Page 53 of Seeking Her Studs

And yes, my little beast is my vagina. It’s not so much the hair that’s not letting her look her best. It’s the fact that it’s growing back in uneven patches. And I’m not talking just uneven length. I’m pretty sure that my pubic hair is having an identity crisis. Some hairs are thin while other patches look like a prison’s barbwire. My pubes never get a chance to fully grow in and as a result, they seemingly don’t know who they are. Which, now that I think about it, I feel a little sentimental toward them. I can relate to their struggle.

But they’re all still coming off. Even if the guys haven’t seemed to mind one bit, I’m starting to.

But according to a quick search of the businesses in the area, I’m the only one I trust enough to do it. Which is saying a lot, because I don’t trust myself with much else besides a script. I’m just not trying to have pictures of my identity crisis vagina all over the internet by going to some waxing parlor whose best review was three stars because they were next to a donut shop, which made it smell nice.

I warm up a strip of drugstore wax in my hand that I made Briggs buy on his last trip to the grocery store.

I peel the sticky layers apart and I glance at the box again to interpret the graphic of a woman ripping her hair out with a big smile on her face. I smile big and pull.

Then I swear very, very loudly. That part is not on the box, but holy hell, it should be. The box also failed to mention that the wax will get the hair off along with an entire layer of skin. Now, in addition to insane-looking hair, a bleeding strip of skin tops the beast off, making it look like roadkill.

The bathroom in the cottage is small, so I have to sit on the edge of the white porcelain tub to further assess the damage. I lift my leg to get a better view but yelp when something tugs at the skin on my butt. I look to see what the hell is happening, when I see the treacherous pink color of the wax strips stuck between my butt and the bath basin, glueing us together like concrete.

“What did I do to deserve this?” I ask to the empty bathroom. I try to stand slowly, hoping the wax strip will glide off either my skin or the porcelain. One has to give. Right?

Wrong.

I’m just prolonging the pain of my skin being ripped off of my body like a torture device.

Plan B comes to me in a rush and I know that I have to go with it or I’ll be stuck in this bathroom for the rest of my life. I launch myself forward with a big rip, but I overestimate just how much momentum I need because long after the strip rips off, I’m still barreling through the air. I grab onto the towel rack on the wall, but it gives out under my weight and sends me barreling to the floor.

The towels and the rack come crashing down on top of me.

I hear another crash and I’m positive that it’s the wall giving in too, but I realize a moment too late that it’s even worse.

“What in the hell?” A low voice rumbles as the bathroom door slams open.

As if this moment couldn’t have any less dignity than it already has. I curl my naked body up into a ball, trying to hide as much of me as I can as I move the green towel covering my face just a sliver so I can assess the situation.

Colt’s large frame fills the bathroom entrance.

“Are you okay? Did someone break in?” I can hear the adrenaline in his voice. His legs are spread and his shoulders lift back as he scans the entire bathroom, looking for the threat.

Which he will soon learn is only me. I’m the threat to myself.

“I’m okay,” I say as I debate what to do with my body.

Before I can make a decision, Colt is lifting the bar off of me. I scuttle to the back of the wall and pull my knees in but wince at the bare waxed strip and lay my leg back out.

“You’re bleeding,” he says as he grips my leg and spreads it open to get a better look.

“Colt!” I reprimand him, but when our eyes meet, I understand something immediately.

He’s scared. Right now, he’s in management mode and can’t see beyond trying to solve the problem.

“Did someone do this to you?” He gets up, ready to chase whatever intruder he thinks just barged in on me in the middle of nowhere and forced me to get a terrible wax job.

“Colt! Take a deep breath. No one was here besides me and I’m bleeding because I’m an idiot.” I hope he’ll just let me leave it at that.

“You’re not an idiot.” He says gruffly, looking between me and the door. I almost think he’s disappointed he doesn’t get to chase down someone right now. For a second, I debate giving him the manufacturer’s name so he can have a strong word with them.

“You sure about that?” I wince, curling my arms around myself tighter.

Finally, he takes a deep breath and the adrenaline I saw in his entire demeanor eases a bit. He sits on the edge of the bath and I grimace, hoping he doesn’t now have my skin-filled wax strip stuck to his pants. His strong palms grip the edge of the bath as he assesses me and the evidence.

“I don’t think you were redecorating, so would you mind telling me what in the hell happened?” He says, with one eyebrow cocked at me. He’s not totally at ease yet and I don’t think he fully will be until he knows for sure that there’s no threat.

“Some hair maintenance gone wrong.” I scrunch my nose and avert my eyes as I say it, silently praying to the heavens that he’ll leave it at that.

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