So here I am, getting my first Waxing. Now, I don’t mean eyebrows––I mean waxing. You know what I’m talking about. Yes. There. Down there.

This isn’t so much for me. I’ve never given it much thought, and, when I did, I shivered like a pathetic little Chihuahua. I really don’t like pain. But apparently my distaste for pain is less than my desire to please my new boyfriend (so much for the legacy of first wave feminism). But this is a birthday present for him, and the pain is coming only from my crotch, and not out of my wallet as well: The Boyfriend™ is paying for a “full Brazilian” pussy waxing.

This is how it started: “It is so hot when a girl’s shaved.”

I didn’t say that, he did. Pretty simple, right?

No, no it isn’t. Because it grows back, simulating bed bugs of the crotch, and it always itches worse in public, when you can’t reach down and scratch––but when you find that one isolated moment, say, at a cocktail party for your beau’s work, when every head is turned away from you, you reach down for some relief just as his boss turns around and catches you clawing between your legs, possibly even putting your foot up on a chair to get a better angle.

But that’s after the pain of having every follicle ripped out of your skin in one instant, leaving your lips burning like you have an STD. Or something like that.

I haven’t had it done yet. I’m just making this shit up, but it’s well-researched shit, kiddies.

So this morning The Boyfriend™ brings it up as a two-parter conversation, the second being about “getting your vagina waxed.” Instantly my face got all red because I’m sitting in my office with my officemate, J.T., a sweet and innocent Asian boy, typing away at his computer. I know he can’t read my chat screen, but talking about the process of removing my pubic hair isn’t something USC really pays me to do, is it? Maybe if I were researching the cultural relevance of being bald between my legs and found some completely abstract link to Alice, because that’s Wonderland, baby. Then they’d pay me to discuss––and even get––waxed.

The Boyfriend’s™ been industrious. He doesn’t think my favorite spa, Burke-Williams, does Brazilian waxing, which is his preference. A quick search on Yelp brought up a few places while he informs me, “The Wikipedia on waxing was insightful––with pictures.”

Pictures?

Can they show that on Wikipedia? And what truly is a “Brazilian” wax anyway?

Wikipedia time. Hmm… Look at all those waxing options.

A bikini wax. How passé. Next.

A full bikini wax. What the fuck is a “Mount of Venus” and do I have one too? Considering how many gods, demi-gods, men and animals mounted Venus, I’m not sure I want one. Next.

The European: All pubic hair is removed ‘except for a small patch around the mound’. Those quotation marks aren’t mine, because, if they were, they’d be used correctly. Why is that put in quotations? I’m suspicious now. What does that mean? Is it ironic? Who defines “small patch”? I don’t think my “small patch” would be The Boyfriend’s™ definition of “small patch.” Next.

The Moustache? I skimmed over this one, saw the word “Hitler” in there, and… Next.

A landing strip? Who came up with that name? My air traffic control does it’s job, thanks: only one jumbo jet lands on this runway, and it’s dealt with a jungle landing before and it can deal with it again. Next.

Ah, here we go: The Brazilian. Maybe a thin line above the clit, maybe removal of all hair; who knows? Nice and ambiguous, I’ve got room to work with here, language being as complex as it is. Except…

Just below it is The Sphinx, which is a word I have never liked. It just sounds gross. For me, it’s like a worse insult than calling someone a pussy. It’s like a Prince song that sat in the fridge too long and curdled (if Prince songs were dairy products). And this is what I’m pretty sure The Boyfriend™ has in mind.

Okay, no. This is exactly what he has in mind. I can’t play dumb. It is a non-Bush-administration fact: you cannot alter or interpret the statement in any way: “I like it with no hair.” He wants me completely hairless between my legs, which, as Wikipedia informs me, is called The Sphinx after the Canadian hairless cat breed. My pussy is about to be Mr. fucking Bigglesworth.

I list off a few places around L.A. “You will come with me,” I tell him.

“Wax Poetica is in Burbank. It looks nice when I drive by it” he says.

When you drive by it? Is that how you choose all your intimate pleasures? “You looked nice when I drove by you” or “Let’s go to that drive-thru sex shop. It’s easier than doing some easy Internet research despite the fact that I sit in front of a computer all fucking day, often doing nothing except talking to you about waxing your cunt. I sure hope it’s not a recycled sex shop.”

