George of the (pubic) Jungle

What an impressive list of credentials this guy had:

Whip-smart, but not quite a Nobel prize winner? Check.
Good-looking, but not prettier than me? Check.
Nice body, but not indicative of a 'roid-raging gym rat? Check.
Tall, but not a redwood tree? Check.
Great smile without horsey veneers? Check.
Good fashion sense, but still more hetero- than metro- sexual? Cha-ching!

We went to for drinks, then to a live jazz fusion show, followed by a late gourmet dinner. I offered, but he insisted on paying. I can live with that. He laughed at my jokes, I laughed at his. So far, so good. He neither refered to me as "the little lady" nor insisted on ordering for me. Huge plus. And his eyes twinkled whenever he smiled. So I smiled back. It was a go.

We went out on several more dates after that. (What? I was trying to take it slow in an attempt to make this one meaningful. Shut up.) As such, I refrained from sleeping with him, though heaven knows I was raring to tear him apart from the first night. Nevertheless, I reigned my hormones in, and we planned it. How sweet, huh? To wit:

"So, what do you like?"
"Don't worry... judging by the way you're licking that gelato, I'm sure I'll be happy."
"You horny bastard", I laughed.

We walked up the pier, sat on the only bench not covered in dried fish guts, stared off into the dark waves, and had the sort of lighthearted-but-sort-of-serious exchange of sexual information that dating people have before they lay into each other. It's a formality you learn to braoch the subject of, especially if you're not one for between-the-sheets surprises. He learned that I like deep kisses and lots of tongue, and that he shouldn't touch my clit right after I climax. I learned that his balls were really sensitive and that he liked his women clean shaven. "I hate having to hunt for it, and hair in my throat makes me gag." Understandable. "Not a single hair... not one. I like it looking like a naked mole rat. Any trace of hair turns me right off," he makes sure to point out. Alrighty, then. And sadly enough, I'm used to that request; honestly, if porn and personals are any indication, this is the prevailing aesthetic preference of heterosexual males all over the US. And while I dread the idea of another bikini waxing session with the sadisitic Vietnamese lady at the salon, I'm all about making him comfortable. At least for the first time.

The big day arrives. I'm heading over to his place for dinner, so I begin my "knock his fucking socks off" beauty ritual. Manicure, pedicure, deep-condition hair with the expensive shit that smells so fantastic. Scrub, exfoliate, and-- having foregone an appointment with Phuong, her scalding hot wax and sticky muslin strips-- I shave. Ugh... I really, truly hate this part. The heat of the towel, the sting of the pre-shave balm, the unnerving gleam of the menacingly razor-sharp blade next to your most tender skin; the pulling, smoothing, and stretching... the 'stroke, rinse, and stroke again' motion... the continuous embattled swipes until the hair finally gives up its valiant stance and disappears between the blades of a brand-new razor. All the while grumbling softly that the eventual razor burn on my super-sensitive skin had better be oh-so-fucking worth it. I dry and style my hair, and wince as a tiny spritz of expensive perfume hits my tender bits. "He better be worth it", I repeat to myself.

I don my fabulous dress, slip my fabulous feet into a pair of come-fuck-me heels, and drive over to his impressive pad. Coat is shrugged off, lights are dimmed, wine is poured, and a hardcore groping session ensues. He runs his hand up my inner thigh and smiles appreciatively when he hits pay dirt. "Nice", he says softly. "Ver-r-ry niiiice..." Thus far, no complaints out of me. As his slicked fingers probe, prod, and caress, I slide my hand inside the waistband of his pants.

Holy shit.

I panic for a split second, because I cannot find his cock. "Fuuuuck!" goes my internal alarm, as I try desperately to remain calm. My hand is lost in a nest of long, curly pubic hair, and I can't find his cock. I move it around like a monkey grooming its mate, but his thick, unruly bush is overwhelming my best efforts.

What do I do? It's hard to concentrate on getting felt up when your mind is racing at the fact that the penis of the guy at the end of your fingertips is trapped beyond the fringes of a pubic-hair gulag. "This will not end well." I close my eyes, loosen his belt, pull his boxers down slightly, and pray to be wrong.

Holy fucking shit.

All I saw was hair. Hair, hair and more hair. A smooth, pink dome peeked out amidst the mire, but for miles, all there was was hair. Thick, dark, dauntingly-convoluted-like-a-briar-patch... hair. Yikes. I bravely bring my face down to it, close my eyes, and open my mouth. I missed. I suck it up and try again.

But I can't do it. There is hair tickling my cheeks. I feel hair poking at my eyelids. Hair brushing my lips, hair rasping at my chin... HAIR. Everywhere. I pull away. "What's the matter?", he asks. I smile, and indicate the jungle of overgrowth in his lap. "Is that a problem?", he asks matter-of-factly. Uh, excuse me? ''Is that a problem''??? Fuck yeah, it's a problem!

He'd taken pains to explain how much the idea of hair on a woman's nether regions turns him off, but he casually ignores the raging overgrowth in his own front yard? "But I'm a guy" is his weak reasoning. I glance downwards once again. This was no ordinary pubic thatch. These were pubes at war with their neighboring lands. His bush had broken free of the usual boundaries, declared war on the neutral zones, and colonized most of his torso and legs in a hostile takeover. I gagged. The hair itself stood at least an inch above his skin, like a surly black hedgerow. If I laid my palm flat and didn't push down, I would still have lots of downwards wiggle room for my fingers. Fuck hairshirts, this guy's body had knitted him a wooly pair of boxer shorts.

Yuck! I mean, how much more motivation than "It totally makes your cock look bigger, dude!" does a guy need to attend to his grooming down there? Women appreciate the uncomplicated look, too. Trim. Neaten it up. We're not asking for you to shave, but come on! At least show the area to a pair of clippers in a feeble attempt to demonstrate that you give a shit...!

I made up a bullshit excuse about having a reaction to the wine and fled. I ignored my ringing cell phone, and didn't return any of his calls. I probably overreacted, but the way I figure it is this: if he's gonna have such rigid standards for his partners and casually ignore attending to such matters as they pertain to himself, he's not going to be much more fun down the line, anyway.

So I left him with blue balls. On the bright side, at least he'll never freeze his nuts off.