I couldn’t help laughing. One leg was in the air with my foot pressing against the wall, and the other leg was splayed out across the table. The woman’s face was only about 2 feet away from my birth canal. How has it come to this? The hot wax, the popsicle stick, the cloth, the press, the RIP. Who came up with this idea anyway? I have underwear on. But still. There are places where they make you take it off, where they ask you to put your legs over your head and spread your butt cheeks. What? Yes it’s true; get over it (or block it out, like I do). I’m laughing now because I’m imagining different scenarios where people walk into the room.
Tom: Lady Lewis! What in the name of the heavenly father—
Me: Tom no! It’s not what you think
Group of Teenage Boys: Aww Shit--
Louis: Uum, oh sorry… ah…hold on…okay just
Me: Close the door, Louis…Close the door…Go on Louis!! Just close it.
And what about the woman who performs the torture? I don’t know her name; she doesn’t know mine. It is better this way. No eye contact. No talking. Does she see it like a canvas? Or like a hedge? Or does she just see a vagina. I suppose there are worse things to look at.