Down on Bended Knee

Warning: Some readers may find today's post offensive. If you're easily offended, stop reading NOW.

The world is filled with strange folks, and yesterday I met one.

Manning the reception desk at the salon yesterday, I fielded a call from a guy wanting to know if we would do a "Brazilian" wax on a man. (For the uninitiated, this means the complete removal of pubic hair.) After consulting one of our estheticians, I replied that we would. He sounded a little embarassed as he explained that his girlfriend wanted him to do this.

Whatever.

Although she had appeared to be completely unconcerned about the prospect when the guy was on the phone, the esthetician was totally unnerved when the man turned out to be. . .shall we say. . .mature. After she settled him in a room to undress, she stepped into the room where I was getting a massage. (This is very poor salon etiquette and told me she was seriously troubled by the situation.)

"This one's weird," she breathed, in shocked tones. "Has to be. He must be fifty. At least fifty."

Now, I don't know if she thought he was too old to be concerned with how he looked down there or what, but his age undid her. Somehow, it didn't seem the time to point out that I'm 52.

The 20-something massage therapist working on my back smiled at her encouragingly. "Don't worry. It's the same equipment," he murmured. "Only wrinklier."

From my face-down, prone position on the massage table, I squirmed to look up at her. SRY is a 6-ft tall woman who works out. The guy was 5 ft 4 at best. The fact is, if he got fresh, she could put some serious hurt on him, but I wasn't about to suggest that. Instead I assured her that if the situation became even slightly uncomfortable, all she had to do was step out of the room and get me. I would take it from there.

After SRY and the massage therapist left the room, I scrambled up from the table and got ready to take charge if necessary.

We listened discreetly from the hallway a couple of times, but all we heard was silence. For 45 minutes. Silence.

After she was finished, we got the details. He had not said a word, never even gasped as she ripped out every single hair from his genital area.

"He had a hard-on the whole time," she whispered before he emerged from the room.

I found this surprising—waxing is, after all, painful—but not shocking. SRY is a gorgeous, exotic-looking African American woman who carries herself like a queen. He was naked in front of her. Not easy, I'm guessing.

It was only later, after he was out of the building, that she confided The Guy had experienced more than a hard-on. In fact, let's just say his cup runneth over. Twice.

EEEECCCKKKKK!

Thank God the salon was empty except for employees when we heard this. The news of his response elicited squeals and squeaks and loud gasps of "Gross!" from everyone who heard it. For a few minutes there was general hilarity wrapped in shock. Then someone asked SRY what she did.

"Just wiped it up with a towel and went on," she replied.

SRY's grace under fire stunned me.

Then another thought popped up. I was now faced with DNA-encrusted linens and no idea what to do. No idea, except that I wasn't about to ask an employee to touch the stuff.

After a couple unpleasant moments considering my options, I marched resolutely to the back of the spa, armed with trash bags and extra-strength disinfectant. Turning a trash bag inside out as though I were about to remove doggie poo, I trapped the dirty towels and so forth, tied them up, and took them to the dumpster outside. If I'd had a biohazard container, I would have used it. There was no way I was putting that stuff into our washing machine.

Next, I disinfected every surface those linens had touched. Finally, I turned to the trash containers in the room. A small, open can held the gloves SRY had been wearing, which she described as being "covered in nasty white-boy cum." It also held dozens of strips of muslin coated in wax and the pubic hair of a stranger. I knelt in front of the can, trying to get the liner out without touching anything more than necessary.

There are many, many things I've imagined doing with my life. This was definitely NOT among them. Pondering this, my mind leaped to a much-treasured family story, and my sense of humor carried me away. For several minutes, all I could do was laugh helplessly.

During the Depression, my grandfather and grandmother and several of their siblings traveled to Sarcoxie, Missouri to pick strawberries. It was hot, hard work and far from home, but it was paid work, and most of them were glad to have it. One day, my grandmother (who was about 7 months pregnant) stood up to stretch and try to straighten her back. From the row beside her, she heard her brother, George, muttering to himself.

George was what was then known as a "dandy." Today he'd probably be called a metrosexual: heterosexual but very vain and careful with his appearance. Even picking strawberries, he was dressed in his finest and his hair was oiled and carefully arranged. The words Grandma overheard became a family legend.

"Here I am, a man of my abilities, down on my bended knee. Picking these goddamned little red sons a bitches."

Like George, I didn't love the task before me. After all, only last week I was in NY being carted around in limos and treated like a princess at the taping of a national tv show.

And now, here I was, a published author, down on my bended knee. Picking up these little hairy white sons a bitches.

Laughed til I cried. The staff thought I finally absolutely lost my mind, but I didn't explain. Just cleaned up the mess and went on, taking myself more lightly than before I remembered Uncle George.