Dumped, Actually

by Spalding, Nick

  ‘Waxing? What do you mean, waxing??’

  ‘Well, you’re too hairy, ain’t ya?’

  ‘Am I?’

  ‘Yeah, ’course you are.’

  I guess I’ll have to take her word for it. The last time I shaved was two days ago, and I have to admit it’s been a while since I trimmed my pubes, but how would Laughlin know that?

  Does he have some kind of sixth sense about someone’s levels of hirsuteness underneath their clothes?

  A pube-dar, so to speak?

  Imogen leads me through the door and down a long, expertly decorated corridor, to another door that leads into a small room containing a massage table. The room is tastefully decorated in a Balinese style, with a fair bit of decorative bamboo and at least two small stone Buddhas.

  A gentle piece of calming oriental music is piped into the room from regions unknown.

  Laughlin is nowhere to be seen right now. I can’t tell if this is a good thing or not.

  ‘Get undressed, luv,’ Imogen tells me. ‘When you ’ave, just lie down on the table with the sheet over you. Laughlin will be here in a bit to take care of you.’

  ‘Er . . . what exactly is he going to do?’

  Imogen rolls her eyes. ‘Give you a nice waxin’, silly.’

  ‘But . . . But . . . should he be doing that?’

  Imogen’s brow furrows. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well . . . waxing’s a . . . a . . . a job for a woman, isn’t it?’

  Somewhere, far off, the Sexism Fairy has just thrown up in her mouth a bit. Or his mouth, even. I’ve never met the Sexism Fairy before, so I certainly wouldn’t want to presume his or her sex. It may lead to the reinforcement of negative stereotypes.

  Imogen gives me a dark look. ‘Laughlin is the best waxer in the south of England,’ she tells me in a sniffy voice.

  ‘Really? How do you know? Is there a competition?’

  She pushes me towards the massage table. ‘Just get changed. I’ll tell Laughlin you’ll be ready in five minutes.’

  But I don’t want to be ready in five minutes!

  I’m not sure I could be ready in five hours!

  Before I get a chance to protest, Imogen has gone, leaving me alone with my abject fear, and the not-so-soothing sound of pan pipes.

  I don’t want to be waxed. I have never wanted to be waxed in my life. I am not a piece of paper in urgent need of waterproofing, nor am I the bonnet of a sports car.

  I’m thinking all of this as I nervously get undressed, lie on the massage table and cover my modesty with the sheet Imogen pointed out.

  As I lie there, trembling slightly, my misgivings about this whole thing really begin to skyrocket.

  This is ridiculous. I need to get out of this and get back to the safety of the Actual Life offices pronto.

  When Laughlin McPurty comes in, I need to tell him in no uncertain terms that I will not be continuing with these beauty treatments. I will do it as gently but as firmly as I am able, so as not to offend him. I will thank him for his time, and his efforts, and promise to provide a very positive write-up of my experience on Actual Life.

  Yes. These are the things I shall say when Laughlin appears. Definitely.

  The door to the room swings open and in walks Mr McPurty, with Tina in tow. He’s carrying a large box of waxing strips, and she’s holding an equally large tub of what I presume is the wax.

  Right. This is it. Time to end this farce before something really painful is allowed to—

  ‘Okay, Oliver! Let’s get you nice and bald!’

  ‘But—’

  ‘We’re going to start with your lower back, and work our way down from there!’ Laughlin wiggles his eyebrows as he says this. ‘Luckily for you, the hair only starts about where your ribcage finishes.’

  ‘But I don’t want—’

  ‘Now, you just lie back and relax, Oliver. This isn’t going to hurt a bit.’

  ‘Isn’t it?’

  ‘No! The wax and the strips we use are specially formulated not to hurt as much when they are removed from the body.’

  He lies! He lies with the forked tongue of the lowliest demon from the pit!

  ‘Oh, okay.’

  ‘Good stuff! Are you ready for this, Oliver?’

  ‘Um. I suppose so.’

  ‘Great! Pop your head in the wee hole there, and we’ll get on with it, then.’

  I rest my head into the massage table hole, cursing my inability to say no to anything.

  It’s not the first time this has happened, and it surely won’t be the last. Why am I such a bloody doormat? Why can’t I just say no, and have done with it??

