- Reaction score
- 51
- Points
- 530
First of all, let's start this off properly.
Who the hell invented the razor?? I want his name, and I want it now. I will sue his estate. Was it a dude named Gillette by any chance because I guarantee that it wasn't a dudette by that name.
If it weren't for this ass, I wouldn't be expected to shave. We wouldn't know that girls weren't supposed to be hairy -- so we wouldn't complain; read "men" for "we". Not that I have a man here who gives two shits one way or the other, but the "hairless etiquette" thingy causes me undue stress and severe traumatization due to the stigma that's attached.
So instead of remaining natural, I, and many millions of women like me, shave. Quite often, the removal of the carpet caused by the "hairless stigma" causes stigmata --- copius amounts of blood loss --- such as has just occured on premises here this afternoon.
Damn, the razor -- and the man that invented it.
Now, let's face it -- in the winter time that extra layer provides us with much needed warmth; especially us red-headed girls who are akin to being covered in blankets in high-summer due to our cold feet.
One would expect a girl to get all gussied up, including a shave, a trim, and possibly a wax strip or two if she actually had valid reason to -- such as an appointment with a speculum -- at which point in time I'd guarantee that she'd probably put on nice underwear too even though Mr. Doc isn't going to see them. It's just the way we are.
But, holy crap over ... I'm now thinking to myself did I just shave for this shit!!?? It's winter!! No onecan will see my legs and other bits. Why torture myself with the ritual?? I'm scarred enough already dammit.
So essentially, this afternoon, the stigma got the better of me. I climbed into a nice warm bath and scraped those bad boys off of me from top to bottom.
Once. Wasn't so bad. But upon cranking my leg up into some here-to-fore unknown kama sutra position to take a gander at my handiwork, I noted with shock and horror that I had missed a couple of spots high and tight to my ass on the back of my thighs. Leaping lizzards batman.
Twice. How the hell do you live with yourself if you just say "fug-it, no one's going to see them anyway?" I decided that the best manner to tackle those babies would be standing, lots of lubrication. Perfect. Yeah ri-ight.
Standing there, my calves and below nice and warm -- with the rest of me wet and freezing, I slathered the cream onto the insurgent hairs. That would have made a pretty pic I'm quite sure. Try grabbing your ass while half twisted around to get your face in there to ensure your applications are made to the correct bits. I should have joined the freakin' circus.
I get the cream all lathered up and am figuring that I am good to go. A pro. I should have known that fate would dictate differently to a numpty like me. One awesome stroke with the razor goes well.
Stroke number two ... is a little higher and tighter to the girlie goods so I crank my upper half a little bit more to my rear in an attempt to see into the mirror in avoidance of emergency situation. Please note ladies that this can cause an overextension of one's supposed gymnast abilities.
Avoidance of emergencies?? Not fucking likely. This is me we are talking about. Slip goes the left foot just as the razor makes contact with skin-that-rightfully-should-be-hairy-save-for-asshole-who-invented-the-razor-guy. Down crashes Vern into the damn tub. Let me tell you that razors being jammed into your backside --- HURTS like hell, as does knocking your head onto the side of the tub.
Laying there in the tub, wondering what the fuck just went wrong -- I slowly come to my senses and begin to feel said razor dug into my ass. I lift myself up tenderly ... sliding hand under my naked self to retrieve errant razor -- staring at the roof and thinking "Wow, I'm still alive." I place the razor on the side of the tub. I am good to go. Vern stands up to make another attempt. Arghhhhhhhhhh!!! This is when the pain hits, this is also when Vern glances down into tub to see that my nice warm bath water is now a lovely pinkish colour.
Thankfully my sharks with freakin' lazer beams are still in their pool out back rather than circling me in the tub. Pink water is not a good sign. I've had enough stitches lately dammit all to hell ... and it would be torture driving myself to the hospital to obtain more while sitting on a clearly traumatized backside that is razor sliced to hell because I wouldn't have yet rid myself of those hairs (although I would have gussied 'er up a bit by putting on nice underwear for the doc who got to deal with my ass). Please gawd ... let me observe in the mirror and determine that I do NOT need stitching up.
So, I crank myself about to look into the mirror again ... I may be OK -- maybe not. I determined that closer inspection is required. I safely manage to step out of the tub, but the pain couring through my sliced upper thigh is something else when I lift that damn leg out. It's even worse when I hoist myself up onto the friggin' vanity to show my backside into the mirror. It's not a pretty scene that greets me.
One huge bright red razor swath stretching a good 8 inchs up the back of my thigh, over the curve and finally onto my ass, ending with what is obviously a Gillette Venus triple blade signature sliced into it oozing blood. On the other cheek, I find another triple gash surrounded by inflamed red skin with the obvious handle signature of the Venus indented into my skin. Probably permanently. I am safely assuming that I have "twin-triple-scars-in the making" now adorning my ass. Lovely indeed. Explain THAT to the friggin' doctor with a straight face while all gussied up in fine underwear so that he can see your unclad ass to stitch it up.
No thanks. I have decided that that partiular course of action is out the window, besides I'd have to bend over to get the underwear on and cause myself more pain and suffering. Instead, I have chosen to walk around until the wounds heal clad in only my housecoat. The errant hairs are still there. Fug 'em. "I shaved for this!!??" The razors have been tossed into the garbage can. So has the shaving cream. I've decided to stick to wax as at least I know I won't bleed to death with that!! I've also decided that the carpet will stay until at least June; it is winter after all -- when short season arrives -- possibly. I may have decided by then though that I like the natural look, that Mr. Gillette or whoever can suffer, but no worries: I'll learn to braid so you all have something to talk about.
