Please help. I started dating a new girl, and she wasn’t that into the sex right off. Instead of being defensive, I spoke to her about it like a good partner should. She said it’s because I had pubic hair. Yes, good old-fashioned pubes. Nothing wild or wooly. Just well-maintained and low, but still present. She convinced me to shave completely, which I’ve NEVER done, all in the name of sex. And boy howdy! I’ve never been ridden so hard and left out to dry like that before. Best sex we’ve ever had hands-down. Neither of us could get enough — and then it happened: Ingrown hairs. I mean ALL over. It looks like it could be a cautionary photo used in a sex-education class. And it hurts like hell! I knew it would happen with my coarse, curly hair. It’s embarrassing, and I ended up telling her. Then the plot thickened: She’s into it! She just wants to grind rough all the time now but GOT DAMN it irritates me loins. While I want to please her and want to keep this dynamo-ass sex going, I don’t want my crotch to look like a topographic map of Hawaii. What should I do? Send help and ointment.
— Bumpy Ride
Yikes dude. I’m afraid the only ointment I have is for lice. I mean tapeworm. Ahem, Anbesol.
One time I got an ingrown hair on my left jug (wtf?) and I thought I had cancer until it popped. It traumatized me.
A tip from the pro: I keep my merkin super wooly so when I ride the ice luge at parties, I have protection against deep freeze. But underneath, it’s shaved like a Barbie, so I can take off the merkin and sit on a hot bowl of minestrone if the need arises.
It’s all about being prepared.
This broad sounds like a piece of work. But you complied, so that’s on you, boy. I’m not too well-versed in ingrown hairs, but I have some friends that those pesky fuckers attack like Azealia Banks tweets.
I think your best bet is to let them grow out and get a bald merkin. Bald crotch caps must exist, right? (Get Michael Phelps on the horn.) I mean there’s a car exhaust grill that exists. Like a fucking attachment for your muffler to grill a hamburger on. If people can buy a hat with fake hair attached to it or diet water, then somebody has to have invented a bald merkin.
I’m not Googling it, though, because I’m a motherfucking boss now. I don’t want to get in trouble. (Dear Top of the Newspaper Food Chain Boss, is it OK that I said “fucking” a handful of times in print? I promise I won’t Google pubic wigs.)
Buy a bald crotch hat and let her slip ‘n’ slide all over the latex bonnet. Underneath, your crotch fuzz can party like the untamed beast it’s meant to be.
I suppose a simpler solution would be to buy some sort of anti-bump cream. Like Bikini Zone, not Snatch Be Gone. (Anti-bump. Rimshot.)
Another option is to grease up your weed-whacked happy trail with cannabis lube. Then after Ms. Toad’s Wild Ride, your crotch will be stoned as fuck, so who cares what kind of polka-dots are peppering your nether region. You can cry about it tomorrow morning.
Boy howdy. I’m stealing that from you.
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