The mons pubis. I put it out there and it keeps coming back with bows on. Truly, the gift that keeps on giving.
The latest conversation I’ve had on this was with a man, my friend Vlad, one of the most interesting and likeable people I know. We were talking of other things when suddenly Vlad said he’d seen my blog. His wife, Ottolie, had forwarded him a link.
‘I like it,’ he said. This pleased me.
‘Yes,’ he said, ‘those hairless fannies are really paedo. Yuck.’ So far, so unanimous.
‘Personally, I like a sort of modified Hollywood.’ Now I was getting scared. It’s just the share too far, isn’t it? On lots of levels. The mental pictures are frankly from the nether reaches. Every bit of porno and erotica that’s clogging up those bits of my brain designated ‘SEX’ comes into play and it’s just not a way I’d choose to imagine my friends. Also, what if his wife knew I was talking about fannies with her husband? She might kill me. But what could I say? I started it. So I said nothing. He didn’t appear to require input from me.
‘You know, some hair is fine. What you don’t want is growth everywhere.’
Vlad, I’m sorry if you know who you are. You’ll probably never speak to me again and certainly not about fannies. But this, I can’t help feeling, this not speaking to me about fannies, is probably a good thing (although I’d love to talk about anything else). Especially if that’s what you think. Gone are my illusions of you as a feminist liberal. I grieve for your views. But I didn’t feel I could prolong the conversation by arguing for women in their natural glory from head to toe. (Especially as I die my hair and paint my toenails, but that’s another story.) Sorry if this sounds unduly intolerant but as I’ve suggested before, apart from any other considerations, if men won’t wax for me, why should I wax for them?
To be honest, and if the vocab isn’t too unfortunate, I fluffed it. I didn’t know how to end the discussion.
‘Heh heh, we’re all different,’ I said. Weak, I know. Weak. But how do you tell someone you feel their choice of conversation is inappropriate without sounding like an 18th Century governess? Especially when you’ve put it out there as though you’re down with the fannies and, like, totally at home on Pudenda Street.
And there we have it. Cathy Dreyer. Less cool than she thinks she is. I thank you.