The Manscaping Massacre

I have no privacy in this house.

It’s part of the curse that is my life these days. No matter I do, Jessie and Theo manage to get into my business and, well, fuck it up beyond all reason.

It is like living with a couple of spider monkeys except larger, more intoxicated, less intelligent and fairly malevolent. I hate them.

Just two weeks ago I can home and tried to act normal around them. Then, unfortunately, they caught me getting a text from a girl I had just met.

Let me be clear…

This girl is fucking special. She’s beautiful and sexy and does amazing things like getting involved in civil disobedience and basically has everything I want…

So I get the text and in it she calls me handsome. So I smile and blush and then…

“You see that shit?” Jessie yells out from across the room.

“I saw that shit,” Theo replied.

I tried to ignore them.

“Who is texting you, Lazlo?” Jessie continued unabated. “It’s a girl. Some girl is texting you and you like her.”

“Go away,” I said.

“Girl like Lazlo and Lazlo like girl,” Theo chimed in.

“Are you guys always retarded?” I asked.

And then Jessie stood up on the ottoman and started rolling…

“Who is she? Where did you meet her? Is divorced? Kids? Is it complicated? What’s her age? Where did she go to school?What’s her sign? What’s her job? Does she sext it up? Are you the only one? Are you taking her out on Friday? Does she eat normal shit? Does drink just enough but sometimes too much? Are you going to put out?”

“Okay, first off, both of you can fuck off now,” I said. “Her name is Lynne. I see her Friday. She’s a vegetarian or something. Maybe she eats shrimp. It doesn’t matter.”

“A vegetarian?” Theo said. “You ate a Slim Jim for breakfast yesterday.”

“Shut the fuck up, Theo,” I said.

“Yes, shut the fuck up,” Jessie agreed. “How does she spell her name?”

“Why?” I asked.

“Because if it’s Lyn then her parents were hippies and you might get laid. If it’s Lynn then she’s basic and just wants a husband. If it’s Lynne then she’s too fucking classy for a guy like you unless she is temporarily slumming it.”

And that’s when the self doubt kicked in.

“You better manscape before your date,” Jessie added.

“Manscape, bro,” Theo said.

“Whatever,” I said. “You both suck. I know what I’m doing.”

“Do you?” Jessie asked. “You better find out how she wants it trimmed. Maybe she wants your fluff faded. Maybe she just wants a smooth shaft and marbles. Maybe she likes the 70’s natural thing. You fuck up the manscape and she WILL ghost your ass.”

“I use your beard trimmer,” Theo said.

I instantly barfed in my mouth.

“What the fuck, Theo?” I yelled.

“Yah… For years now,” he continued. “Basically, my junk has been all over your face.

I got up. I stormed out. They were booth deliriously laughing as I slammed my bedroom door.

And, besides the fact that Theo’s funk has been on my face, I was more pissed about how easily they got into my head.

All week I started second guessing myself.

The date day came and I finally snapped.

The scissor work went well enough, but when I got out the razor I ran into problems. The shaving cream wouldn’t stick. The hair clogged the blade. I got impatient and, well, I cut the shit out of my nutsack.

I called Jessie in a panic. My Boy Scout training never covered this.

“Hey, I told you. Just make sure she can see the bird and clean out the bushes. Why are you shaving the whole package?”

“I thought it would look better smooth.”

“Oh shit, you really are stupid. I should be the tutor.”

“Hey, this is bad. Blood is all over the bathroom.”

“How should I know how to patch your balls up?”

“I don’t know. You got me into this.”

“Get a fucking band aid or some gauze and duck tape.”

She hung up.

I tried to put a band aid on it but the sack kept changing size and shape. It was like trying to tie down a 5 pound block of Jello. The band aid wouldn’t hold.

I grabbed an old t-shirt and tried to apply direct pressure, laying very still on the bed.

It would seem to stop bleeding and then start up again.

The phone rang. This time it was Theo.

“Uh, you know, why don’t you apply a tourniquet?”

I could hear Jessie laughing in the back ground.

He hung up.

Real fucking funny. Real fucking funny.

