not caring about pubic hair

My Boyfriend Told Me He Could “Feel My Pubes” During Sex

"I'm back," my sweetheart declares via telephone all right opens our front entryway.

Fuck, I think. He's initial.

Don't misunderstand me. Indeed, even following 18 months of dating, I want my beau's organization virtually dependably. Infrequently that implies discreetly writing at our tablets one next to the other, and in some cases it means dismembering the latest scene of "Downton Abbey" while one of us is on the latrine. (On the off chance that my beau is the embodiment of the unsettled yellow familiar object Mom sewed for me when I was an infant, I'm approve with that. Both are incredible in bed.)

Anyway as excited as I am to welcome my beau after the five-day business trip that denied me of human warmth in bed for a really long time, I truly could have utilized the additional 20 minutes until his planned entry today. Despite everything I have to deforest my under districts, you see.

By this stage in a relationship, you might think I’d feel at ease about letting my pubic hair grow to lengths unseen since I started tending to it back in college. Such a minor infraction of The Unspoken Upkeep Agreement, right?

The fact is that I’m Type-A to the point of ironing pillow cases, so slacking off at anything translates into anxiety for me. As a result, I work hard at staying on top of work related correspondence, at ensuring that I have hummus in my fridge at all times, and at remaining physically attractive to my boyfriend.

Call me a Sorry Excuse For A Feminist all you need, however you'll never see a "mother hair style" on this head, and in case I'm in warm up pants, you better accept I've screened them for ideal butt-embracing potential. I'd preferably be called vain than danger losing my beau's consideration.

The extent that I'm concerned, however, feeling attractive doesn't oblige unobtrusiveness. Because of our open restroom entryway approach, my sweetheart has effectively seen some absolutely foul nose blowing, tweezing, shaving, and the insertion and evacuation of incalculable tampons. The length of I look put-together more often than not, I figure its charming to give somebody access to such private minutes.

Is this evening the time to add pubic hair trimming to the rundown of imparted individual practices? I envision myself on hands and knees, gathering rebel hair pieces with a hosed paper towel. For reasons unknown, the theoretical cleanup scene scares me. The pubes must stay for one more day! Aren't they simply the tissue paper while in transit to a blessing, anyway?

The comment that throws me off comes an hour later, while my boyfriend is inside me.

“I can feel your pubes rubbing up against me,” he says.

Did I hear him right? So focused was I on switching from top to bottom without letting him slip out — a satisfyingly sexy maneuver for the synchronized effort it requires — that I may have misheard him. I run through the list of possible alternatives: I can feel your moods? foods? cubes? nudes? glutes? The latter might make sense, but only if we were in the reverse cowgirl position. We aren’t.

I’m 99.72 percent sure he said “pubes,” and 100 percent sure that his comment wasn’t framed as a compliment. By my estimate, there’s a mildly reassuring .28 percent chance that he was kidding. Recently, I interrupted a rambunctious session following a gluttonous meal of spaghetti carbonara and homemade S’mores to deadpan: “Think we’ve burned off any marshmallow yet?”

As long as you can tune back into your steamy frequency, it’s awesome to crack up during sex. If the pubic comment was made in jest, however, the window for appropriate response time already passed. So either my boyfriend hates my vagina, or, thanks to me, we’ve both missed out on a mid-sex chuckle.

The next day, I prioritize “get waxed” over “pick up bridesmaid’s dress for Nicole’s wedding,” “renew passport,” and “re-teach self Algebra so you can tutor high school kids” on the ol’ To-Do List.

Half an hour after dinner, I start seducing my boyfriend, eager to repair his opinion of my lady parts. It’s not long before his hand is teasing the elastic band of my boy-short underwear. The grazing stops short.

“You’re bald again,” he says.

Is that disappointment I sense? “You’re the one who pointed out the need for landscaping!”

“Noooo. I said I could feel your pubes. Because I liked it.”

My shoulders sink in defeat. I feel silly for agonizing over what my boyfriend meant rather than asking him in the moment, and for considering that he might be anything but attracted to my vagina.

Mostly, I feel foolish for grooming my small plot of hair so vigilantly without questioning the habit for a decade. Contemplating the thousands of dollars spent over the years on maintaining my “hard wood floor” of a pubic region, I wonder why I fell prey so easily to the Playboy-porno-pubic model.

Funds and suckerdom aside, a little research demonstrates that the accentuation on shaving and waxing may be awful for ladies' wellbeing. Much like opposable thumbs and whatever sense makes us seize noisy commotions, pubic hair fills a straightforward need: It's there to ensure our female parts. Uprooting it leaves small openings, which can be welcome mats for irresistible microscopic organisms. Whether I change always to wind up what Caitlin Moran, creator of How To Be A Woman, calls "a pubicatarian," my wallet and I are glad to realize that my sweetheart isn't killed by a little hair. Also, for my next mid-sex joke, I plan to fuse a splendid red merkin.