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  The Napalm Incident  

hated that little fucking tuft right over the top of the crack. No matter what I did, no matter how hard I stretched the skin or scraped the razor, no matter how I positioned my legs or what shaving cream, gel, soap or temperature of water I tried – I just could not get that tuft completely gone.

I went berserk over that tuft. I say it in the past tense like somehow I’ve evolved. But this is not the case. I am still berserk over that tuft, even though (at the moment) it’s pretty well been uprooted into oblivion. For now. It’s like there is a remnant of wild boar DNA hidden inside of me that is tenaciously determined to show itself right there.

The tuft is dug in like a Jungian animus, like archetypical Shadow, like something that only shows its face in a dark and secret place. It’s not just hair, it’s Deep Hair. It winds its roots around the base of my spinal cord and threatens to take out my entire skeleton if I dare remove it.


It was a Friday night and the kids were with Tom. I had time to muck around in the world of feminine self-care, and I was going to emerge in a short time with a Clean Smooth twat and I could stop the madness once and for all.

I went upstairs, lined up my products, and stripped down. And, being a good documentation expert, I read all the directions. I wasn’t going to be like all those other girly-girls in the world, just slapping it on any old way. Nope, I was going to approach this in an intellectual, methodical, sensible fashion.
Well, mostly. I didn’t have time to do the patch test they advocated. That’s for those silly women who have sensitive skin. . . . I knew I was cool enough not to have sensitive skin. And when I finally did slather the stuff on, I realized that my Wild Boar hair was going to need a few extra minutes of depilation, just to really get into the roots. So I left it on, well, perhaps a tad too long.

Sure, it stung. It was supposed to sting. Meant it was working. And yeah, my skin turned a fiery red almost immediately: another good sign. But the problem first started to manifest when I tested a little corner to see if the hair was just going to slide right out . . . and saw most of my skin coming off on my finger. Not the hair, mind you: just the skin.

It took me a few extra minutes to realize that the stuff was still digging its way into my body while I was gently trying to rinse it off. I tried a washcloth but it pulled off more skin. So I started, with increasing haste, to get it off, splashing water all over the floor.

Did it hurt? Ah. Yeah.

About fifteen minutes later, there I stood, with a pubis that looked for all the world like the back of those baboons in the zoo. Bright red, shiny with peeled skin, and yes, quite a bit of hair still happily manifesting itself throughout the region.

I sizzled. I oozed. I stared at myself in the mirror and thought, man, I’ve done it this time. . . .

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