Hairy & horny

To my hairy hoes, my fuzzy femmes, my bushy bitches. To all those who stare incredulously at the smiling blonde ladies in Gillette ads while they,—armed with a pink razor priced at $99.99—enthusiastically shave their already shaven legs. To all those whose sexual partners tell them that they “literally don’t even care about body hair” but then don’t eat you out when you don’t shave (you just KNOW they don’t want their pretty face near your bush). To those who had thick, black, wire-like pubic hair even before adolescence. To those who love sex and love their bodies and to those who don’t, but want to, this one’s for you. There are all kinds of hairy folk out there, from those who fuck every day to those who never have.

I relate to you all, because I’m fucking hairy. And I love sex.

How in the hell do I reconcile that?

Well, most of the time, I just don’t. I have spent many hours (and my precious sanity) in the bathroom, furiously eradicating every hair follicle on my poor body. All in preparation to what will probably be a pretty lousy fuck.

A typical pre-coital hair removal routine, for me (and MANY others), is a six-part process that can last up to two hours, and requires anything from razors and wax, to arts-and-crafts scissors, toxic cream, and more.

Generally, with a cheap razor, I shave from my toes, all the way up my legs, to the top of my lower back. And my armpits. Then, using small scissors, I trim my pubic hair till it’s very short. Then I bleach my moustache and between my eyebrows. I shower, dry my hair, choose an outfit, and put on makeup.

I emerge from this excruciating process a bloody, swollen, itchy, but hairless mess. At that point, the last thing on my mind is getting naked in front of some idiot I barely know and humping.

That’s how I “reconcile” with body hair when I’m single and horny, which is most of the time. But in my past relationship, my approach was a little different. I stopped caring about my hiding body hair as much, my routine from hell grew more lax; all because I grew comfortable with my boyfriend.

However, there were days before I was fully quite comfortable around him where I forgot, or was too busy, to shave. (Remember: I was having regular sex, so that meant doing the routine three times a week: a nightmare, really). So, I developed some pretty stealthy techniques to conceal my hair while having sex. “Can we go under the covers?”, followed by a sexy stare, is a classic. Or half pulling down my pants to hide my legs. Or keeping my underwear very close by, so as soon as it’s finished, I can tug them back on. Another good one is “Look at me in the eyes, honey. I wanna feeeeel you looking at me.” I found that moving around less helped too.

Of course, this sex was always consensual and enthusiastic. But I don’t think I was ever quite as into it as my boyfriend was (at least when I hadn’t shaven), because of this nagging, uncomfortable feeling in the back of my mind, telling me I looked ugly. My biggest fear was that he would glance awkwardly at my leg hair, wince while looking at my fuzzy ass or shudder at the sight of my bush. He never did. He genuinely didn’t care about body hair. But I didn’t let myself accept that.

Anyway, that was the beginning of the relationship. I did eventually accept that he didn’t care (because he told me a million times). This acceptance didn’t happen all at once; like everything, it was a process. Slowly, I gained confidence in him and, more importantly, in myself. Becoming confident took a lot of staring at myself in the mirror and telling myself that I’m hot (don’t lie, you do it too). Slowly, I got past my insecurities. Slowly, I discovered my sexuality, my preferences, my turn-ons and my turn-offs. And realizing that, well, it was fucking fun.

I recommend a furry fuck.

So right about now, you’re probably thinking, “what a great transformation story. She learned to love her body hair and now all she does is have liberated, wild, hairy sex.”

HA! My life is not the movies. I still shave for sex. Sometimes more, sometimes less, depending on the person I’m having sex with (read: depending on how hairy the person I’m having sex with is). I still do the two hour-long excruciating hair removal routine before most dates. I did it just last week.

But in many ways, I have grown. I don’t trim my moustache anymore, I actually think it looks really cute with bright red lipstick. I shave my armpits only very rarely, and my legs only when I feel uncomfortable showing them off. I didn’t shave at all last summer, even when I was wearing nothing but a skimpy bikini. I have learnt to see my hair as something special and queer, an embodiment of my queerness, in both senses of the term.

All in all, I have realized, it comes down to personal comfort. If YOU want to shave, do it. If YOU don’t, then don’t. It’s 100 percent your choice. One is not more morally right, more “feminist,”  or more self-loving than the other.

Because hey (little reminder here), this is third wave feminism, baby! In the 70s, you might have been told by a braless, hairy white feminist with an attitude that the only way to love yourself is to accept your body exactly the way it is, and, under no circumstance, must you ever, ever spend time and effort on your appearance in order to please a partner (especially a man). But this is not the 70s, thankfully. Third wave women and femmes have choices and freedoms. Third wave hoes do whatever the fuck they want.

Sometimes shaving is a way of showing love to someone, of dolling yourself up for their presence. Sometimes it’s just because you’re lazy. Sometimes you don’t shave simply because body hair looks fucking sexy. Picture this, a leather mini skirt with long, hairy legs and combat boots?? Or a white tank top you can see your nipples through with unshaven armpits?? Fuck yeah.

And sometimes it’s just for yourself, so that when you lie naked in your clean sheets, the fabric against your smooth, smooth legs feels like water sliding off a dolphin’s back.

So, go out there and have some hairy sex! (Though I don’t recommend jumping on Tinder and hooking up with just anybody during a global pandemic.) Or don’t. Do whatever you want.

I know I will.