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The Manscaping Massacre

I recently went out on a date.

It had been awhile due mostly to the unemployment derived cash flow problems. I didn’t hink I wanted to get back into the dating pool.

I went to the bar, found the first republican there (remember, “republican” now means hot, classy lady) and proceeded to ply her with drinks until she agreed to dinner the following Friday.

We exchanged numbers, I called her twice in the week leading up to the big night and then waited.

Foolishly, I mentioned the upcoming date to Jessie and Theo.

“Do her where the sun don’t shine until the sun shines,” Theo called out from his computer.

Theo was wearing a viking helmet and a cape. I assume this had to do with his World of Warcraft addiction.

“So… who would go out with a dork like you,” Jessie asked.

“A hot, classy lady,” I told her.

“Yah right,” she quipped.

She paused for a minute and asked, “Are you prepared?”

“What do you mean?”

“Guys do things now. Are you manscaped?”

Jessie proceeded to explain that in the modern world of dating, if I wanted action I would have to trim my pubic hair.

“Oh come on, that’s for fags and porn stars,” I protested.

“Hey, maybe some old bag your age won’t care. How old is she?”

“Maybe 25 or 30.”

“Yah,” she said. “You better manscape if you hope to get laid.”

I laughed her off an explained that I was real man, cut from the Magnum P.I. mold but later, when I got home I started worrying about.

So after my usual bourbon breakfast I made the worst decision of my life.

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 my date 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 2011. 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 aren’t you. Jesus, you should have told me.”

“Fuck me, 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 and shot out the first thing I could think of:

“I’m a chubby chaser.”

“What the fuck?!?!”

By her reaction, I might as well have told her I was into dead bodies or sheep.

“You’re fucking sick. I work on this body for 8 hours a week. I count carbs. I limit my alcohol. No fucking way.”

She got out of the car and screamed “Asshole!” while she slammed the door.

Smooth. Real smooth.

I waited for her to get to her front door which allowed me to see her turn and give me the finger.

“Nice work, Lazlo,” I told myself and drove away.

Women are funny and I’ll never really understand them.

Four days later she called me, drunk, at 2:30 in the morning and slurred:

“I won’t gain weight for you. But. But. But, I’ll put on a thick sweatshirt and puff out my cheeks if you’ll come over and fuck me.”

Of course I did.

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About Suburban War Lord

Suburban War Lord

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