I have to let the skin grow back. How long will it take? Weeks? Months? What do you have to eat to help the skin of your ass grow? Mackerel?
Do they want me to push a dump past open flesh? No way. How many days and weeks can I hold it in? And if I do manage to hold it in for a long time, the crap will get really big and harden and hurt even worse when it has to pass. I’ll ask. They’ll have to give me something to cause constipation so the wound can heal. I push my SOS button.
Waiting. While I wait I look through the other shots Robin took. Not one makes the wound look any less gruesome. What is that beside the wound? All sorts of red pimples. What the hell is that? I feel around both ass cheeks with my fingertips. I can feel the bumps. I didn’t notice them before. My sense of touch is stunted compared to my sense of sight. I need to improve my sense of touch, this is no good. Where did these pimples come from? Allergies? Am I allergic to butt operations? I look at the photos again. Ah, now I know. It’s razor burn. They shave you before an operation. Obviously not too daintily. Chop-chop, run the blade across. The only thing that matters is to get the hair off as quickly as possible. Probably without water or shaving cream. Just run the blade over, dry, to rip the hair out.
They’re even more unceremonious about shaving than I am on my own. I used to not shave at all. I thought there were better ways to fritter away the time in the bathroom. And I found better ways. Until I met Kanell. He’s from Africa. Ethiopia to be precise. One Saturday he stopped at the fruit-and-vegetable stand where I work to earn a little spending money. I set the stand up at four in the morning and sell produce until afternoon. My boss, the farmer who owns the stand, is a racist. Which is hilarious. Because he thinks he needs to stock exotic fruits and vegetables. A gap in the market. But who besides people from Africa, India, South America, or China knows how to prepare dishes with pomelos, sunchokes, and taro root?
So my boss rants all day long about foreigners, about what an insult it is that they want to shop at his stand, and about their accents. This despite the fact that he’s attracting them because of what he’s selling. Kanell didn’t understand the farmer’s question: “That it?”
He had to ask the farmer what he meant. The farmer was so patronizing in his explanation that I slipped away from the stand afterward to apologize.
I ran along the rows of stalls looking for him. Finally, I was standing behind him. I tapped him on the shoulder and he turned around. All out of breath, I said: “Hi. I’m sorry. I just wanted to say I was ashamed of the way my boss acted.”
“I could tell.”
“Good.”
We laughed together.
Then I got nervous and couldn’t think of anything better to say than: “I’m going back to the stand.”
“Are you shaved?”
“What?”
“I asked whether you were shaved.”
“No, why do you ask?”
“Because I’d love to shave you sometime. At my place.”
“When?”
“Right after work. Whenever the market closes.”
He writes his address down for me, folds the piece of paper up small, and pushes it into my dirty palm like a little present. This definitely qualifies as one of my most impulsive dates ever. I shove the note into the chest pocket of my green apron and walk proudly back to the racist’s stand.
I don’t want to think too much over the next few hours about what to expect at his apartment. Otherwise I’ll get too anxious and might not even go. That would be a shame.
When I’m done for the day I shove my under-the-table wages in my pocket and head for the jotted-down address. I ring the bell labeled Kanell. Apparently it’s his last name. Or perhaps he’s got such a complicated name that, like some soccer players, he’s just picked out a pseudonym that stupid Europeans can pronounce. He buzzes the door open and calls down the staircase: “Second floor.”
I step inside the entryway and the door closes hard behind me. It practically hits me and a cold breeze rustles my hair. The mechanical arm that closes the door is set too tight. There’s a screw someplace in it that you can loosen so the door closes more elegantly. My father taught me that. If I start coming here often, I’ll bring a screwdriver sometime and fix it.
I hike up my skirt and wriggle my hand into my underwear. I stick my middle finger deep into my pussy and leave it in the warmth for a moment before taking it back out. I open my mouth and stick my finger all the way in. I close my lips around my finger and pull it out slowly. I lick and suck as hard as I can in order to get as much of the taste of the slime on my tongue as possible.
