One of the dating rituals I find most irritating is the trend for a shaved muff. As a working woman, I resent how expensive, sore, fiddly, cold and time-consuming it is. Sure, I’ve been working all week, studying for a diploma, going to the gym, making a curry, calling my mother, doing the food shopping, planning my weekend, doing my tax return, dismantling the Christmas tree, renewing some library books, vacuuming my bedroom, trying to work out where to recycle lightbulbs and sniffing the air vent to make sure the old lady next door’s not accidentally gassing herself – BUT PLEASE, LET ME SHAVE MY PUSSY FOR YOU.
It’s not just the pussy either, there’s all the other rigmarole that comes with it. You’ve also got to pluck your eyebrows, pluck your nipples, shave your underarms, shave your legs, exfoliate, and moisturise so you don’t immediately shed a layer of skin like a leathery old snake-hag. By the time you’re done it’s nearly midnight, your arms are in agony and your hard-on’s disappeared down the plug hole with half your beaver.
Why do we make it so hard for ourselves? It’s been a while since I’ve engaged in any rumpy pumpy with the opposite sex but from what I remember their intimate grooming ritual didn’t involve much more than giving their balls a cursory splash in the shower. To all those women who think the feminist fight is over, I say this: you’ll know we’ve achieved equality when you can swill an eggcup full of water round yer bean and be considered appropriately prepared for sex.
Perhaps I’m naïve but I had assumed my fellow sapphists would be fairly gung-ho when it came to hair down there. Surely they had no time for this bollocks? They were too busy overthrowing the patriarchy. I imagined having to unearth clitorises from clouds of mad curls, sweating and pumping and yodelling like a Mongol. Not a jot. I’ve never seen such a polite line-up of beans. They could take tea at Claridges. They could run the FTSE 100. They’re the least sexual sexual organs I’ve ever seen. It’s like making love to a packet of turkey ham.
The Thai, alas, is no exception so one night I decide to bring it up:
“So, there’s something I wanted to talk to you about…”
“What?” she says nervously.
“No, no, nothing bad…it’s just…I’m not really a fan of shaved pussies. They look a bit…bald.”
“Oh!” she says, “Oh. That’s cool, I can grow it out for you.”
“Not fully, just, you know, I like something there.”
“NOPE. You asked for it. I’m going full on 70s bush.”
A couple of weeks later, the Thai and I are preparing for bed. She wriggles out of her knickers and I snort when I see what she’s done:
“Did you shave your pussy into a heart?”
“No! It was accident.”
“No!! Fuck off, it just looks like that!”
I crack up and silence her protests with kisses. Was it really an accident or does it mean something? That’s not a box I’m willing to open just yet.