Q life: with GABRIAL TABASCO

My Man­scap­ing Mis­ad­ven­tures Man­scap­ing: verb; the re­moval of un­wanted body hair from a man's body.

Q Magazine - - Q Life -

It has al­ways been im­por­tant to me to be and feel smooth and so over the years I have spent an in­or­di­nate amount of time and money be­ing waxed, shaved, trimmed or lasered. I've been plucked like chicken and zapped by a laser.

‘Next time wear a g-string' said the beau­ti­cian as she strug­gled to wax my in­ner thighs and to re­move my bum-fluff. I'm a tall guy with long legs; the av­er­age time for a legs wax is 45 min­utes. How­ever one beau­ti­cian, barely a beauty-school drop out, man­aged to break her own record of in­ef­fi­ciency by tak­ing two hours and still not fin­ish­ing to wax my legs. Our time ran over and she left me mid-wax to tend to another hairy man. In the end the surly re­cep­tion­ist was called in to fin­ish my legs and had no time for my chest.

‘You don’t need to wax your chest’ she said ‘ladies like their man with a sexy, hairy chest.’

I ig­nored her. ‘Can you also wax my but­tocks?’ I asked.

‘No. Sorry. My boyfriend does not ap­prove of that’ she re­sponded. ‘See you next time.’

Next time? Re­ally? Her pro­fes­sion­al­ism was as bad as the dé­cor (bright pink wall­pa­per and paint­ings of but­ter­flies). As I was leav­ing she said ‘for your next ap­point­ment be sure to have a fa­cial. You re­ally need it.’

When I did have my in­ti­mate ar­eas waxed by a fe­male beau­ti­cian I felt un­com­fort­able. When liv­ing in Lon­don I gave my cus­tom to a male beau­ti­cian who catered ex­clu­sively to men. Nor­man (not his real name) was big, hairy and so­cially awk­ward. He fin­ished wax­ing my legs. For my butt wax he in­structed me to get into all fours, ‘as if you’re get­ting into doggy style, but with your arse high in the air.’

I did so, al­low­ing Nor­man to ap­ply the (sur­pris­ingly pleas­antly) warm wax to my bot­tom. He then ripped it off with cruel ef­fi­ciency. I yelped and jumped up, my balls swing­ing in the air.

‘Stay still’ he barked. It was strangely sex­ual be­ing in such an ex­posed po­si­tion in front of a clothed man. De­spite the pain I got an erec­tion.

‘Straight men of­ten get hard when they’re in this po­si­tion’ said Nor­man af­ter spot­ting me ris­ing to the oc­ca­sion. ‘They’re not used to ass play and en­joy it. It seems you are too,’ he chuck­led be­fore rip­ping off what felt like another layer of flesh. Cup­ping my balls he re­minded me to keep still, to fin­ish wax­ing my sack and crack. I lay back down in re­lief that the pain was over.

‘It looks like you’re ready to pop’ he said stand­ing over me.

‘Erm… I guess…’ I stam­mered, not know­ing what to say as we both looked at my puls­ing erec­tion.

‘Let me help with that’ he said.

Need­less to say I be­came a reg­u­lar. Though Nor­man was good at his job he was abrupt and un­sym­pa­thetic to the dis­com­fort. As a man who was hairy he had never ex­pe­ri­enced tor­ture by wax­ing. ‘If you're pro­vid­ing a ser­vice, shouldn't you ex­pe­ri­ence it too?' I won­dered.

Nor­man wanted to fur­ther mar­ket his busi­ness. He set up a twit­ter ac­count ex­tolling the virtues of a hair­less body, an In­sta­gram feed show­ing half-naked hair­less hunks, a Face­book page for wax­ing tips and tricks, and a snazzy web­site to boot.

While ly­ing on my stom­ach wait­ing for Nor­man to wax my bump, I saw a flash go off.

‘It’s just for mar­ket­ing con­tent…’ he said, cam­era in hand, as if quot­ing his mar­ket­ing man­ager. Nor­man took a sec­ond and third photo of me. I didn't mind but he could have asked out of cour­tesy.

‘If you want to make an im­pact you might as well have a live demon­stra­tion’ I said.

‘I’m lis­ten­ing…’ he re­sponded.

A month later I was in a bathrobe wait­ing to be called into Nor­man's liv­ing room where, for that evening, he had in­stalled a low-level mas­sage ta­ble. In the name of mar­ket­ing, and in full view of Nor­man's top clients, I was to lie on my stom­ach and have my but­tocks pub­li­cally waxed.

A knock on the door was my cue to emerge. I downed my whiskey to calm my nerves and made my way to Nor­man's liv­ing room where I was greeted by half a dozen grin­ning men who were sip­ping wine, and look­ing at me ex­pec­tantly.

‘Please dis­robe’ said Nor­man sound­ing ridicu­lously for­mal. With all eyes on me I heard soft twit­ters from the au­di­ence as I re­moved my robe and po­si­tioned my­self naked on the bed.

‘Jake, hurry up and come and see this,’ shouted one man.

Mo­ments later, hur­ried foot­steps could be heard and then some­one, pre­sum­ably Jake, said ‘oh! Nor­man wasn’t jok­ing. He’s re­ally go­ing to wax this guy’s hole.’

As the men sipped their Proseco, Nor­man pro­ceeded to wax my but­tocks, art­fully ap­ply­ing and re­mov­ing the wax. He took a lot more care and time in front of an au­di­ence than in pri­vate. He was more con­ser­va­tive with the po­si­tion I was in, pre­fer­ring to spread my cheeks in­stead of hav­ing me on all fours, bum akimbo.

It be­came quiet for some mo­ments; the only sound heard was the wax be­ing torn off my skin, the clink of wine­glasses, some whis­pers and the click of a cam­era from Nor­man's ‘am­a­teur pho­tog­ra­pher' friend. Af­ter 30 min­utes the wax­ing demon­stra­tion was over. The party chatter re­sumed once more. The Proseco flowed. And my but­tocks was freshly waxed and wit­nessed by a room­ful of men.

I even­tu­ally moved away from Lon­don and be­gan laser ther­apy, a more per­ma­nent hair-re­moval treat­ment. I lost touch with Nor­man though from what I see on­line, he is as busy keep­ing men smooth.

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