Wetlands. Charlotte Roche
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 lady-fingers. 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 movements 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.
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