I decided to shave my balls.
You might ask why a perfectly staid, suburbanite, non-adult-performer guy would do such a thing. Some would call it "fashion". I'm reading that increasing numbers of Regular Joes are scraping their pubes off in an attempt to make their penises look larger. Are we surprised?
But I've never been much a follower of fashion, so you'd just have to call it "curiosity".
Once a man has decided to trim his scrum, you'd think that the tough call had already been made and all else would follow easily. Far from it, dear readers.
First off, you've got the question of equipment. When I was a boy-man, I was convinced that technology could tame my incipient beard. The creams and foams and heavy-handled cartridge razors that my dad used every morning held a fatherly, masculine mystique, but they also looked like a pain in the ass.
Some days, despite years of practice, my dad would shave off whole patches of skin. For myself, I never wanted to have to use a styptic pencil on my face. How many people have a styptic pencil in their medicine cabinets anymore?
So it was three sprung, rotating Norelco blades for me. Though I grew up during the heyday of Miami Vice, narcissistically trimmed stubble, and beard-trimmers designed to leave the stubble, I remained true to form and never followed that fashion. I always thought the stubble made Crockett and Tubbs look like clowns… like homeless, pedophilic, Ferrari-driving clowns in pastel Armani.
Every morning I'd run my buzzing shaver like a mechanical, hair-eating lamprey over my face. And that's one reason why I decided against mowing the old bean-bag with an electric shaver. I'm not comfortable with anything buzzing down there. Besides, as I recall, most shavers advertise a "lift and cut" technique to shave closer than a blade. Ouchy.
Thus my vetoing the use of any mechanical depilatories outright. Tweezers? Please. I don't have five hours and an urge to self-mutilate. Epilady? I spent years feeling sorry for females who punished themselves with that coiled-metal cobra of pain. There's no way I'm applying that thing to my wedding tackle.
What about chemical depilatories? They do work rather painlessly and extend the promise of less trauma. In high school, Nair worked well when the wrestling team smeared it all over a teammate's furry legs. Then they convinced the poor guy that water would activate the stuff, thereby giving it time enough to render large, random patches of his legs smooth and glossy. But it's stinky and it seems a little aggressive to be slathering onto a kit bag.
Wax isn't as stinky and it's not too messy, but I'm not paying anyone else to smear my scrot in wax. The closest I ever got to intimacy and wax was an ex-girlfriend sharing, over dinner at Cocos and with borderline hysteria, the details of her new sex-life with her S&M erotic photographer boyfriend who was four years older than her dad. Besides, I hear that it doesn't work too well on loose skin, tending to tear away little chunks of flesh with the hair. As warm wax plus scrotum guarantees loose skin… ouch.
There's the do-it-yourself, wax-like depilatory goo from Down Under: Nad's. You'd think it'd be perfect, a real, purpose-named product, but it has all the drawbacks of wax and I can't think of the stuff without chuckling. There's no way I'm coating my nads with Nad's.
Straight razors came to mind and then left immediately, running and screaming. As much as I appreciate tools and the skills to wield them, I'm man enough to admit that I don't have the skills to shave my family jewels with a six-inch blade. I'd more likely be a "color" story for the evening news.
At the other end of the technological spectrum, you have laser hair removal. A technician wielding a laser to blast the hairs from my sack. Enough said.
That leaves me with the trusty safety razor, but even there you're ambushed by a galaxy of choices. Two blades? Three? Five? Battery powered? Ergh. Gel and soothing strips? I didn't think the strips would be much use. I imagined doing a lot of grabbing and stretching taught, something the lube strips would hinder.
Finally, I settled on the dead-common, two-bladed, no-lube razor you can buy by the gross at Costco.
Once I'd chosen my preferred weapon, I then had to decide how far to go. Do I work my way up and raze my pubes? Do I work my way… uh… back? I'd be damned if I did anything requiring a mirror.
So one fateful day last week, armed with my razor and some time in the shower, I did the deed, opting for the fully "clean" look. I didn't leave a racing stripe and I didn't carve a little heart. I find that crap contrived and just plain unattractive. Of course, I never intended any of this for looks.
How has it changed my life? Well, apart from feeling rather "slick" all day at work and not having to worry about a trapped pubic hair splitting my urine stream into a wild, amber hydra, not much has changed.
It is starting to grow back in though and I think it's going to be a trial. Talk about "jock itch".
Pakeha