My boyfriend and I weren't even having sex. It was a fun way to demystify our bodies in the midst of being lambasted by the media and our health classes about unsafe sex equaling death, AIDS, teen pregnancies and STDs. Until this epiphany?that my suburban Long Island town was not like others?I assumed everyone experimented in the same way. Did I do something I should be ashamed of? It didn't seem fun anymore. I questioned my relationships and my past. Plus, not only had I taken part in it, but I liked it.
Were my friends from home perverted? If it was true that no one else did this, then something must have been wrong with our group. None of my present-day friends has seen one and none wants to. It wasn't until I graduated and moved to New York City that I really started second-guessing my past experiences with shorn men. At Vassar, where the men are more apt to shave their legs than the women are, I didn't have much to compare my high school dating experiences with. I still fail to see what the big deal was. One in particular says that if she was dating a guy and looked down to find a shorn scrotum, she would freak. My friends say that their fascination stems not from the fact that the men shaved, but that it was the norm. Be it woman, man, close friend or cocktail party acquaintance, all thought that while women waxing their hair away to nothing but a landing strip is acceptable across America, men doing the same is deemed weird. I wouldn't call the research exhaustive, since pubic hair styles isn't a run-of-the-mill conversation topic, but the evidence was fairly conclusive. Still, the more research I did, the less sure I became. Granted, it's Long Island, but I disagreed. My college friends were convinced it is a geographic phenomenon.
"What is it? Some kind of Long Island thing?" "You mean you dated more than one?" my friend Elisabeth asked. Until I moved away from Shirley, Long Island. It all seemed a perfectly normal teenage existence never struck me as the least bit odd. Another couple I was friendly with would experiment with colors, spending hours on a Sunday afternoon constructing tiger stripes or polka dots on each other. Beyond that, it was just fun, and a better alternative to a tattoo since the hair would grow back. In a way, it was a guarantee?any other woman who might be in that vicinity would be forced to stop and ponder what the big K.M.
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In my high school during the early 90s, the best compliment your boyfriend could give you wasn't a promise ring: the day my boyfriend shaved my initials into his patch was the day I knew he really loved me. Still others would shave themselves completely bald. Others would experiment with Clairol, turning the hair green, blue or even fire-engine red. Some would shave designs or their girlfriends' names into their pubic hair. It was difficult not to, actually, since all the boys I knew shaved. When I was a teenager, I loved boys who shaved their balls.