He defends weakly with, “They have poetry readings there.”

Every woman adores a Fascist.

No, having poetry read to me will not alleviate the post-waxing feeling of someone pouring lighter fluid on my pelvis and tossing a match down there.

So I look up Stark Wax Studio. It has the word “studio” in it, so, suddenly, I’m feeling like their professionals at Stark. Besides, exceptional word choice on their part.

At this point, my other office mate (and soon-to-be roommate) Jessica arrived: “Oh, you’ll be fine, Christie. Many women have lived through a waxing.”

“Many? What the fuck?” I reply.

“Yeah, no kidding,” J.T. agrees. "Stop freaking her out."

“Well, there was that one woman in Australia, but they’re all savages down there. Penal colony and what not.”

J.T. and I lean forward to hear this. Stories about penal colonies always rock (see: Death Race).

“They used duct tape to pull the wax off. She swelled up but didn’t go to a doctor in time.”

“Ohhhh…” We both nod at the stupidity of this Australian woman. Of course, I would completely go to a doctor if my pubic area swelled up (says the girl who’s break light in her car has been on for five days now).

The Boyfriend™ also reassures me that it’s only if I go to “cheapo Korean places.” But it still stokes the fires of my paranoia, so I’m now having fucked up images of hentai-like school girls lathering on the wax with alien tentacles and ripping off large sections of duct tape while a blond German woman holds me to the table, screaming at me, “Nein! Nein! It is forbidden!”

This is entirely irrational. Mostly irrational. Somewhat irrational.

Then The Boyfriend™ points out that at Stark they do male Brazilian waxing. I know that there’s relatively little tone in chat messages, but he sounds excited. I briefly thought about asking him to do it with me, but then I realize he has an 40-inch HDTV in his office. It’s hooked up to his work computer. The following somewhat irrational image collage flashes through my mind’s eye: Wikipedia landing strips and Sphinxes, a Mac Stickie reading “Make Christie’s Appointment ASAP So F-ing Hawt” just as his assistant, co-worker and boss enter; then they all start having a very detailed conversation about my soon-to-be-vacant-of-hair vagina.

I resist the urge to either 1) chew on my nails, or 2) flee Los Angeles and live in Joshua Tree as an esthete, happily growing a 70s Hustler bush.

This is when The Boyfriend™ says, “I think you should do Stark, since all they do is waxing.” Then he bombards me with Yelp testimonies of how great it is. Yes, let me reiterate this: having your labia ripped apart is faaaaabulous.

So, after his begging, I call to make the appointment:

“Their number begins with 666. What. The. Fu––Yes, do you have any appointments for this evening?” Say no, say no, say you’re booked all week and can’t possibly fit anyone in because you’re the best waxing place in L.A. and I have to know a special maitre d’ number for this.

“Would you prefer 5:30 or 6:30?” She sounds so confident, so normal, so nonchalant. As if her job wasn’t founded on pissing on the 8^th Amendment. Or all morality in general, really.

The only time The Boyfriend™ can go with me is tonight (it will be more fulfilling to kick him in the balls immediately afterward), because he also needs to buy sunglasses, and what better place to get your bush ripped off and buy sunglasses but Silver Lake?

“And what will you be having done?”

Skin torn into ragged chunks? Blistering sores? Submitting myself to voluntary torture in the name of great sex and the socially reinforced belief that you should give someone a birthday present because they somehow managed to survive another year on this vile, filth-infested, disease-ridden planet?

“A B-Brazilian w-wax, please. Oh God, I’m nervous.”

Coolly, she took my name and number. I couldn’t jam my finger on my iPhone fast enough. Incidentally, the lack of being able to slam down a phone heightened my anxiety.

“It’s done,” I type at The Boyfriend™.

“Full Brazilian?”

…

“Stark Waxing Salon.”

“I made an appointment for 6:30. I wanted to clarify that this would be for a f-full Brazilian.”

Jab-jab-jab HANG UP MOTHERFUCKER HANG UP.

“Yes, dear. A full Brazilian.”

And in exchange for stripping my pussy bare, I get three days in Vegas at the Encore, a visit to the Wynn day spa, dinner at a two-Michelin star restaurant, and the promise of amazing sex.

I’ll let you know if it’s worth it.