Wax—a confession of sorts (with audio)

She is nervous    It is her first time She removes her cotton underpants    White    They bear a large font    Bonds    This is written below her navel in cream

You instruct her to lay down    Do you want to freshen up, you ask    You point to a packet of baby wipes    She does    And you leave her    From outside the door you hear her position herself    You wait    For a moment you wait by the door until you hear the creak of the bed fall silent    You know she is ready

You walk in confidently    This confidence, you reason, will allow her faith in you    She will be less nervous if you take control    You fold her leg into a ballet position, bent as one would to pirouette    She is naked from the waist down    She feels exposed    You explain that this will hurt but it will not be so bad next time    You turn your back, find the clippers in the drawer, you say, It will hurt less this way    She nods    And you trim the hair that spreads itself wide over her pubis    The hair is fine, full and long

She tells you about her boyfriend and you ask questions to sway her attention from the dominant buzz in the room    Her toes are curled     Anxious

You know you must gain her trust now, while it doesn't hurt, while the clippers skim her skin, untouching, the blade secretly harvesting what will later be disposed of    You will do well to charm her now with your even voice while it doesn't hurt    (You deepen it at first, she will understand this, you, as authoritive though it will not be the voice of a teacher or a police officer    It is the gentle yet firm voice of someone there to make the pain bearable though you, the someone, are the inflictor of this pain)    She does not watch as you dust away her hair What is left is centimeter-long armory     A barrier that you will soon remove

If it were not for the backdrop of the bed, from the waist up she could be any woman chatting in some cafe    If there were a fashionable table to divide her torso you would not know    But today there is no cup of coffee in her hands    They are placed on her stomach    Folded neatly, her nails a pearlescent shade of peach, short and groomed

You place the clippers back into the drawer and now you work with wax

She flinches

You raise her leg to ninety degrees, upward, and her foot hovers high above her belly    You can see the way her flesh darkens as thigh becomes a wash of something else    Something more, more than thigh or things that few lay hands on    But you do not see this It is just flesh to you    It is there before you but now these days the texture, tone, shades of flush escape your attention   You understand the variations there, yes    And once you might have been more curious but not today     Not any day these days    Your arms move in the perfunctory way This is routine and while your eyes flick between hers and your task, your attention is on her words    The things that move her    Life

The ceiling fan marks a rhythm and you work to time    You are hot, a little bothered but you speak to her in gentle tones     And while you do as she has asked, she talks quickly about her work, her evening plans, her life     At times she might flinch but this is short lived    Yes, she is nervous but she keeps her voice steady    You are fast and gentle and she sees this    Though pain is there pressed into her skin, she trusts you

She perspires lightly and your gloved hands do not feel her small panic    There are buttocks and folds and things you prefer not to name in casual conversation or words    You do not name them    For despite your work, despite knowing the intimate parts of her and many others, few know what it is that you do

Seldom do you confess to those who do not know you well     Though today you feel liberal    Today, in this place, well beyond the door that separates you from her in that room where she fusses below her waist, you will hint at something that you did not intend to    You will hint at this because it has been too long between confessions    Because the lack of other meaning in the day, a day full of wax and flesh, the confessions of others, demands that this; this woman, the wax, the work, be poetry rather than shame.

(image: Martin Witfooth)

Audio:

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