Wednesday, October 5, 2011

pubic hair is gross, apparently.

if you are unfortunate enough to have been born with a vagina, and you would like to attract the positive attention of a man, here is a list of what you absolutely must do in order to be considered desireable. some of them EVERY SINGLE DAY. hair must be dyed, cut, straightened, relaxed, colored, gently curled, flat ironed, softly waved, lightly tousled yet totally unfussy, cleaned, conditioned, deep conditioned, highlighted, lowlighted, and de-flaked. the whites of your eyes need to be as pure as the driven snow; eyebrows waxed and plucked and threaded, not so thick as to appear manly, yet not so fine that you could use them to slice deli meats;  creams and serums for the crows feet, laugh lines, dark circles, and bags; them skinny lashes need prescription eyelash grower, not to mention that scary-looking curler, lash glue with which to affix giant doll-like falsies, and nineteen coats of mascara; contact lenses, because glasses are for homely broads; besides, how else are we going to see your liquid-pencil liner, lash-to-brow base shadow, the lash-to-crease eyeliner shadow, and the brow arch highlighter shadow with those stupid specs on, poindexter?!

your skin is gross, so wash it. BUT NOT WITH SOAP, stupid! you need a gentle cleanser in the morning; a toner, a serum, an oil-free moisturizer, an eye cream, and a broad-spectrum UVA-UVB sunscreen during the day; an exfoliator, a toner, a serum, a free radical fighting moisturizer, undereye gel, a wrinkle cream, some antioxidant shit, something with peptides, and another thing to regenerate cell turnover while you sleep. when you get up you need to do a tightening mask, then a moisturizing masque, then a deep pore-cleansing MASK, then a detoxifying MASQUE. oh shit, you need to use zit cream, and acne wash, and blemish gel, and pimple solution. we gotta get you a primer. and a liquid foundation. and a loose powder. and some pressed powder. and how about some blot powder? a pore corrector? a line refiner? dang, gurl, your shitty face is a PROBLEM. and, goddamn it, we're going to SOLVE IT. but first you need a facelift. and a chemical peel. and some microdermabrasion. and while you're under maybe they could lift your jowls up a taste? seriously, just a smidge. mustache? wax it, or consider laser hair removal, you hirsute troll. your cheeks need to be permanently set to "rosy," and imma need you to maintain a sun-kissed glow, even in the middle of january. so get on that.

don't even think about touching me with those hands until they've been manicured, shaved, and dipped in parrafin for an hour. you also should get rid of those gnarly age spots. (i have a cream that will bleach those paws right up, don't worry.) your mouth needs some work, too. straight, white teeth (stop smoking and drinking wine, why don't you?) that have been brushed at least nine times today lest you offend anyone with that breath. mix some coarse salt with almond oil (or is it superfine sugar with mineral oil?!) to make an exfoliator for your lips, which need to be moisturized and painted a subtle shade of tramp. unless i want to bang you, which means they should be blood red. but if you're trying to get hired then they should be nude. and lined in a pencil that matches so you don't look like a chola. unless you're going for that; i hear nars was putting bitches on the runway with, like, grape liner and a semi-nude sheer beige stain. you need that, OBVIOUSLY. your crepe-y neck vagina is totally grossing me out, so you should enlist the help of  a surgeon. or that new la prairie $975 neck cream. it's made from the virgin mary's placenta, with some cavier and crushed diamonds mixed in. it is amazing, omg. YOU NEED THAT.

your tits need to sit up higher. and sag less. and be less like normal human tits. have you ever seen a fully-inflated beach ball? THAT'S what they should look like. and, really, they need to be pinned right up under your chin, which hopefully you remembered to pluck before you left the house this morning. can't you do something to make them more symmetrical? think more "titty balls" and less "titty sacks." and your areolas need to look like perfect slices of pepperoni. man, your whole body is horrifying. lose some weight, and tone up them thighs. because you need to be skinny. but you also need to have a gigantic rock-hard plastic booty. like...juicy, but not too juicy. make sure your anus is bleached and that all of the errant hair has been ripped out of your labia and butthole. ps, GET THESE: tiny waist, thin (BUT NOT MUSCULAR) arms, slender hairless calves, tiny ankles, and little itsy bitsy doll feet.

