Rudyard Kipling said that if history were taught in the form of stories it would never be forgotten.
I think he probably has a point because the only thing I remember learning about communist Russia in sixth form is how near the end of his reign, when Stalin got especially mad and tyrannical, he would throw these dinner parties and put tomatoes on his guests’ seats and put salt in their wine and then sit smugly and watch them deal with it, drinking the salty wine with a soggy bum, because he would shoot them if they questioned his hospitality! Amazing.
So I’m going to tell you a story. Once upon a time when I was eighteen I moved to Wellington to go to University. In first year, when I was living in Weir House, my room was across the hall from a mega babe. Let’s call him SchmBen. SchmBen was a good example of why it’s lucky for everybody that I’m in a lesbian “phase” at the moment because I tend to like men who look like they should be in jail. SchmBen had dreadlocks and he only took a shower about six times in first year and I KNOW THIS OKAY because he asked to borrow my body wash every single time. SchmBen and I had some kind of chemistry going on. We’d hurl insults at each other across the hall like some kind of modern day Beatrice and Benedict. Or Chuck and Blair, whichever highbrow literary allusion tickles your fancy. One night, after months of tension, SchmBen began to kiss me. Things got hot and heavy, to borrow a phrase from the Cosmo sealed section. SchmBen started trying to get into my trouser arena and with great alarm I realised that I had to stop him. I had to stop him because I hadn’t shaved my pubes. Even though SchmBen hadn’t had a shower in months we had to stop because of my body hair anxiety.
Since Weir House I’ve done a lot of growing up. I’ve read a lot of feminist blogs on the Internet and I’ve read about the Beauty Myth. I’ve thought a lot about how we live in a culture where sex is naughty but being sexy is the best thing you can be. I’ve thought a lot about how ‘slut’ is one of the worst things you can call a woman. I’ve written about pussy shame and I’ve talked to a lot of friends who’ve had boyfriends who wouldn’t go down on them and friends who refused to admit they masturbated and friends who chose their sexual positions based on how flat their tummy looks. And I kind of think, fuck that. The moral of this story is to not let the pubes get in the way, metaphorical or otherwise. Don’t let worrying about your body get in the way of having a good time. If you get a chance to fuck a SchmBen… Grab that bull by both horns. Pubes or no pubes.