Drop it like it's hot

Mission 1. Hook up with someone as old as my mom (54)and as young as my sister (20) in a month.
Mission 2. Live a completely gay lifestyle (without the gay sex) for a month.

Damn, I feel sexy. Like a sexy man-meat sandwich with sexy man-gravy on a lightly toasted (and sexy) ciabatta roll, super-sized.

In other words, I have never felt, uh, sexier.

I was late for my wax appointment. I’m always fucking late. Only 10 minutes, but heed this advice: when you put your trust in the hands of a stranger who is wielding a hot wax wand within inches of your Underdog 7, you want to keep said person on your side.

Last night, even the effect of hard alcohol couldn’t hide my surprise when I set foot in that place. Knowing Daniel, I expected it to look like the love child of Burke Williams and Sephora. But instead, it had more of an, ahem, pedestrian flair. Well, actually it was an awful mini-mall nail salon with a striped-green awning. I was at least hoping for a bit of glamour to get me into the spirit of things. Oh well.

When I arrived, an Asian woman looked at me and said, “he’s here.” All the women came over and just sort of looked at me. Maybe I was just feeling self-conscious. Then the silence was broken with two words “Wesh Wing.” Here we go again. I’m not sure if they really thought I was Rob Lowe or were just fucking with me behind a cultural veil. Regardless, I did turn to Daniel and saw him hiding a smirk between hugs with the nail ladies. Jackass.

This woman, “Jimmy,” (don’t ask) walked us back to a room with a green curtain. That was all that separated shirtless Rob Lowe from the droves of middle-aged women with ugly bunions in the main cabin. Daniel noticed my apprehension and let out, “She’s the best.”

Then he whispered in my ear, “Ask for happy ending.” That part took the edge off.

I took my shirt off, had a towel around my jeans and looked up into the water-stained acoustic drop ceiling.

“Very Nicsh, Mr. Raw Low. You have nicsh chesh. Thish no problem. Thish be easy.” She said.

Without another word I felt something warm on my chest. It kind of felt good. In fact, I thought it was going to be super hot, but it was warm and brushy. This woman was not bad looking either. A little old, but she was "in play" for me.

However, our honeymoon was cut short when the first piece of material destroyed 29 years of hair growth in a single tug.

”OUCH.” I screamed.

“Ish OK MR. RAW Low,” she said, “You get use.”

And you know what, I did get used to it. It hurt like hell, but I made it through. It was a strangely painful yet pleasurable experience. I’m not the pain/pleasure guy either. At least I thought I wasn’t.

That being said, I have been thinking about some strange stuff ever since I hooked up with that cougar though. And now I am experiencing a masochistic regression to a hairless boy state in the hands of yet another woman as old as my mom. I’m sure only Freud would understand what’s going on here. I fucking don’t.

But, for now, I’m just going to forget that psychology shit and enjoy the bounty of a perfect and hairless chest. I feel reborn, reinvigorated. It’s amazing what hairless pecs can do for your self–esteem. My transformation has taken on a life on its own, and I’m just going to enjoy the ride.