Who the hell invented the razor?? I want his name, and I want it now. I will sue his estate. Was it a dude named Gillette by any chance because I guarantee that it wasn't a dudette by that name.
If it weren't for this ass, I wouldn't be expected to shave. We wouldn't know that girls weren't supposed to be hairy -- so we wouldn't complain; read "men" for "we". Not that I have a man here who gives two shits one way or the other, but the "hairless etiquette" thingy causes me undue stress and severe traumatization due to the stigma that's attached.
So instead of remaining natural, I, and many millions of women like me, shave. Quite often, the removal of the carpet caused by the "hairless stigma" causes stigmata --- copius amounts of blood loss --- such as has just occured on premises here this afternoon.
Damn, the razor -- and the man that invented it.
Now, let's face it -- in the winter time that extra layer provides us with much needed warmth; especially us red-headed girls who are akin to being covered in blankets in high-summer due to our cold feet.
One would expect a girl to get all gussied up, including a shave, a trim, and possibly a wax strip or two if she actually had valid reason to -- such as an appointment with a speculum -- at which point in time I'd guarantee that she'd probably put on nice underwear too even though Mr. Doc isn't going to see them. It's just the way we are.
But, holy crap over ... I'm now thinking to myself did I just shave for this shit!!?? It's winter!! No one
So essentially, this afternoon, the stigma got the better of me. I climbed into a nice warm bath and scraped those bad boys off of me from top to bottom.
Once. Wasn't so bad. But upon cranking my leg up into some here-to-fore unknown kama sutra position to take a gander at my handiwork, I noted with shock and horror that I had missed a couple of spots high and tight to my ass on the back of my thighs. Leaping lizzards batman.
Twice. How the hell do you live with yourself if you just say "fug-it, no one's going to see them anyway?" I decided that the best manner to tackle those babies would be standing, lots of lubrication. Perfect. Yeah ri-ight.
Standing there, my calves and below nice and warm -- with the rest of me wet and freezing, I slathered the cream onto the insurgent hairs. That would have made a pretty pic I'm quite sure. Try grabbing your ass while half twisted around to get your face in there to ensure your applications are made to the correct bits. I should have joined the freakin' circus.
I get the cream all lathered up and am figuring that I am good to go. A pro. I should have known that fate would dictate differently to a numpty like me. One awesome stroke with the razor goes well.
Stroke number two ... is a little higher and tighter to the girlie goods so I crank my upper half a little bit more to my rear in an attempt to see into the mirror in avoidance of emergency situation. Please note ladies that this can cause an overextension of one's supposed gymnast abilities.
Avoidance of emergencies?? Not fucking likely. This is me we are talking about. Slip goes the left foot just as the razor makes contact with skin-that-rightfully-should-be-hairy-save-for-asshole-who-invented-the-razor-guy. Down crashes Vern into the damn tub. Let me tell you that razors being jammed into your backside --- HURTS like hell, as does knocking your head onto the side of the tub.
Laying there in the tub, wondering what the fuck just went wrong -- I slowly come to my senses and begin to feel said razor dug into my ass. I lift myself up tenderly ... sliding hand under my naked self to retrieve errant razor -- staring at the roof and thinking "Wow, I'm still alive." I place the razor on the side of the tub. I am good to go. Vern stands up to make another attempt. Arghhhhhhhhhh!!! This is when the pain hits, this is also when Vern glances down into tub to see that my nice warm bath water is now a lovely pinkish colour.
Thankfully my sharks with freakin' lazer beams are still in their pool out back rather than circling me in the tub. Pink water is not a good sign. I've had enough stitches lately dammit all to hell ... and it would be torture driving myself to the hospital to obtain more while sitting on a clearly traumatized backside that is razor sliced to hell because I wouldn't have yet rid myself of those hairs (although I would have gussied 'er up a bit by putting on nice underwear for the doc who got to deal with my ass). Please gawd ... let me observe in the mirror and determine that I do NOT need stitching up.
So, I crank myself about to look into the mirror again ... I may be OK -- maybe not. I determined that closer inspection is required. I safely manage to step out of the tub, but the pain couring through my sliced upper thigh is something else when I lift that damn leg out. It's even worse when I hoist myself up onto the friggin' vanity to show my backside into the mirror. It's not a pretty scene that greets me.
One huge bright red razor swath stretching a good 8 inchs up the back of my thigh, over the curve and finally onto my ass, ending with what is obviously a Gillette Venus triple blade signature sliced into it oozing blood. On the other cheek, I find another triple gash surrounded by inflamed red skin with the obvious handle signature of the Venus indented into my skin. Probably permanently. I am safely assuming that I have "twin-triple-scars-in the making" now adorning my ass. Lovely indeed. Explain THAT to the friggin' doctor with a straight face while all gussied up in fine underwear so that he can see your unclad ass to stitch it up.
No thanks. I have decided that that partiular course of action is out the window, besides I'd have to bend over to get the underwear on and cause myself more pain and suffering. Instead, I have chosen to walk around until the wounds heal clad in only my housecoat. The errant hairs are still there. Fug 'em. "I shaved for this!!??" The razors have been tossed into the garbage can. So has the shaving cream. I've decided to stick to wax as at least I know I won't bleed to death with that!! I've also decided that the carpet will stay until at least June; it is winter after all -- when short season arrives -- possibly. I may have decided by then though that I like the natural look, that Mr. Gillette or whoever can suffer, but no worries: I'll learn to braid so you all have something to talk about.
