Get A Man Who Loves Your Bush

Get A Man Who Loves Your Bush

“Your bush…it’s just…I love it. You’re…so natural,” Will said, rubbing his nose along my inner thighs. I had stripped off in his bed, I remember. We had just met at a New Year’s Eve party. It was easily four in the morning. The sun was coming up as we unfurled each other in his sheets.

Will seemed to stop and stagger. I wondered if he was about to wretch. Did I smell? Had he drunk too much? He mumbled a little, propping himself up on his elbows. Instead, I realized that he was lost for words. He stared. He gaped, with the wind knocked out of him. Like he had indeed seen the Holy Grail. As Maya Angelou had forewarned me, he was laying eyes on the diamonds at the meeting of my thighs. I could feel the warmth of his breath against me. He took a deep breath in. His eyes opened wide as he focused. Then he dove in, licking, eating, tasting, touching, everything. Everywhere. All at once. He was hungry.

I haven’t owned a razor in a number of years. But before I reached this peak of female freedom and bodily autonomy, I started shaving my legs at the age of 11. I picked it up from Vogue Magazine at the age I also got my period. Luckily, I wore tights during the long winter months in London. The endless, miserable English rain made the whole ordeal seem pointless. I needed all the leg hair insulation I could get. I promised I would shave it off as soon as I was on a beach in a bikini, but I never did.

My underarm hair was also an abomination to the outside world, almost as humiliating as having sweat patches. It took me years to get over this. I remember I once went underwear shopping with my mother. She raised her eyebrows at the tiny patches of sandy brown hair peeking out. I was fifteen years old.

“Charles doesn’t mind it,” I said, defending my little tufts (quoting my first boyfriend) as I tried on matching sets of red and floral lingerie. It was the Rosie Huntington-Whitley collection at Marks and Spencer’s, I remember. I had never felt more feminine, more desirable, more grown up.

I’ve watched a lot of porn over the years. Most of those women don’t have hair on their vaginas. But then again, most of the guys kept their faces out of the videos and were somewhat a sight for sore eyes. After watching one video, I remember reading the comment:

“This video would have been great, if those fat dudes with their hairy asses would get out of the way.”

People liked to see the clean, shaven pussy. People liked to see a lot of it, of them, of hers, actually.

There’s one thing I will admit to. Though I don’t shave regularly, I do unfortunately still trim my crotch if I’m going to wear a bathing suit, to make sure there’s nothing showing. I say unfortunately because this is completely determined by my fear of what other people will think of me. I’m worried they’ll worry its ungodly. For this, I am ashamed.

But I stand by the one thing: I think it is exceptionally underrated to find a man who loves my bush. It’s so thrilling. It’s so enticing. It’s magical. Take this part of my body that I feel basically indifferent if not vaguely ashamed about, and get the validation of a slightly intoxicated, attractive, potentially sweaty guy. That’s power. That’s hot.

Recently, I’ve been dating a barista. I asked him about it. He said the first time he saw my underarm hair, he thought: How beautiful. And then Wow, this woman is so free. And he liked it. Unsurprisingly, he had also watched porn. He had been confused about the lack of female hair. Why did men like this? He asked some of his men friends about this, and he got one resounding answer: power. Power, indeed. A lack of female pubic hair gave the illusion of her being younger. The more malicious but real intention was the man’s control of her, and the man’s power. Now I feel even more lucky that I don’t own a razor. This is power that I will gladly reclaim.

By the way, even better than loving my bush, the barista loves the taste of me. Hearing this from him, I’ve never experienced such a jovial, natural high. This man samples coffee and cocktails for a living. And he likes the taste of me. He loves the taste of me. Tell me what is hotter than that. Tell me.

Get A Man Who Loves Your Bush

“Your bush…it’s just…I love it. You’re…so natural,” Will said, rubbing his nose along my inner thighs. I had stripped off in his bed, I remember. We had just met at a New Year’s Eve party. It was easily four in the morning. The sun was coming up as we unfurled each other in his sheets.

Will seemed to stop and stagger. I wondered if he was about to wretch. Did I smell? Had he drunk too much? He mumbled a little, propping himself up on his elbows. Instead, I realized that he was lost for words. He stared. He gaped, with the wind knocked out of him. Like he had indeed seen the Holy Grail. As Maya Angelou had forewarned me, he was laying eyes on the diamonds at the meeting of my thighs. I could feel the warmth of his breath against me. He took a deep breath in. His eyes opened wide as he focused. Then he dove in, licking, eating, tasting, touching, everything. Everywhere. All at once. He was hungry.

I haven’t owned a razor in a number of years. But before I reached this peak of female freedom and bodily autonomy, I started shaving my legs at the age of 11. I picked it up from Vogue Magazine at the age I also got my period. Luckily, I wore tights during the long winter months in London. The endless, miserable English rain made the whole ordeal seem pointless. I needed all the leg hair insulation I could get. I promised I would shave it off as soon as I was on a beach in a bikini, but I never did.

My underarm hair was also an abomination to the outside world, almost as humiliating as having sweat patches. It took me years to get over this. I remember I once went underwear shopping with my mother. She raised her eyebrows at the tiny patches of sandy brown hair peeking out. I was fifteen years old.

“Charles doesn’t mind it,” I said, defending my little tufts (quoting my first boyfriend) as I tried on matching sets of red and floral lingerie. It was the Rosie Huntington-Whitley collection at Marks and Spencer’s, I remember. I had never felt more feminine, more desirable, more grown up.

I’ve watched a lot of porn over the years. Most of those women don’t have hair on their vaginas. But then again, most of the guys kept their faces out of the videos and were somewhat a sight for sore eyes. After watching one video, I remember reading the comment:

“This video would have been great, if those fat dudes with their hairy asses would get out of the way.”

People liked to see the clean, shaven pussy. People liked to see a lot of it, of them, of hers, actually.

There’s one thing I will admit to. Though I don’t shave regularly, I do unfortunately still trim my crotch if I’m going to wear a bathing suit, to make sure there’s nothing showing. I say unfortunately because this is completely determined by my fear of what other people will think of me. I’m worried they’ll worry its ungodly. For this, I am ashamed.

But I stand by the one thing: I think it is exceptionally underrated to find a man who loves my bush. It’s so thrilling. It’s so enticing. It’s magical. Take this part of my body that I feel basically indifferent if not vaguely ashamed about, and get the validation of a slightly intoxicated, attractive, potentially sweaty guy. That’s power. That’s hot.

Recently, I’ve been dating a barista. I asked him about it. He said the first time he saw my underarm hair, he thought: How beautiful. And then Wow, this woman is so free. And he liked it. Unsurprisingly, he had also watched porn. He had been confused about the lack of female hair. Why did men like this? He asked some of his men friends about this, and he got one resounding answer: power. Power, indeed. A lack of female pubic hair gave the illusion of her being younger. The more malicious but real intention was the man’s control of her, and the man’s power. Now I feel even more lucky that I don’t own a razor. This is power that I will gladly reclaim.

By the way, even better than loving my bush, the barista loves the taste of me. Hearing this from him, I’ve never experienced such a jovial, natural high. This man samples coffee and cocktails for a living. And he likes the taste of me. He loves the taste of me. Tell me what is hotter than that. Tell me.

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