  Tina starts to liberally smear my lower back with the cold, sticky wax, while Laughlin opens the box of strips, which look like they’re made of a very heavy-duty, thick paper.

  He then starts to apply these across my back, once Tina has finished, muttering to himself again as he does so.

  ‘Aye, this’ll do the minute. Should have the wee hairies off in no time at all,’ he says under his breath. ‘Down she goes into the crevices and nadgies. No time lost there, no problem.’

  What the hell is he on about?

  ‘And that’ll about do . . .’ he continues. ‘Here we go . . . In a wee jiffy . . . One, two, three . . . and . . . gissat!’

  RRRRRRIIIIIIIIIIIIPPPPPPPP

  ‘Oww!’ I exclaim . . . more in surprise than actual pain.

  ‘You alright there, Oliver?’ Laughlin asks, patting me on the shoulder.

  ‘Er . . . yes? I guess so.’

  ‘You see? Not all that painful, eh?’

  ‘No. I suppose not.’

  Okay, my back feels warm and a little stingy – but it’s nowhere near as bad as I feared it was going to be.

  ‘Great! We’ve got another two or three here, before we move down.’

  The prospect of moving down still sounds a little ominous, but my overwhelming dread has lessened considerably. Maybe this won’t be so bad, after all.

  Laughlin continues to divest my lower back of its remaining hair, before pulling the sheet covering my lower half down, and exposing my pale little bottom for all the world to see.

  ‘Well, then,’ he says in a thoughtful voice. ‘Yer no’ too bad down here, Oliver. Just a couple of strips in the crack will do you.’

  I’m hoping that ‘in the crack’ is some sort of Scottish slang for doing something quickly and painlessly . . . but it really isn’t, is it?

  My eyes go wide as I feel Tina slather me in more wax.

  Only she’s not slathering, is she?

  Oh no.

  She’s inserting.

  Not deep, you understand. I’m pretty sure my rectum doesn’t require a waxing . . . but she’s definitely getting on down in there between my botty cheeks, with no apparent concern for my welfare or her personal hygiene.

  I’m not going to describe what it feels like to have wax in between the cheeks of your bottom. Suffice to say, it feels like I’ve had an accident.

  Then Laughlin applies the paper strips and I brace myself for the inevitable.

  ‘Now, Oliver, this might hurt a bit!’ Laughlin McPurty tells me cheerfully. ‘You may feel a wee sting.’

  ‘Eeeeuuurrrgggggghhhhh,’ is about all I can manage.

  ‘It’s in there and ready,’ Laughlin mutters. ‘Off we go to the races . . . ready for anythin’ and up to the wee smidgies . . . in one! Two! THREE!’

  RRRRRRIIIIIIIIIIIIPPPPPPPP

  Of course, before this I knew – intellectually speaking – that the skin around the bottom area is more sensitive than that on the lower back. It only makes anatomical sense. I have not been aware of that fact on a visceral, purely emotional level until now, though.

  ‘OH JESUS!!’ I scream, probably loud enough for the bugger to hear me, whatever cloud he happens to be perched on.

  My arse is on fire. My bottom is ravaged. My rear end is destroyed. My backside is ruined.

  ‘Steady on there, Oliver!’ Laughlin says
, patting me on the shoulder again. ‘That’s the left side done, now jus’ to get that right side sorted and we’ll move on to yer penis.’

  What! What?! Penis?! What is this talk of penis?!

  There must be no penis involved! There can be no penis!

  The penis cannot be part of this horror! Never! Never the penis!

  Never the—

  RRRRRRIIIIIIIIIIIIPPPPPPPP

  ‘AAARRGGGHH!’

  The world has ended. The universe has collapsed. Star Wormwood blazes in the skies.

  ’Tis the end! The End of Days is here! Everything is dust! All is lost!

  ‘You okay there, Oliver?’

  All I can manage is a quiet burble. My bottom is gone. All that remains is a burning supernova.

  ‘Ach. Nice to see you’ve relaxed into it.’ Laughlin lifts up the sheet. ‘Now, swivel yersel’ around, and we’ll get that manzilian on the go.’

  I want to say no.

  I need to say no.

  Every fibre in my being demands that I say no.

