Sex. Can we just talk about that for a moment? Do you mind? Because I want to talk about it. It feels like I’m not having enough of it. Five minutes ago, Bear and I were happily shagging like rabbits, and now I almost need to remind myself that I should probably “put out” tonight.
Since meeting Bear, my libido has gone through the roof. I’ve been hornier, more confident, and definitely more sexually open than I’ve EVER been with anyone before. He makes me feel hot. Super hot. Like I could almost be the hottest woman on the planet. I prance around in teeny-tiny little pants, shaking my ass and being suggestive all the time, but when it comes down to it – the nitty gritty, down to business, sex – I don’t want to do it.
I find this problem really ironic considering just a few posts back, I happened to write about what I think women should do [/might want to try] when their libido has disappeared and their men have started to panda them for sex. And yes, I have tried taking my own advice.
I was waiting for a wax. A bikini wax. You need to let your hair grow a little before you can have it waxed, obviously, and that’s the bit I can’t stand. I haven’t had pubic hair since I was 16 years old. My boyfriend at the time asked me to shave it all off, so I did. I’d already had a shot at trying to trim it using an electric lady shaver and in the process found myself bald by accident, so it wasn’t an alien concept to me. I actually preferred being bald.
I haven’t let my pubic hair grow back since then. With the exception of a few months here and there where I may have been single/breaking up/not in any danger of getting my chuff out, I’ve been the proud owner of an entirely shaven haven. I don’t think I’ve met a single man who’s complained, and I don’t have any intention of changing the down-there situation. I was a shaver for many years, but after having my first bikini wax I was hooked! Yes, of course it hurt, but it feels so amazing afterward. I couldn’t stop touching myself, that’s how great it felt. How great it feels every time. Baby-smooth. So smooth. Oh my gosh, so smooth.
Why am I telling you this? Because I wanted to show Bear the joys of a wax, which meant I needed to let my hair grow a little. In the process, I felt about as sexy as a dead fish. I’ve moved to a new area now, so I need to find a new salon to get my bikini waxes, and also a nail bar, a hairdresser, close emergency tampon-source. Plus, I don’t have any female friends here yet. I feel a little … lost?
So, I don’t feel sexy because I’m hairy. I also feel lost. I have no female companionship and I don’t know where I am. I have just moved in with my boyfriend, I’ve become a step-parent, of sorts, and I also moved a two-hour drive away from my old friends and family. I don’t know how to find the places that would usually make me happy, and as ridiculous as it might sound, getting my nails done and having a freshly-waxed vagina makes me damn happy. More than that, it makes me feel good about myself – it makes me feel sexy. I mean, Google helps, but it’s no substitution for girl-talk over a coffee. Y’know – “avoid that place around the corner” suggestions between friends.
Bear doesn’t care about the hair. He tells me all the time.
“I don’t care about the hair. I love the hair. I have no opinion over the hair. I think you’re just as sexy today as you were the first time we got in bed together. Stop worrying about the hair. It is not a big issue.”
He thinks I’m sexy as hell and sometimes that has a good effect on me. It makes me feel amazing. At other times, however, like right now, it irritates me. His hands wander over me and I want to bat them away. He snuggles up to me in bed and I want to roll to the other side. It has nothing to do with him. I still think he’s the hottest man I’ve ever met, and I still want to rip his clothes off. It’s just not at every opportunity like it was at the beginning. But the fact that he doesn’t care about the hair, doesn’t matter. I care. It matters to me. I don’t feel sexy with the hair intact. I just don’t feel sexy.
I forgot about this part of moving in with someone: having to keep up with your own personal admin slightly more stringently than you perhaps would’ve done when you lived the single life. I know it’s not a big deal. I mean, c’mon, it’s pubic hair. There are worse things in the world. I know this. I’m not stupid. But it’s a really big deal for me. It’s one of those things that affects how sexy I feel; if I have stubble, I don’t feel sexy.
All that aside, my mental health has been playing up. I’ve had two anxiety attacks in the last week, one when I was confronted by the biggest bee I’ve ever seen in my life, and the second when my cat attacked me during a violent game of try-to-shut-the-cat-in-the-bedroom-before-my-mother’s-bulldog-eats-her. I haven’t had an anxiety attack in a long time, and boom, here come along two at once. Two days in a row.
I think it’s change making me feel this way. You know how well anxiety and change go together … they don’t. I’m a little lost. I’m a little anxious. I’m a little confrontational. Bear and I are fighting quite a bit, but it’s stupid, little fights. They’re not even about anything important. And it all came together in one awful day, two days ago. It was the day I posted about my Nana and the entire day was just brutal. We’ve been struggling a little with money because so many things seem to have gone tits-up at once. I thought I was going to get a LARGE payment I *should* have received back in December, and then the client gave me another bunch-of-crap excuse-filled email that essentially meant I probably wasn’t going to get the payment. My hopes were up, and then they were down and then I couldn’t get the day back. I had no energy. I couldn’t even be bothered to open my mouth to talk, so I just avoided Bear entirely, starting fights so he would just leave me the hell alone. I wanted to be left alone. I was getting really sick of being screwed over and skint. Between the old house and the bills that came with it, and being screwed over by four different clients over the Christmas period, I’d had about enough. I was tired of being optimistic and hopeful. I was sick of being polite and friendly. Bear got the full force of it and although we did argue and say things we probably shouldn’t have, he handled it like a pro. At 4am the next morning, we decided to talk about things properly and I cried, getting everything out. He wrapped his arms around me and let me rant. He’s a good man, a really good man. I need to get a grip.
I bottled everything up. Bear didn’t know about any of the problems: the payment, the emails exchanged, the post about my Nana and the guilt I felt about all of that. He knew nothing. Instead he just thought I’d “gone off” him. I was moody, grumpy, short-tempered, and on top of all of that, we’d stopped having sex and I’d started getting really upset about stupid things — like pubic hair.
Last night, I took matters into my own hands. I shaved my damn pubic hair, I exfoliated, I shampooed my hair three times (because I hadn’t washed it in close to a week), and then I left my conditioner in for longer than usual. I turned the music up while I was doing this, and I sang in the shower. Loud. I moisturised my body, twice. I air-dried myself in that way that women do, and I let my hair air-dry naturally too. I sprayed myself with perfume.
Long story short, Bear and I had sex. Sticky, necessary, urgent, speedy sex that scratched all the itches we had. He slapped my ass so hard he left a handprint, and then he held my hands above my head and against the wall with one hand, making me come – gush, in fact – with the other. And when we went to bed together, we cuddled and slept the entire night through, waking nakedly tangled and with a smile on our faces.