My beautiful and thrifty friend Jeannie got it into her head to depilate her snatch by herself. Jeannie lives in Arizona. She’s a DIY kind of girl.

Bent in two at the ribcage with one thigh heaved over her shoulder, Jeannie scooped the warm wax-goo out of a little crockpot and smeared it on her pubic hairs with a Popsicle stick. She applied the cloth strips to the wax and then -- came to her fucking senses.

There are things you do not do for yourself, no matter how punk rock you are. Heart surgery, for instance. You do not perform your own heart surgery. See also, BRAZILIAN WAX.

First, Jeannie collapsed on the floor in fits of laughter and rage. Then, she tried cutting the strips off with a razor blade eased between the muslin and her pubis. After losing her balance and nearly slicing her clit off, she abandoned that technique and tried re-melting the wax with a Patchouli-scented voltive from the mall. It turns out there are sado-masochistic love cults dedicated to that very practice. Also, cotton muslin is highly flammable. FYI.

Jeannie finally called a girlfriend who came over and yanked her pubic hair out for her. They have bonded in ways that make me oddly jealous. Then they went for margaritas and Jeannie drank standing up.

The next day I got a call from Arizona detailing the hijinks and declaring "it was totally worth it."

For the story?

No, for the *breeze*.

A hairless coochie, Jeannie reminded me, is a coochie unbuffered to random stimuli, like, say, air. A hairless coochie is a lively coochie. It’s the feminine equivalent of 24-hour boner. Only cuter. And with less hair.

Of course, next time she’ll go to a pro.

But Jeannie got me thinking. As part of my unwavering commitment to the HOT MARRIED SEX, was this not something I should try? Did not my honor and my vows demand it?

With Jeannie cheering me on, I booked an appointment arrived, some three weeks later, with Amity and Patty in tow, which was very much like visiting the gynocologist with Florence Jean Castleberry and Emily Post...