there is a piece in the new allure magazine (salma hayek and her boobs are on the cover) about new procedures women are undergoing to fix their fucked up, terrible, horrible, irreparable, dirty rotten stinking EYELASHES. who knew that something so tiny could cause your face so many problems?! gasp, THE HORROR. anyway, there's one called lashdip during which a bitch uses a little brush to paint a basecoat, semipermanent mascara, and shiny topcoat on each lash individually before drying them with a fan. at the cost of an hour and a half of your time, and TWO HUNDRED DOLLARS of your money. at home you're required to paint on a topcoat every three days, and at three weeks you have to go into the salon for a touch-up.

tell me i'm not the only one that shocked the shit out of. PLEASE. for real, imma need you all to reassure me that you read that and were all, "that shit is CRAY," not "what salon do they do that shit at?!" because i can get down for the justification of most beauty things, but come on. don't we lose nine hundred goddamned eyelashes a week? it's not enough that a tube of diorshow costs almost thirty bucks?! i gotta spend TWO HUNDRED on toxic eyelash paint?! gross. i don't give a fuck what anyone does with her body. SERIOUSLY, I DON'T. especially not if it's by choice (and not suggestion). and i try not to judge too harshly considering that i have thousands of dollars' worth of fancy cosmetics that i never fucking use littering my tiny apartment. now, despite my vehement support of your choices, would i rather you girls limit yourselves to the things i'm willing to do so i don't look like such a slovenly asshole? well, yes. yes, i would.

between readers at the sunday night sex show robyn and i answer anonymous questions submitted by our adorable audience about love, sex, and the gross dripping parts of the human anatomy. we get all kinds of shit: how can i introduce bdsm into my current relationship? i'm polyamorous but my partner isn't interested, can i change her mind? do you have any tips for how to make a woman ejaculate during orgasm? why is my boyfriend always asking for a threesome?! every single month, some furry little beaver in the audience submits some derivative of the "why should i have to shave my pubic hair if he gets to keep his gnarly hipster beard?"relationship query, and every single month my answer is the goddamned same, "FUCK HIM. YOU DON'T." revolutionary advice this is not. as with any optional feature not included on the cheap model, if you want power windows and door locks: YOU HAVE TO PAY FOR THEM SHITS.

i have the best gynecologist ever.
seriously. he's a mellow, straightforward, no bullshit type of dude who laughs at my jokes and doesn't talk about a whole lot of shit i don't want to hear about. he explained to me in vivid detail (WITH A STRAIGHT FACE) how to properly use a dental dam when i asked, "how do i protect myself from throatarrhea if i want to put my tongue on some hot dude's butthole?" he also told me that if i ever "experiment" with a lady (i'm too old to call it that, yes?) that i'd have to wear latex gloves to keep her period from seeping into my cuticles just in case she was carrying around the old hiv. he's fucking smart, man. and he's not a judgmental fucking asshole. i went in for a nasty bite wound on a place one ordinarily would not be brutally bit, and when i tried to be all, "um, yeah, this dog at work got loose and attacked me. my vagina smells like sirloin, i guess." he was like, "i don't care about your sex life. let's get you some antibiotic cream." WHAT A PEACH. plus, he brings his dogs to our hospital and it isn't even weird. as a matter of fact, it's quite refreshing to have a conversation with him when he isn't elbow deep in my vagina.

a couple years ago i had some cancer on my cervix. seriously, i am some kind of goddamned mutant between my ribcage and my pelvis, HOLY FUCKING SHIT. between this charred wasteland of intestinal tissue and my uterus that does not function in any way whatsoever, i really got the short end of the biological stick. anyway, while he was down there scraping and cutting it out (yum) i asked, "hey listen, while you're down there, can i ask you a sensitive question? do you think my bush is too much? should i take a lesbian to home depot and get some sort of garden utensil to handle that action?" this dude never misses a beat. "well, [scrape scrape scrape] your vagina is similar to a self-cleaning oven. or a cat. it takes care of itself, [cut cut scrape] and that hair serves a very important function. [scrape scrape] the length of your pubic hair should be whatever you're comfortable with. [scrapity scrape scrape] there is no right or wrong amount." he brushed it away from my knees and wiped his sweaty brow with it before tying it in a bow. "all done! and so absorbent!" (he might not have said that. especially not with that level of enthusiasm.) then i went home to "research" cervical cancer on in the cosmo health section (i am neither 1 smart enough or 2 patient enough to wade through a bunch of medical mumbo jumbo; I JUST NEED TO KNOW IF I'M GOING TO DIE, plz) and wait for my test results, excited at the prospect of losing SO MUCH WEIGHT from chemotherapy.

