From men to mid life crises, from Botox to Brazilians, from infertility to infidelity, every week Jacqui Leigh gives her personal take on being a fortysomething woman
The pressure of staying hairless
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Daniel’s been lying to me. How big a fib I haven’t figured out, nor why. In a way it wouldn’t bother me, except that at this very moment I am contemplating spending a small fortune on a course of laser hair removal, a summer offer which I need to book soon. Completely fucking ridiculous I know. But I can’t cope with all this waxing - such a waste of time and all the small talk with the beautician (yawn) and, guess what, it keeps growing back!
Obviously if this relationship doesn’t last I may regret having spent the money. So I kind of need to know the truth.
Alternatively I could just decide to revert to my true hairy self. If you think I have a fixation with this particular issue you should read the Guardian. It seems like barely a week can go by without some angst ridden, outraged female columnist going on about it. Well I’m tired of reading about how all women feel under pressure to be hairless because they feel they need to look like porn stars. Or because we’re too weak minded just to do whatever we want. The truth is most women who shave their legs or armpits choose to do it because it looks nicer and feels nicer.
The same goes for pubes. A big hairy bush? Whatever floats your boat. But, when your boyfriend is spending an unprecedented amount of time in that particular area it seems only natural to keep it neat and pretty and, um, accessible. If that’s too much information, then stop reading right here. You really won’t want to know about Daniel’s talents in that particular department. I had no idea that oral sex was supposed to feel like that, nor had I ever met a guy that seemed to have much interest in it.
Back when I was young and free and went out with a variety of men, cunnilingus, to give it its horrible Latin name, was mostly a brief, poorly navigated trip down there, and I would have to act like I was enjoying it while feeling, bizarrely, that I ought to be grateful. Perhaps I was the one with the problem but I never knew how to relax and most of the time they’d never stick at it long enough anyway. Funny, because blow jobs have always seemed to me to be every man’s birthright, something that most guys expect regardless of whether we feel like doing it or not.
Anyway call me a late adapter, I really don’t care. At least I got there in the end and now I know what it’s all about! So when angry women journalists rant about the pornification of sex, I can’t help thinking that maybe they just need some really good oral sex to appreciate the pleasure of a smooth hairless pussy. That’s real equality as far as I’m concerned.
Back to the fibbing. This relationship with Daniel is new territory for me. I have no idea what to expect, what it means, how long it might last, whether it’s purely carnal or whether it might actually turn into something meaningful.
As I said, the beauty of it is I don’t really have to worry about all. Commitment, the future, a house and kids are no longer what it’s about. A rich guy to take care of me might be nice but that’s never going to happen. I’ve never been attracted to the kind of guy dangling his Porsche keys and wearing Paco Rabanne.
In which case, it must be about fun and compatibility. And sex of course.
However, if he’s lying about something, I would like to know why. It’s something to do with that house. I haven’t seen any evidence of flatmates and though it’s a bit run down and scruffy, it doesn’t feel like a shared house. And there are other things. Cautiously I point out to Daniel that most twenty-nine-year-olds don’t still have their old toys and school books under the bed.
He bursts out laughing.
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