If I had duct tape, I would have used it. All I had was Scotch tape. So I ripped a square out of the t-shirt and began taping it to my balls. Success. It was holding.

However, my junk looked retarded with my nuts shaved, taped and all sorts of random hairs popping out of the shaft.

Afraid of the razor, I broke out the tweezer and for a very painful 10 minutes I plucked my unit clean.

I picked up Lynne and gingerly walked her to the car. I was terrified the tape would fail and I’d bleed out during dinner so I was trying to walk with out moving my thighs. The affect was that I looked like a gay Frankenstein.

“Are you okay?” she asked.

“Oh yah, I’m doing good. How was your day?”

Dinner went well since I didn’t have to move. I was my usual 3-drink minimum charming self. I hobbled like a polio victim out of the restaurant and to the car.

When we got to her place, she turned in for a kiss in the car.

“This was fun,” she said. “I really like you.”

Heavy petting ensued, me with one hand up her shirt, the other gripping her thigh.

Things were moving smoothly until she reached for my crotch.

The taped nuts! The tweezer induced aching rod! I swatted her hand away.

“Oh my Gawd,” she said. “What’s your problem.”

She broke our embrace and was staring out the passenger window.

“Sorry, it’s just. Well, it’s hard to explain. You’re super hot.”

She turned and smiled.

“I get it.” (No she didn’t)

“You’re shy.” (Not really)

“Let’s go upstairs and finish this right.” (No way in hell)

“Oh man, that’s… That’s a great offer. I can’t.”

Pissed, she turned her back and stared out the window again. Her hunched shoulders began to jump. I knew she was crying.

“Hey, look, don’t do that.”

“What, you said I’m hot. You think I’m a whore or something? I mean, it’s 2019. Girls can express their urges too.”

“No, no, no. I don’t think that. It’s not that at all. It’s complicated.”

She sat up right. I could tell her mind was leaping to conclusions.

“Do you have herpes or something? I’m clean. I don’t want that.”

“No, I don’t any STD’s. It’s just…”

She got a knowing look.

“I knew it. You’re gay. Jesus, you should have told me.”

“Fuck no! I’m not gay.”

“What gives? What’s wrong?”

I raced for an excuse. If I told her why, it was probably over. A good lie? Well, maybe another night, after I’d healed.

I’m normally great at lieing, but I panicked.

“I just gotta go,” I said.

Her eyes narrowed. A reddish hue hit her cheeks. Her hands curled into fists.

“Uh… Bullshit. You are lieing. You are hiding something.”

“No I’m not!”

There was long silence, during which she shifted from anger to a subtle look of disgust.

“I get it. I know now.”

“You know what?”

“I dated a guy like you before. You are a chubby chaser and I’m too thin for you.”


“Well, fuck you and your sick self. I will do all kinds of kinky shit but I will never gain weight to make a man want me. I’ve been there and I was miserable. Sorry if I enjoy eating healthy and not having diabetes! Good night, Mr Gusto, and good luck.”

Lynne got out of the car, walked to her house. She paused. I waived. She flipped me off and then went inside and turned off the porch lights.

Sitting in my car, I was shocked by how out of control things had gotten.

Two days later a text arrived:

“Dear Lazlo,

I want to apologize for how I reacted. I should have been more understanding when you took the chance to open up about your fatty fetish.

I do not think I can indulge this side of you.

And while I try not to judge, I must honestly tell you that this thing of yours is not healthy for you or the women you are interested in.

But here is my problem…

I see in you a good man and those are hide to find.

I think that together we can at least modify and at best “correct” your deviancy. I suggest that we start by making out while I wear a heavy weight sweater, slowly reducing the thickness, until you learn how attract a normally proportionate lady can be.

I’m will to try if you are…”

Now you guys know me.

I am honest and loyal and true. And you know what? If faking having some bizarre fetish is the path to love then I’m all in.

So simply replied:

“Thank you, Lynne. I want to be better and want you. Can we start my healing on Thursday?”


She Knows

The path to HER?

It is laid out, stone by stone, for my heart to explore.

It long and winding and every turn stirs my soul.

She is a hue that Rothko chased until his heart stopped.

And this, she knows.