I prefer waxing--and I go all out, paying a woman in a salon (mostly decorated in clinical whites with accents of pink--got a mental pic yet?) and she takes me back to the room, tells me to disrobe, then comes back and then waxes me back to...infancy? Prepubescence at least.
And she lifts a skeptical Latina eye when she asks if I've been having erectile issues.
"No," I reply. "Maybe if you were a little more masc it might engorge a tiny bit, maybe?" None of her swipes with moisturized hands (none of which was at all intended for eroticism/HE, mind you), nor my squeals of delight (OINK!) as she rapidly--ZIPPP!!!!--tore through the fur that had previously signified my adulthood, was enough to allow an erection to distract from the view: like a baby bird, featherless and puny, newly hatched from the egg.
And then, with the pride of resisting heterosexuality's attempts to pull me in (NOT today, Jesus!), I pull up my sweats over wonderfully smooth, and somewhat sexier, me. Hey, I can use all the help I can get.
And frankly I do it to make me look bigger (ahem.. um: cough, cough), seem more hygienic, promote improved anal appearance, and, most importantly, to never suffer the indignity of whimpering at the sharp pain from a silicone cockring (or three or four) being snagged by a nest of hair as it is chucked off at the end of playtime.
I guess the other parts could be shaved (legs, thighgap and whatnot), but I otherwise find it hard to devote the time to removing wads of hair from a Daisy razor, esp when I've got other stuff to do--except to make the above the only hair appointment I've made since the pandemic changed everything...
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