . . .”
“I’ll do anything you want.” Desperation laced my voice. “Just don’t . . .”
Rip!
“Captain Cunt Ripper,” I screamed as tears fell from my eyes. “You’re a cunt ripper,” I said, startling myself from the menacing tone in my voice. I looked at Marta to apologize but the she-devil just laughed. She laughed at me.
She was a barbarian.
A menace to society!
A salacious salon scoundrel that should be locked behind bars.
And, you know what? She brought out the potty mouth in me and I hated her for it. I hated Marta for turning me into a gut-ridden potty mouth. Never once did I ever say the C-word out loud, but with Marta at the helm of my vagina, sailing me through wave after wave of pure agony, inappropriate words just flowed right out of me.
&nb
sp; “On all fours,” she said while tapping my legs shut.
“What?” I asked, too delirious from pain to process anything.
“Get on all fours and stick butt in air.” I paused, unsure if I should really listen to her, that was until her unibrow turned into a horrifying shade of angry and barked at me. “Now.”
Eeep.
Quickly, I turned over and got on all fours, sticking my ass in the air as I was told.
And I thought conversations with Henry and Delaney were humiliating. I met my match.
Without warning, she spread wax over my anus and patted down a paper strip.
I gulped.
Here we go.
I took advantage of the handles properly positioned at the top of the bed—gripping on for dear life—and without warning, in one smooth motion, Marta ripped my butthole right off my body to join my other lady bits in the graveyard of broken and torn private parts.
Oh EFF!!
Penis breath! She is a giant man-lady with penis breath!
The lightest of chuckles sounded through the room.
“Demon. You’re a demon,” I muttered as Marta placed both of her hands on my butt cheeks and spread them wide. I could feel her face close in and at that moment, I prayed to the flatus gods that they would award me with a prize-winning toot that would curl her eyebrow right into a ’fro. But was I ever that lucky? No.
Instead, Marta said, “We will bleach too.”
“Bleach what? You’re removing all the hair.”
“Bleach the anus,” she said as she placed another strip on me.
“What? Ahhh, cock-sucking sadist,” I called out as my forehead found the cushion of the table.
“One more and then we will do the bleaching.”
“Wait, why are we bleach . . . bouncing beluga whales, I hate you,” I cried out, pounding on the table, after she pulled one last strip.
“All done,” she tapped my ass as I tried to catch my breath from the onslaught of the unibrow-waxing beast.
“We will do light bleach, just stay like that.”
