Hair, Pt. 2

Hair down there was featured in all the porn that blew through my yard. It naturally became associated with the truly incomprehensible acts being portrayed therein. Then, when I moved from porn on the wind to the pinup phase of my development, it disappeared. Breasts were always in full view, but pubic hair was generally concealed by garments or strategically positioned legs. Except in a few images, where hints and wisps of it emerged here and there to imply the greater mysteries beyond. And they were mysteries, because even in the actual Playboys of the day, you saw hair, but little real anatomical detail. (Of course, Penthouse showed everything, but in a way that ruined it for me.) The hint was magical, though. I remember one image of a woman crouching to drink from a hose. The water splashed onto her white blouse, making it translucent, and her legs were spread, so that you could see up one leg of her very short cutoff jean shorts. Not only could you see hair in there, but a few strands emerged and caught the sunlight. Here was a mystery whose furthest edge was bared to the sun, but still concealed. The mystery of the pussy is essential to the masculine erotic imagination. For us, our dicks just hang out there all the time, but women, even when they are naked, are concealed. Like angel wings, the pudenda enfolds around the secrets of female sexuality: clitoris, vagina, and all the subtle forms we both long and fear to touch.

Personal preferences aside, there are very good reasons for liking one or another style of grooming. The purpose of pubic hair is to catch sexual fluids and expose them to air so they evaporate and spread hormones on the breeze. In other words, pubic hair is kind of designed to get wet and smell. So, if you want to have sex with as little messy fluids as possible, and you're concerned about odor, you've definitely got to do something about the hair. That's your choice, but once you start down the path, you might end up with something like Daniel Evans Weiss describes in The Roaches Have no King:
A summary of my depressing examination will suffice: her labia majora were cool and dry. The footing around her clitoris was firm, and the clitoris itself was tiny. Disappointed by her odor, her texture, her talc . . . I stuck my head into her vagina. Oh, there were powerful tastes in there. One was vinegar. The other was a poor chemical imitation of strawberry. She had poured herself a TV pussy, which is probably exactly what her tin-can husband liked.

But me, I like my deep romantic chasms to be savage places.