There’s no way I can spread my legs for some guy—to get thoroughly eaten out, for instance—without knowing myself how everything looks, smells, and tastes down there.
In our bathroom are all kinds of useful mirrors that help me look at my own pussy from below. A woman looking down over her stomach at her pussy from above sees it from a completely different perspective than a man with his head hung between her legs in bed.
A woman sees just a tuft of hair sticking up and two bumps hinting at the outer labia.
A man sees a gaping, hungry mouth with knots of flesh all over it. I want to see everything on me the same way a man sees it; they see more of a woman than she does herself because everything down there is oddly hidden, just out of view. In the same way I want to be the first to know how my slime looks, smells, and tastes. And not just lie there and hope everything comes out alright.
Whenever I go to the bathroom I dip my finger into my pussy before I piss and do the same test. I dig around, scoop out as much slime as possible, and sniff it. For the most part it smells good—as long as I haven’t eaten a lot of garlic or Indian food.
The consistency varies a lot. Sometimes it’s like cottage cheese, other times like olive oil, depending on how long it’s been since I washed. And that depends on who I want to have sex with. Lots of guys prefer cottage cheese. You wouldn’t think so. But it’s true. I always ask in advance.
Then I suck it all off my finger and slurp it around in my mouth like a gourmand. Most of the time it tastes good. Except once in a while when the slime has a sour aftertaste. I haven’t figured out what causes that yet, but I will.
The test has to be conducted every time I go to the bathroom because I often run into the dilemma—or unexpected pleasure—of spontaneous sex. Even in those situations I want to be up-to-date on my pussy’s slime production. Helen leaves nothing to chance. Only when I know exactly what’s going on with my beloved, precious slime can a man slurp it up with his tongue.
I’ve done the taste test and am happy. I’m ready to be looked at and tasted. The smegma has a bit of age to it, a truffle flavor, and that makes guys hot. Usually.
I climb the stairs. Not slowly, as if I do this all the time. No games. By walking up quickly, I show him how excited and curious I am. At the door he takes my hands in his and kisses me on the forehead. He leads me into the living room. It’s very warm. The radiator is boiling away. Someone could comfortably hang out naked here for a good, long time. It’s dark. The blinds are down. There’s just a little table lamp with a twenty-five-watt bulb. It illuminates a bowl of steaming water on the floor. Next to that is a folded washcloth and an old-fashioned men’s razor and a can of shaving cream. The entire couch is covered with big towels.
He quickly undresses me. The skirt is the only thing that gives him trouble—complicated clasp. Lifting it up isn’t good enough for him. It’s all got to go, the clothing. I help him. Then he lays me down at an angle on the couch. My head in the back corner, my butt on the front edge. I put a foot up on the arm to brace myself, so I’m lying there as if I’m at the gynecologist—Dr. Broekert position.
He undresses completely in front of me. I hadn’t expected that. I thought I’d get undressed and he’d stay clothed. All the better. His nipples are hard and he has a partial erection. He has a very thin cock with an acorn-like tip, and it dangles to the left. That is, to my left.
&n
bsp; He has a loaf of bread tattooed on his chest. The shape is more like a round sourdough than a loaf of rye or multi-grain bread. Gradually my breathing calms down. I get used to unusual situations quickly. I fold my arms behind my head and watch him. He’s readying everything and seems pleased. Looks like there’s nothing for me to do except lie back. We’ll see.
He leaves the room and returns with a miner’s lamp on his head. I have to laugh and tell him he looks like a Cyclops. We’ve just been reading about them in school. He laughs, too.
He puts a pillow on the floor and kneels on it, saying he doesn’t want to get calluses on his knees. Then he dunks both hands into the hot water and rubs it onto my legs. Aha. He starts all the way down at my ankles, moving upward.
Then he sprays shaving cream into his hand and spreads it on my legs. He dunks the razor in the hot water and tracks it down the entire length of the leg. Where he’s run the blade, the foam is gone. He makes one straight line after another. Like a lawnmower. After each razor run, he shakes the blade clean in the water. Hairs and foam are swimming on the surface. Fairly quickly, both legs are naked. He says I should have my armpits done the same way. Crap. I was already looking forward to having my pussy shaved. If he’s even planning to do that.
