My first “Hollywood” waxing as a woman

I love and miss the accessories of manhood associated with shaving.  The delicate bristles of the shaving brush, the pot of shaving of soap, the beautiful bone-handled shaver I had, its stand…and also the ritual, the pre-beard prep.  The creams after.  The lotions.  After-shave.

For me, it was always a form of aesthetic manhood that I was comfortable with.  One of the only ones.  It is also one of the only things that I have as a lingering memory of my father from childhood, the smell he had after shaving.

His own ritual was utilitarian—foam aerosol and a straight razor.  Done.  Even in a hurry, I wanted more.  I did flirt with an electric shaver for many years, but that failed in the end for not working magic on my skin.  Proof of the power of exfoliation lies with the wonderfully soft skin of a post-shave man.  Even better, a post shave woman!

I do still need to shave.  Electrolysis is a lengthy process, and I am taking it real slow.  Mainly I just go now when I am in New York, because that is the only place I have found a handful of practitioners who are really good and who are trans-friendly.  Because Italy is so dark-haired, laser is pretty much it.  It is almost impossible to find someone who does electrolysis and harder still for them to not do damage.

I flirted with a silk-epil.  It is a torture device.  The only stretch marks on my entire body come from when I was pulling my skin taught to lessen the pain of the silk-epil, and caused stretching.  It sucks.  My wife used to tease me that I was the only man she had ever seen naked who had more stretch marks than she did (she had none).  

When I was a teen, I used Nair.  Everywhere.  But I didn’t like the chemical feel or the smell, or how quickly things grew back.  My first attempts at wax were home wax strips.  The cost of a visit to the waxing salon and the fear factor as a young man, a teen, were just too high.

When I finally did have the courage to go for the first time I want to a wonderfully posh spa at Harvey Nichols in London.  My wife dropped me off and then went shopping.  After, she loved the feel but complained about the look.  It didn’t matter.  I was hooked.  I can remember laying there, my legs and body so tan from a summer of joy, I was at peak skinny then, and I was wearing a brand-new ribbed cotton thong.  I was sexy in the only way that an androgynous non-binary person could be.  And the technician made me feel completely at ease, did a fabulous job, and left me feeling better than ever.

I did not do my pubes on that visit, saving that for Nair.  But a process was set in motion that has lasted ever since.  

I have written about many of my adventures at the waxing salon, my Brazilian experiences in Miami, getting to know the various healing oils, and how my skin likes to go into the sea after.

Waxing your privates and your underarms never stops being painful.  But it isn’t that bad.  The underarms were the hardest for me as a man.  My intimate zone was painful to wax, but really not that much.  

I have also written about the pain threshold of my body on oestrogen is substantially higher.  I have felt this most acutely when I am being whipped.  And I mean whipped, not hit with a flogger or spanked, but whipped with a bull-whip or a long, thin single tail. 

What I can “take” as a woman is more than I should allow, and I am not proud of it, but I have never felt the need to tap out.  I should, but for some reason I can’t.  Something happens to me in my body and I am just gone, and so calm.  My Queen said, “wow, you don’t even flinch,” the first time she really whipped me.  I can remember that when she “wrapped” that it hurt in a way that I felt somewhat unpleasant, but I didn’t really care, because I was happy for this particular kind of attention.

I have also written about how the brain operates differently on oestrogen in relation to the genitals (and every other part of the body) in the sense that nerve growth, re-generation, begins to follow a female pattern, a process which accelerates post-op.  I find this fascinating.  My scrotal skin would have been quite sensitive, but now that skin makes up my outer labia.  And to the touch, I am already aware of how much more sensate it is.

But nothing prepared me for just how painful it is to have your labia waxed.  I didn’t howl in pain, and didn’t cry out like the woman who make us all laugh in the salon in Miami as she vocalised for all of us in our different booths what she was feeling.  She had us all in stitches as we were all experiencing the same thing.

But the beautician could see just how much pain she was causing.  She was absolutely stunning, by the way.  I am really glad to have found her just a few blocks from my home, and so much better than the one hour drive to the crazy sadist who was the only person who would work on a pre-op trans woman.  Now that I am a woman, however, I can just go where women go.  What a relief.

But my underarms were a walk in the park compared to the pain I felt down below, and the only explanation that makes sense to me, given everything else I noted, is that my nerve growth, sensation, has been so intense, that my labia really are labia now, not ex-scrotal skin.  Anyway, they look it.  She couldn’t believe that I am only just shy of 5 months post-op.  Not that she had ever seen a trans pussy before, but she called my coochie a “miracle”…as it looked exactly like every other woman’s who walks in to her salon.

But this little exchange made my heart go pitter-pat.

“You’re skin is so sensitive,” she said, “it feels like a baby’s skin.”

“Thank you.”

“I mean it.  And I can tell it is reacting like a baby’s skin would to this.  I’m sorry it hurts.”

“It’s okay.  The things we do to be pretty.”

“Yeah.  And they have no idea.  But yes, I want you to go to the pharmacy and buy some zinc oxide cream.”

“The same for babies?”

“Yes.  The kind you put on the diaper area when you change a baby.  Just ask for diaper-changing cream, and I want you to wear it to help soothe and heal your skin.  Okay?”

I did.  And I had fun with the pharmacist too, who understood exactly what I needed.  I also got lube, an acidic vaginal wash, and a cream that helps to foster the right environment for healthy vaginal bacteria.  This is much needed, as I never want to get a UTI again.

The process of waxing down there was different.  I left my panties on, and she just moved them aside to get at what she needed, asked me to the hold them for her, but it wasn’t anything like it had been as a male-bodied person getting those bits waxed, where I had to hold myself in part because they didn’t always want to touch.

This woman, apart from being very appealing, had no hesitation with the wax, but also in spreading talcum powder on me, or on putting the soothing cream after.  It was such a girl’s affirming experience.  To just be there, gossiping away, having a totally natural conversation, and one which was effortlessly intimate.

And it looks so pretty down there now.

Sadly, she is not a dyke.

What else was great?  The price.  The quality standard was extremely high, better than anywhere I have been.  She had these roll-on dispensers that put on a perfect amount of wax.  She was efficient and thorough.

Pricing for a Holywood, full-body wax in the various salons I have been to.

Miami: $280

New York: $400

London: $300

Milan: $150

My city: $90

We think so often about the cost of living, of wages, but I think I have it good—I live in paradise, I make my living outside of paradise at a higher wage rate, but my expenses in Italy are so much lower than they would be anywhere else—even my rent is one-quarter of what it would be in most major cities…I worked it out for San Francisco—I pay 1/9^th of what I would pay for the same quality of home there as I have here.  

No wonder I have an elevator in my house.  And now I have a bare pussy to ride in it with.