so i didn't die. which is too fucking bad. life is so long and so hard and do you know that i have to wear a goddamned diaper sometimes? get back to me when you figure out what to live for after you've shit yourself publicly in front of a hot dude. and listen, i have a MOTHERFUCKER of an "i have three months to live" to-do list. a lot of people better hope i die unexpedtedly in my sleep, because if i get any warning at all i'm going thelma and louise on some bitches. and you can tell by the damp patch of moss in my pants that i really took that pubic hair business to heart. "this sabre-toothed tiger takes care of HERSELF," i haughtily announce when unfastening my diaper prior to sexual activity. "so if you don't like a little nature's floss in your teeth, you can beat it up out of here."

my problem with maintenance demands, in general, is that they are often incredibly one-sided. and OBNOXIOUSLY SPECIFIC. i'm not talking your basic cleanliness and lily-gilding; should you brush your teeth and clip your fingernails before trying to convince someone to get into a reverse cowgirl situation with you? ABSOLUTELY. i mean all of the extra, expensive, time-consuming, painful shit: the plucking and waxing and scraping and filing and bleaching and lasering and pinching and pushing and pulling and ironing and chemically altering. that shit is like a part-time fucking job, and for what? a dude with crusty eye boogers who made you split a thirty dollar check?! yeah fucking right.

i got a brazilian wax ONE TIME. one excruciatingly painful time, at the request of a dude whom i sort of wanted to impress. a dude with manicured hands, no less. i lay on a table holding my skin taut while a tiny eastern european woman stood sweating over me spreading burning hot wax on my taint before using both hands to apply a strip of cloth and rip it from my goddamned skin. FOR AN HOUR. i walked around for three days feeling like my most sensitive parts had been dipped in a vat of boiling oil. i didn't feel more attractive, i didn't feel more womanly, i didn't feel sexier. i mostly just felt SALTY that i had spent all this money to end up with a pincushion vagina for a random booty call that never turned into anything more serious.

which brings us around to my other gripe: making a shit ton of arduous ladychanges with no guarantee of a return on that investment. like, i'll rip all of the hair out of my armpits if i know you can fuck good and won't try to sneak it in the back door. or i'll learn to walk in platform heels if you can promise me you won't bore me half to death while talking my ear off. can we trade a pedicure for a chest hair trim? an anal bleach for a nasal and eyebrow wax? throw in an ear hair trim and i might even consider snipping my butt hairs. and look, i understand that there are women for whom these tasks are absolutely no problem whatsoever. somehow you manage to poke and prod and truss yourselves up like a christmas ham and not become a festering boil of prettified resentment, and to you i say, GOOD JOB, SISTER. but, unless your name is halle berry and you get paid millions of dollars to walk around with your shit peeling and on fire, you're probably a little bit crispy that you've put in all this work for a dude with lint in his beard and balls of deodorant stuck in his nappy armpits.

that dude could've banged me with a titanium light sabre platinum-plated penis and it still wouldn't have made the shit worth it. to me, your regular penis for my war-torn, overheated, scalded, torched, burnt-up vertical smile is not a goddamned equal exchange. imma need you to holler at a penis extension, some hair plugs, six pack abs, a tight fucking ass, and toenails that aren't as thick as cardboard. plus some other shit i haven't thought of, yet. give me a minute, i'll figure something out.

here's what i propose we do. you girls should get together all of your magazines and bring them to my house. helen will make snacks, and we can all sit in my bed with notebooks and crayons and make a two-sided list. on one side: beauty shit you are willing to do. and on the other: rewards you get for doing them. because that really is the heart of the fucking problem. if i have to stand in a dry tub going at my bush with a beard trimmer for fifteen fucking minutes for a person who can hardly be bothered to notice, then i'm going to give MYSELF a special unsexy treat. like a new pair of crocs, that i get to wear with slipper socks. OUTSIDE. see? that makes me feel better already. let's try another one. if i [horrible beauty ritual], then i get to [disgusting, unsexy thing that makes you feel really fucking good].

so. if i wax my eyebrows and upper lip, then i get to eat bologna and cheese sandwiches in my underwear while watching gossip girl. or, if i get a pedicure and laser my chin hair, then i get to sit in the bathtub and cry while listening to fiona apple. AND SO ON. it's like giving a kindergartner a gold star. or a good dog a treat. plus, you ain't gotta resent nobody. i might have just solved female depression. FOR REAL. now pass me that at-home wax kit while i treat myself to some tori amos and a bowl of brownie batter.

ps, go give my other blog some love. xx