To pube or not to pube
There is no quicker way to divide a room full of girl friends than with the following question: Do you Brazilian?
There are no fence sitters on this one.
Two camps are created – Team Brazilian and Team Bush. The former might include a smattering of Hollywoods (all off, no landing strip), but the latter is generally a motley crew of full bush and bikini waxes.
Without fail, in South Africa, the majority on either side will be shy about their choice.
Trust me. I’ve brought the topic up about, oh, a million times over the course of the past few months with different groups of women. Generally, this is what I get:
They: Sorry what? You mean my… you know…
They: Oh. Hm.
*crick crick, crick crick*
They: Wine any one?
Me: Only if it’ll make you interesting…
Luckily you’ll know who’s on which team by the following: Team Bush members will mutter-mutter something indiscernible about their bodies being accepted just the way they are thank you very much, while Team Brazilian members' faces will light up like little sunbeams for Jesus.
Why is that?
Because members from Team Brazilian know just how sensitive and awesome a hairless punani feels. It’s like expanding the surface area of your clit by a hundred.
And there’s the uh, rub, see.
Nine times out of ten, Team Bush members aren’t into their pubes ‘cos they’re genuinely all about lovin’ their bodies au natural.
They’re vaginally hirsute because they labour under some archaic concept of feminism that makes everything they do – or don’t do – to their bodies a declaration of ownership against The Male.
(Which I find odd really, generally they’ll shave everywhere else; it’s as if their genitals are some last outpost of feminazism.)
I’m not saying that some women don’t initially strip down to better liken themselves to Playboy bunnies with the misguided idea that men will find them more attractive.
I’m just willing to bet that every wax or shave after that is done 100% for their own pleasure.
You see, I’m something of convert really. A few years back I was all about keeping it real (hairy). Until a trip to a Thai spa, where a crazy little women stripped my sacred V bare under fluorescent lighting, patted me on the cheek and sent me on my way to a hair-free punani future. Sawatdi!
I’ve never looked back.
Every time I get waxed now I fall in love with my vagina all over again. It’s a matter of sensuality really. It feels lovely and soft, and oral has never, ever been better.
Which brings me to the bit where I care about Mr Man. Because unless you’ve got some weird (no judgies) loose-pube-lost-in-mouth fetish, no one likes to floss while they’re eating. And we were brought up with manners weren't we?
But that goes for his love bits also.
I’ve found quite recently that while I like my men hairy, I prefer their balls and base clean-shaven. It’s a win-win really: I don’t have to negotiate my way tongue through a jungle and he gets to enjoy a far more sensual BJ.