He wets both pits with water and sprays in the shaving cream. He has a harder time under the arms because the hair is longer. He has to go over some of the same spots several times to get it all off. My armpits are also very deep, so he has to pull the skin tight in various directions in order to be able to shave across flat surfaces. He throws a circle of light on my skin with his miner’s light. When he gets close—to get a better view—the circle tightens and the light intensifies. When he pulls back, the lamp throws dim light on a wide area. The circle of light always illuminates the exact spot where he’s looking at any moment. And the intensity of the light tells how carefully he’s looking at the spot. I see the light fall frequently on my tits. More often on the right one, the one with the snake-tongue nipple. My face seems to hold little interest. Once everything is smooth, he ladles water from the bowl into my armpits to rinse away the shaving cream. Then he dries me off. And I dab myself with a towel, too. We smile at each other.
“And now,” I say, patting my hair-covered pussy.
“Hmm.”
He wets both hands and dampens the whole area. From my bellybutton down, left and right along my thighs, and then on down between my labia to my butthole and on to the top of my ass crack. He looks closely at the cauliflower. A shaving obstacle course. Then he sprays shaving cream on all the dampened areas. It tingles on the labia. Zhhhh. He massages the foam into the skin a little and reaches for his razor. He starts on the thighs. The pubic hair growing down my legs is shaved away. He puts the blade just below my bellybutton and stops. He leans back to get an overview of the area and a crease appears on his brow.
He says: “I like that the hair grows up that far. There I’m going to leave everything. I’ll take a little off the sides so we’ll have a long, dark stripe down to the split. Then from there all the way back, everything is coming off.” He doesn’t look me in the eyes, but talks instead to my pussy.
It answers: “Understood.”
On the sides he mows the lawn down to a stripe. He tapers the stripe right to the point where the tops of the ladyfingers rise. Now he’s on to the labia. Finally. Finally. He puts his head between my legs. That’s the best way he can light up my pussy with his lamp. It must look like a hairy lantern. Glowing red inside. He carefully shaves my ladyfingers. Then he has to spread them because he wants to work on the inside edges, too. Again and again he makes his way through all the crevices. Until there’s no foam to be seen anywhere. I want him to fuck me. Which he obviously will after the shaving. Have a little patience, Helen. He says I should spread my legs wider but bring my knees up closer to my body so he can get at my ass. He asks whether the bulges on my butt hurt.
“No, no, that’s just hemorrhoids that have worked their way out. If you’re gentle, I think you can shave right over them.”
There’s much less hair in back. He runs the razor up and down my butt crack a few times and once around the anus in a circle. Done. Once again I’m drizzled with what is now no longer hot water from the bowl. The shaving of my crack made my pussy produce a lot of slime. Now it mixes with the water and is dabbed dry by Kanell. But it oozes more immediately.
“Do you want to fuck me now?”
“No, you’re too young for me.”
Stay cool, Helen. Otherwise that nice feeling down below will disappear.
“Too bad. Do you mind if I fuck myself here then? Or do I have to wait until I get home to come?”
“Please go ahead. You are very welcome to do it here.”
“Give me the razor.”
I hold the blade end and shove the handle into my wet pussy. The handle’s not as cold as I expected. Kanell’s hands have warmed it up.
With rhythmic motions I let the handle glide in and out. It feels like the finger of a fourteen-year-old. Like Hansel’s finger of bone. I rub the handle hard between my labia, back and forth. Harder. It’s the same motion as cutting bread. Hard bread. Forward, back. Forward, back. Sawing. Sawing. Deeper.
Kanell watches me.
“Can you put the lamp on my head? I want to light myself up.”
He stretches the elastic headband around my head and adjusts the lamp so it’s exactly in the middle of my forehead. I look at my pussy and thereby light it up. Kanell walks out of the room. Ooh la la, shaving’s got me hot. I lay the razor on my stomach and stroke my smooth-shaven, naked labia with both hands. Dear nonexistent God are they soft. Soft like kid leather, soft like avocado pits. So soft that I can barely even feel them with my fingers. I rub them faster. And come.
