Hairy. Prickly. Cactus legs. You know it’s time to shave your legs when someone is massaging your lower limbs against the grain of the hair growth and it’s long enough to pull and pinch your freaking fuzz. Not saying I was lucky enough to get a delectable body kneading recently; but if I were, the savage beastery that is my minx sticks, right now would be enough to crash any soirée. Hey look at that, I found a quarter. Thank you mangled mane. Your like a treasure hunting dream… I wonder what else I can forage for in this fur debacle?
Ok… Now where’s my razor? By the way, make a note, I absolutely hate shaving my proportioned appendages. Hate. Loathe. Despise. Crying on the floor, temper tantrum Fuckery. But I also hate sitting around for hours getting mani-pedis too. While most women think it’s a time for pampering, I feel the burden of it being a chore. Was that relevant? Eh, who cares. Back to my moxy hammocks. So, I wax everything else except my legs. Yup, I execute the waxing myself, in case you were wondering. Because I’m awesome. Believe it. Or a masochist. Definitely believe it. Which, is an interesting scenario, because there are much, much more sensitive areas I should be painstakingly worried about applying hot wax to-other than my gams.
So, while mister handsome is getting the knots out of my ripe thighs… I’m screaming because of the damn hair tugging on my foxy poles. Shave yo legs HO! And not a snug yanking in a good, dirty, and fun mop pulling either…
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