  I do not want this thing he refers to as a ‘manzilian’. It does not sound good. Not one little bit. It sounds like something Godzilla fights at the end of the movie.

  He probably wouldn’t stand for this. Not Godzilla. He’d say no to being waxed – before disintegrating the entire city, probably.

  I need to be more like Godzilla.

  Yes.

  That’s the ticket.

  . . . as it turns out, I can certainly sound like Godzilla.

  When a scrawny Scottish beautician rips a strip of waxed paper away from my pubic area, anyway.

  RRRRRRIIIIIIIIIIIIPPPPPPPP

  ‘Reeeeeeaaaaaaaarrrrrrrrrcccccccchhhhhhhhhh!’

  See? Godzilla.

  Definitely Godzilla.

  For a few moments, I lie there, as ruined as the Incan civilisation. As I do this, Laughlin and Tina tidy away the used strips of waxy paper into a rubbish bag. The amount of hair on all of them doesn’t bear thinking about. I will think about them, though . . . long into the night.

  ‘Alright, Oliver. You’re lovely and smooth now, in all the right places. We’ll let you relax in here for a few minutes on your own. And when you’re done, pop your clothes back on and we’ll see you outside.’

  ‘Oh . . . okay,’ I reply with a sigh. ‘That’s . . . fine.’

  ‘Good! Glad you’re feeling nice and chilled out.’

  Chilled out? Good God, man! My entire nether regions are blazing with the heat of a thousand suns. How could I be chilled out??

  Laughlin and Tina exit the room, leaving me alone with my thoughts, and the pan pipes.

  The one thing I’m principally thinking about is how much of a masochist Monica Blake must be. She’s the one who suggested I come here, in order to help me get over my break-up with Samantha. It’s what she did, after all.

  If having all of this done is what got her over her own heartbreak, then she must be clinically insane.

  Mind you, I can’t say I’m feeling all that heartbroken at the moment. It’s a little hard to pay attention to what’s going on with your heart, when your arsehole has a red-hot poker shoved into it.

  I heave another sigh.

  Why didn’t I just say no?

  Why didn’t I just get off the massage table before any of this?

  What’s wrong with me?

  Why do I have this complete inability to upset people? Even when it comes at my own painful expense?

  And I don’t just mean surrendering to Laughlin McPurty’s ministrations.

  I wouldn’t be here if I hadn’t capitulated to Erica. If I had just said no to her in a firm but fair fashion, I’m sure she would have backed down.

  But I didn’t, did I?

  No. I just went along with it. Just like I went along with the waxing.

  Which is now why I’ll be spending this evening with my arse parked in a cold bath.

  Did this have something to do with why Samantha finished with me?

  Did she want a more manly man, who can thrust one manly hand out and say no to anything he doesn’t fancy getting involved with?

  Am I weak?

  Is that it?

  I rub my hand over my face.

  Bloody hell.

  This has not been a good use of my time.

  And it has certainly not made me feel better about losing Samantha.

  If anything, it’s made me feel even worse.

  But never mind . . . Now I have to gingerly get dressed again, without letting any material touch my bottom or genitals, for fear of re-awakening the supernova, which has gone off the boil a little in the few minutes I’ve been lying here.

  I slip my clothes back on slowly, wincing a bit as I do so. When I am fully dressed and upright, I walk over to the door, trying as hard as I can not to let too much material slide over the skin in the areas that Laughlin McPurty has just ritually abused for his own amusement.

  This rather makes me look like I’m trying to hold in the world’s most explosive fart, but I don’t really care, as appearing massively flatulent is infinitely preferable to feeling denim rub across my red-raw skin.

  Outside, Tina is standing by with another bogmot orange and minty rubadub tea. Part of me wants to tip it over her to see how she likes the feel of burning skin.

  I take the tea with a weak smile and have a sip as I sit down in one of the chairs along the back wall. The salon looks like it’s beginning to fill up now. Both Imogen and Stacy are dealing with customers, and Tina goes to join them to help out. I shuffle a bit on my seat, feeling the burning intensify around my poor bottom again. I am internally praying that the treatments are over for the day.

  My prayers are answered when Laughlin hurries over to me and plonks himself down by my side. ‘Okay, Oliver, how are you doing? Well, I hope.’