And now? I’m sweaty and out of breath. It’s so hot in here. Where is Kanell? I get dressed. It’s even warmer. He comes in.
I ask: “Do you want to do this again?”
“Love to.”
“When?”
“Every Saturday after work.”
“Good. That’ll give me a week to grow the hair back for you each time. I’ll give it my all. See you then.”
That was the first time I shaved. Or rather, that I was shaved. Anyway: my first shave. Since then we see each other almost every week. Once in a while he doesn’t buzz me in. Or he’s not home. Then I have to run around for two weeks with stubble. I hate it. Either totally shaved or hairy. It always starts to itch worse and worse. So I have to do it if he doesn’t. But I never do it anywhere near as well as he does. Not as slowly and not as affectionately.
Shaving myself is stupid—I’m spoiled in that regard now. I’m used to being shaved. I think that if men want shaved women, they should take over the shaving. Don’t saddle the women with all the work. In the absence of men, women wouldn’t care at all how hairy they were. The best arrangement I can imagine would be for men and women to shave each other in whatever way they find most pleasing. That way each would have the exact hairstyle that got their partner the hottest. Better than just hoping for the best from the other person or trying to explain it. That’s nothing but trouble.
For me it’s all about just getting it done. I shave myself fast, zigzagging all over the place, and rip myself to shreds. I’m usually bleeding afterward, and the open razor-burn bumps gets infected. Whenever Kanell sees that, he scolds me for treating myself that way. He can’t stand it. But even I’m not as careless as the person who shaved me before the operation on my ass.
A nurse walks in. Unfortunately, it’s not Robin. Oh well. I can ask her, too.
“What happens if I need to have a bowel movement?”
That’s what they call it. I can break out that phrase, too, if I feel like it. Depending on who I’m talking to.
She explains that as far as the doctors are concerned, it’s desirable that you take a crap as soon as possible. So no log jam develops. She says it’s better for the wound to heal with regular bowel moveme
nts so that everything grows back together properly and is able to stretch normally. They must be out of their minds. She says Dr. Notz will be right in to explain everything. She walks out. While I’m waiting for Notz, I think about all the things that can cause constipation. So many things come to mind. Notz comes in. I greet him and look him right in the eyes. I always do that when I’m trying to intimidate someone. It occurs to me what long, full eyelashes he has. I can’t believe it—why didn’t I notice that before? Maybe I was too distracted by the pain. The longer I look at him, the longer and fuller his lashes become. He’s telling me, I think, important things about my bowel movements, my diet, and my recovery. But I’m not listening. I’m counting his eyelashes. And making noises every now and again that are supposed to make it seem as if I’m listening closely. Uh-huh.
Eyelashes like that I call eye-mustaches. I can’t stand it when men have beautiful lashes. Even on women it bugs me a little. Eyelashes are a constant theme in my life. I always pay attention to them. How long they are, how thick, what color they are, whether they’re dyed, done up with mascara or with a lash curler, or both, whether they’re stuck together with sleepy seeds. A lot are light at the ends and darker at the base so they look much shorter than they really are. If you were to put mascara on them, they’d suddenly look twice as long. Me, I had no lashes at all for many years of my childhood. But I know that before that I used to get lots of compliments on my long lashes.
One day a woman asked my mom if it didn’t bother her that her six-year-old daughter had fuller lashes than she herself did, even though she used mascara and a lash curler. Mom always told me there was an old Gypsy saying: if you get too many compliments about one particular thing, that thing will eventually disappear. That was always her explanation, too, whenever I asked why I no longer had any lashes. I have a lingering mental image, though: In the middle of the night I wake up and mom is sitting on the side of my bed where she usually sits to read me stories. She’s holding my head still, and I feel cold metal along the edge of my eyelids. Snip. On both eyes. And mom’s voice says, “It’s only a dream, my child.”
Wetlands Page 4