Jenny, 34, lived in Hollywood, my favorite part of South Florida outside of Delray Beach. She was super-cute, Asian, and a bit of a nerd. We hit it off immediately. On our first date, we met at a restaurant near her house and had a great time. She was witty, sharp, fun, and very attractive. From dinner, we took one car and headed out to a bar for drinks. The conversation flowed easily and the night flew by. After last call, neither of us wanted the date to end.
Quick interjection here. If the date is going so well that you don’t want it to end, that’s fantastic. End it. This leaves you both eager for another date. Don’t stretch out a date too long.
Jenny suggested a different bar that might be open later. We headed there, shot some pool, and laughed the night away. There was no lack of chemistry.
I dropped her off in front of her apartment and she leaned in to kiss me. This was no simple goodnight kiss you might hope for on a first date. It left my glasses and car windows fogged up it was so hot. She was definitely leaving me wanting more.
Between that kiss and our next date, we texted incessantly. In the evenings, when alone, we’d talk on the phone and she’d text me an occasional photo of her being as evocative as possible while at least partially-clothed.
She wasn’t shy about the things she wanted to do to me and with me. Our next date, it seems, would be at my place.
We spoke every night. We were getting to know each other better and better each day, but still had only spent a few hours together in person. We’d ask each other about our dreams and desires and goals. Normal stuff. But two questions she asked seemed to cross a line.
After a few nights, and shortly before our second date, Jenny asked me when I thought we might move in together. In the midst of the conversation we were having, talking about our dreams for the future, this didn’t seem too out of place. But when she pressed the topic and I pressed back, it came out that her lease was ending in a few months and she needed to decide soon if she was going to renew.
Yes, we did hit it off, but we had been on one date. And even if all of the stars aligned, I think moving in together in a few months is a bit fast. Especially since I have kids.
I usually won’t introduce a love interest to my kids until I’m sure that we will be dating for awhile. This usually takes months. There was no way we were moving in that fast.
So it was good to realize that we weren’t on the same page that early on, I suppose.
Jenny asked me another funny question in the course of that week, this one a bit more risque. While getting particularly frisky with me on the phone one evening, she asked if I would shave for her.
During my marriage, I grew a beard once. It wasn’t a long, gangly lumber-jack beard, but a short and neatly-trimmed, face-hugging beard and mustache. Everyone loved it. Everyone but my ex. She told me that if I ever wanted to have sex again, I had to shave the beard. It turns out that to have sex again, I just needed to end my marriage to her. The beard didn’t interfere with the functioning of my sex organs. So after my divorce, I immediately grew it back and will likely have it when I die.
“My beard?” I asked, sounding naïve in retrospect.
“No, Silly, down there.”
“Oh. Whoa. Like what part?” Again, sounding a bit clueless.
“All of it. I promise, I’ll make it worth your while.”
I stammered and told her I wasn’t sure. Like most men, I’ve done a bit of trimming, but never gone fully bald. And don’t call me a hypocrite. I don’t demand that of my women.
But the seed was planted. I couldn’t strike the thoughts from my mind. What would it feel like? Maybe I’ll like it. Why not try it? Hmmm....
The thoughts followed me into the shower the next morning and before I realized it, my thoughts became a thick lather on my privates shortly followed by a razor-clean shave below my waist.
And it felt good. I stirred in my seat at work that day, enjoying the new-found feeling of baby-soft skin in my nether regions. It felt new and fresh. Maybe this will be a regular thing for me.
At home after work I felt like a young boy discovering his penis again for the first time. In the privacy of my home, I couldn’t keep my hands out of my underwear, admiring the smooth skin.
I didn’t tell Jenny, preferring to surprise her. If I did, indeed, keep my date with her.
There were three other things happening that week that threatened to interfere with our planned Saturday night date. First, my closest and oldest friend had just had back surgery and I was at his beck and call. He couldn’t lift his toddler or infant and his wife was left to do everything. I wanted to be there for them as much as possible. Second, Jenny had her foot on the gas a little heavier than I was comfortable with. After one or two dates, you shouldn’t be asking someone about moving in or shaving. I generally didn’t sleep with anyone until we’d been dating for a while and were sure we were going to continue dating. And she seemed bent on sleeping together that week. And finally, this was the week that Melissa from Brooklyn was coming to town. We’d already gone out for a drink, which turned into a long night together. I had refused her kiss not only because she lived so far away, but because I seemed to be suddenly involved with Jenny.
It was on odd week. Melissa and I met for lunch. There was definite attraction there and I was sorry I hadn’t kissed her when we first met. So I kissed her. And it was good. And we went out again. And again. My interest in Melissa was waxing just as my interest in Jenny was waning.
After enjoying a whole day of freshly shaved, baby-smooth skin, I awoke the next morning feeling like someone had poured burning-hot soup in my lap and I wasn’t wearing anything to protect me. Every hair follicle below my waist, it seemed, had become infected an inflamed. Smooth white skin yielded to a field of red, raised welts.
My best friend phoned. He had just had surgery and I was the one yelping in pain. I explained what happened and he howled with laughter. It pained him to laugh, but he couldn’t stop. His wife, a dermatologist, ran in to see if he was ok. Through gasps between hysterics, he recounted my story. Tears in her eyes, cackling like a banshee, I heard her wheeze that she’d call me in a prescription.
Folliculitis is what she called it. I didn’t blame either of them for laughing. My friend, while nearly a year younger, has always been a decade ahead of me when it comes to anything even remotely sexual. He explained to me later that you buzz, not shave.
But I shaved. I don’t want to say that I shaved for her, more that Jenny merely stirred my curiosity enough to try it. Now I understand why people go through the pain of waxing. I’ll stick to a close trim, thank you very much.
I wish that was where the story ended. It isn’t. I made an excuse to not see Jenny – my friend’s surgery, so I wasn’t sure we could see each other on Saturday – and she never responded. She just unfriended me on Facebook almost exactly 24 hours after she added me. Again, moving much faster than most.
But things were going so well with Melissa and I wanted to see her as much as possible before she left for Brooklyn. We spent every free moment we had together. And the night before she left, she ended up at my place. And we ended up moving things to the bedroom.
And then I had to stop. I had to tell her something before we went any further. I knew her mind was probably going to the worst places possible – did I have an STI or STD? No. I had to explain why my groin was red, bumpy, and inflamed. And fully-shaved. And not at all sexy looking.
We had a great laugh and turned off more lights than normal before jumping under the sheets.