By contributing writer John Marcher
I recently caved in to the mounting peer pressure surrounding the shaving of my pubic hair. Don’t get the wrong idea here, there wasn’t some sort of outright campaign for me to get rid of it, put on and funded by family and friends. Not by a long shot. There was just a gradual erosion of the confidence I had in thinking that by leaving my pubic hair completely alone (henceforth referred to as “el natural”) that I could do no wrong.
I had always understood that as far as girls go, having it shaved, and completely shaved, was for the most part the way to go… but guys??! I felt it was a throwback to our caveman roots, a totem to our masculinity; it seemed utterly preposterous to me that one of my kind would ever fathom shearing it off… until… well, maybe I’m getting a little ahead of myself here. Maybe I should take a step back and try to explain to you why it is that I had always held this small patch of fur so close to my heart.
For starters, I have a shaved head. Not the kind where I was going bald and decided to attempt to camouflage it as much as possible. No, I shaved my head six years ago, before my senior year in high school. I had no idea what it would end up looking like, and it took a lot of balls (not shaved) to do so. I found out that I have a large, handsome, highly symmetrical dome. A noggin that makes me proud to shave it each and every day I get out of bed. Because of this fact, I had always thought of my el natural as some last vestige of a once proud civilization. And even a meager act such as washing it in the shower would make me think of how my pubic hair was evidence of my own virility… and that the carpet matches the drapes.
So when I started noticing a gradual increase in the number of porn stars (through my continued study of pornography since the ancient times of the dial-up modem) shaving or at least trimming their pubic hair, it struck me with dismay. Then, when I attempted to query my male peers about the subject, it really began to hit home. The vast majority of my sexually active college-age male peers did at least some type of hedge trimming. Absolutely mind-boggling! I had no choice but to take the debate to the only true source of enlightenment that was left—the final authority on the question that has been around since the dawn of
time (or mammals): women.
I decided to start off by asking women I had dated what they thought of my specific crop of pubic hair (as randomly questioning the public at large might draw suspicion of some abnormal motive). The overriding consensus was that not only did I need to curtail the length of my pubes, but below the waistline, I was some out-dated version of Cro-Magnon man. One girl complained that it scratched her landing pad, another that it tickled her nose when she gave me head, and still another secretly wondered if I had a name for my pubic hair, like Sherwood Forest. The reviews came one after another, and while some were indifferent, most showed a mild disdain for my pubic hair and its length.
Until the last girl I asked. This was the part when my face started to melt. My last, and most recent ex-girlfriend actually told me that she had held off on deep-throating me because of it.
Hold on for a second here, did you just read that? I said deep-throating!!! The holy grail of oral sex! Wholly-whumpus motherfucker this shit was not cool. It was about then that I dove headfirst into a whirlwind of deduction, trying to figure out how my life had sunk to such a sad and dismal point.
I really couldn’t believe what I was hearing. My whole life I had considered myself of below average hairiness. Of Swedish descent, I had accrued soft wispy hairs over the majority of my body at a later age than what it seemed to be every other boy in my class, and beyond that, my father wasn’t a hairy man, nor was his father before him. I had seen men such as Robin Williams and Pete Sampras on television growing up and knew for a fact that I lay at the bottom of the hairiness totem pole. This was indeed devastating news to say the least, and it called for some serious rumination on the origin of my now seemingly indefensible stance on the subject.
After contemplation, it seems to me that the issue dates back to when I was in the 7th grade. My father had purchased a brand new beard trimmer, and, fascinated with the device, I had shorn my then-sparse tuft of hair along with shaving the sides of my head! Just the sides. After finding out, my parents quickly relayed me to the barbershop where there were lengths taken to sharpen my hack job of a trim into some sort of retarded bowl cut.
But the story doesn’t stop there my friends; the timing of this incident was precipitously positioned exactly prior to the taking of my 7th grade class picture. This meant that beyond the pragmatic abuse of my friends and foes alike in homeroom, this disaster was forever on public record! I had seen the old yearbooks in the library, they had all of them dating back to the founding of the school! Talk about bad timing. I twinge with fear at the very sight of this picture now and have continued to bury this occurrence deeper and deeper into my subconscious. Until just last week frankly, when after serious examination of the issue as a whole, I buzzed my junx like a sheep ripe for wool.
And oh, how glorious it is to finally be free of the dead follicles that once clung to the upper part of my pelvis. Among the many benefits of having given up this last remnant of what was once my hair, I’ve cut my shower cycle down to a clean three minutes (along with a cleaner pelvic region), I’ve achieved a slimmer looking stomach, and I can now penetrate even deeper into the pleasurous depths of the vagina. (Not to mention I have now permanently excluded the possibility of contracting pubic lice! One STD down, a hundred and fifty-seven to go!)
Beyond that, I’ve learned to cherish and adore that young rapscallion who once excitedly experimented with a beard trimmer, because I’ve come to realize that that adventure in hair trimming was what allowed me to shave my head bald in the first place, giving me the beautiful, masculine, exceptionally virile dome I have today.
So if there is any advice I can pass along to you incoming freshman, or college-age males of any shape or denomination, it is that the sooner you shed your hair down there, the better off you will be. Society is a cruel and fickle mistress my friends, learn from the mistake I made and hopefully, with a little luck (and maybe some grain-alcohol) you won’t be denied the hot deep-throating action you so deserve.