  ‘Oh yes, I’m absolutely fine, thank you.’

  ‘Enjoy all of the treatments, did you?’

  ‘Yes, I certainly did.’

  ‘And you liked the tea?’

  ‘Oh my, yes. It tastes lovely.’

  ‘Do you think you’ll be back?’

  ‘Yes. I probably will.’

  ‘That’s great. Hopefully today’s little taster of what we have on offer will make you feel a bit better about yourself. We’re in the self-esteem business here.’

  ‘Yes, yes. I feel better already.’

  I mean, Jesus Christ. What the hell is wrong with me?

  ‘That’s so wonderful. It was fantastic to have you here, and to help you out.’

  Oh, for the love of God, he’s going in for a hug.

  Laughlin wraps his arms around me and gives me a tight, tight squeeze. I’m forced to lean forward so he can accomplish this, which squishes my red-raw bottom and my red-raw pubic area uncomfortably against my jeans.

  And here I am, in a tender embrace with the psychopath who’s just done this to me.

  With the embrace done, Laughlin stands up and leads me over to the main door. As we pass his staff, I give them all a smile and wave. Tina and Stacy smile back, but Imogen gives me a dark look. I’m not entirely sure what I’ve done to earn this, but I have to guess it’s my inadvertent sexism from earlier.

  I would try to apologise, but I just want to get out of this salon as quickly as possible. Beyond its doors lies the outside world, wherein I shall find a nice cool bath and a cup of proper tea, without a bingo bango orange or any mint roybongos in sight.

  ‘I’ll look forward to reading your article about us on Actual Life,’ Laughlin tells me at the door, with a meaningful look in his eyes.

  Sigh.

  I know what he’ll be expecting. A glowing write-up of his beauty treatments that will send the hordes to his front door. That’s what everyone wants. Laughlin has the same expectant tone to his voice that every single person I’ve ever spoken to has, after I’ve sampled their wares for the website.

  But it’s not really my job to write them an advert. It’s my job to give a truthful account of what
I’ve experienced.

  I fear Laughlin may be a little put out with me once he reads my next feature . . .

  ‘I’ll be sure to give you an accurate and honest write-up,’ I reply to him, as I always do in these situations.

  Laughlin doesn’t quite know how to respond to that. They never do, really.

  I thank him for his time before I leave, though. He probably isn’t aware that what he thinks are beauty treatments are in fact crimes against humanity, but I’m not going to shatter that illusion for him at his doorway. Much safer to do it from the confines of my office in about two hours.

  The walk back to my car is more ginger than Geri Halliwell.

  The drive back to the office is more ginger than the entire Weasley family stapled to Prince Harry.

  Sitting back at my desk is as ginger as Ed Sheeran pumped full of Tizer to the point of bursting.

  When Erica comes over to see how it all went, I am fantasising about inserting an ice pole into myself.

  No one should ever fantasise about the insertion of an ice pole. Unless they’re married to Mr Freeze.

  ‘How did it go, then?’ Erica asks. ‘The haircut looks good,’ she says, with an amused look on her face.

  I return this with one of plaintive misery. ‘They waxed my bottom.’

  ‘Did they?’

  ‘Yes. And rootled in my fingernails.’ I waggle one hand up under her face to show her the results.

  ‘Very nice.’

  My brow creases. ‘What’s a pernickety?’

  Erica shakes her head. ‘I have no idea.’

  ‘No. Me neither.’ My eyes narrow. ‘And the wee smidgies. Any idea what they might be?’

  She continues to shake her head. ‘Nope. You’ve lost me.’

  I nod slowly. ‘Okay. Just thought I’d ask.’

  Erica laughs and pats me on the hand. ‘I’ll leave you to start writing the feature, Ollie. I’m sure it’ll be extremely good . . . even if you never find out what the wee smidgies are.’

  I shudder.

  I hope to never find out what the wee smidgies are, to be honest. If I do, I’m afraid my sanity may be lost in less than a pernickety.

  Gratefully, as I start to get into writing about what’s just happened to me, the burning and stinging start to fade away.

  By the time I actually get to writing about the experience of having my undercarriage waxed, I am feeling comfortable enough again to move around in my seat normally.