Daniel Saynt VS The Brazilian
Few things spark my curiosity, but when an article in which Jay Z and Diddy claimed to engage in wonton acts of self inflicted pain for the purpose of having smooth nether regions hit my desk, you could say my kitty was more than a little amused. The idea that two of the biggest, “bad ass” rappers of our day would admit to a little too much grooming had me thinking that maybe, somehow I was missing out on an amazing experience. Hell, Jay Z was married to perennial wet dream, Beyonce, and his claims that “Bald is Beautiful” had me thinking that maybe my places where the sun don’t shine could one day embrace the light of day and not shutter in fear.
So I resolved in my mind to get a Male Brazilian and this is the story of my adventure.
Finding a spot in NYC to get this sort of thing done is a snap. There are dozens of spa’s dedicated solely to men and some of which that offer special discounts for taking care of your man parts. Of course I lived in Brooklyn and the thought traveling on the subway with a recently stripped down durf just didn’t seem to appetizing. So I decided to call a few places and find one that would be most accommodating. One spa (which will remain unnamed) asked simply “Why?” when I called about performing the Brazilian. That was followed by a “Let me go check” and a “Yeah, sure she can” which had me slightly fearful. If a waxer was gonna be down there, I wanted her trained and ready to go. No questions asked. Just a quick in and out slip of the wrists to bald bliss.
The next spot I called was the Apple Day Spa, a Manhattan import that recently opened an outpost on Atlantic Avenue. The spa was running a 50% off waxing deal to celebrate their grand opening and I figured that a spa from Manhattan might know a thing or two about handing a male customer. The spa attendant assured me that they had waxed men before and asked fewer questions so I was ready to go.
Not me, but of so gross.
It’s weird but you tend to wear different clothes when you know someones gonna be staring at your balls. It’s almost the way you dress if you were looking to meet up with a MySpace jump-off or for some Craigslist Casual Encounter (never engaged in either, just know how to dress the part). I was wearing a pair of loose cut-off sweatpants, some slip on sneakers, and a tee shirt. Everything easy to rip off and put back on, in the event that something went horribly wrong.
I headed over to the spa with future wifey, Rebecca and made a bee line for the hostess. Rebecca stated what she was looking for, a leg wax and a Brazilian, and I stated what I wanted, a straight up, bare as the day I was born wax attack. The young woman made the effort to stress that it was a new thing for men to get them done, but that they could handle the job (I’m sure this was in part to my cringe as I stated what I was looking to get. I figured Becks should go first as she could give me the skinny on the procedure.
The waxing took place in a small room with a table that looked like it came straight from a doctors office. A tiny Asian woman, who was set to do the deed, instructed Becks to jump on the doc bed once she pulled some white tissue paper over it. She quickly undressed and set her self on the table. The woman slathered on some chocolate scented wax and began stripping away layers of blond hairs from Rebecca’s legs and thighs. Not a cry, not a whimper, not even the occasion sound of air being sucked through clenched teeth. With no signs of pain I felt comforted that maybe the classic scene in the 40 Year Old Virgin in which Steve Carrel endures massive amount pain for beauty may have been some silly lie by Judd Apatow.
I stepped out of the room as Beck’s treatment continued. 30 minutes later she emerged, refreshed and with a massive smile on her face. “Your turn,” she said has her lips quickly settled into a smirk that called a quick chill to run up my spine.
I headed into the room as the middle-aged waxor prepared the table for my procedure. “What you want, back?” she said in a kind of broken English. “No,” I replied as I felt blood rushing to my cheeks (both of them). “You want chest?” “No,” by now I was completely flushed and instantly regretting my decision. “So what you want?”, “Brazilian, ” I replied.
“Oh, okay. Take off your pants.”
I pulled my shorts to my ankles and began edging my sneakers out of them (probably should have taken them off first). Suddenly the thought of my manhood flopping around seemed weird and I instantly realized how cold it was in the room. “You can hold it,” the Chinese woman stated to my utter excitement. I sat on the table and the woman asked me to lie down flat. “Don’t worry, not hurt too much.”
The first patch of chocolate scented wax was smeared on my thigh. The warmth was comforting and as the woman applied the first strip of a cotton-like gauze I felt that this might not be as bad as I had thought. I mean Becks made it out with out a whimper and being a dude who was capable of handling massive amounts of pain (I once took a bullet to the arm and didn’t cry. Okay, that didn’t actually happen, but I’m pretty tough) I should be able to take a little hair removal, right.
Wrong.
For a second I thought I could feel every single folical of hair being simultaneously ripped out of my side. Actually, I could feel every single folical of hair being simultaneously ripped out of my side. The pain was unimaginable and I suddenly felt the pain of every woman who has had to endure this painful process.
The Asian devil woman (as I will fondly refer to her for the rest of my life) asked if I wanted to continue. Knowing that missing a patch of hair on my leg was probably not the best look (vanity before pain), I decided to finish up and pointed her to a few more spots of grass that needed some mowing.
Strip, strip, strip and suddenly the pain had decreased. She worked her way around my johnson and created a perfect v-shaped patch. I asked Satan’s Mistress how often she administered her brand of justice. “Oh, here never, you first man, but in Manhattan, all the time. Little boy like men come in and get hair taken off for dancing at strip clubs and body builders come in too.” I start to wonder in which of these groups Jay Z would fit.
A few more strips and my thighs are completely bare. She then asked me to lift my legs and tells me to rest my foot on her shoulders. She slathers on hot wax to my ass neck and places a strip gently between my legs. “Hold on” she says as she pull the white cotton strip up, taking with it my last shred of dignity.
She then stated she was done and handed me a mirror to check out her handiwork. If there we’re more careers in which you’ve done a “good job” when an area of someones body is left inflamed and agitated our nation would be in a worse state than it is today. I thanked the Bride of Satan and proceeded to move off the table. “Wait” she hissed, “Need alcohol, scrotum bleeding.” “I’ll take care of it” I replied and grabbed the bottle from her gloved hands.
As I wobbled away from the Spa/S&M Parlor I realized how childlike I suddenly felt. With the pain gone, I was suddenly enjoying my new found freedom and I’m happy to admit that I am enjoying the feeling of being bare down there. I’m not sure if I’d ever state that “bald is beautiful”, and I’m not sure if it will become a regular activity, but I’m sure that if you really want to get to know your significant other or want further proof that women are tougher than men, then you need get the strip. Plus, it really does make EVERYTHING look bigger.
