Ass Hairs: I Have a Problem
I started balding when I was 25-years-old. I have no hairs on my chest, arms, and very little on my legs, which will come as little surprise to those of you fortunate enough to have been intimate with a non-Korean Asian male (I only mention this because Koreans tend to be of the hairier Asians). My body is similar in touch to a dolphin’s. Yet – and by the title of this article I think you know where I’m going – I have extremely long ass hairs, up to 2-inches. Not only are my ass hairs easily the longest hairs on my body, but I would argue they are longer than any hairs on your body; unless, of course, you fashion long hair.
The anus is a relatively small place, perhaps the size of a nickel. I’ve thoroughly inspected my respective ass cheeks and taint, and will confirm that my ass hairs are growing — somehow (and the very thought scares me) — out of my anus. I’m a fairly deep guy, and my physical appearance has never been a huge concern, but this is less about aesthetics/cosmetics than it is physics. Put simply, when I engage in “No. 2,” my feces occasionally gets caught in my ass hairs. Rather than ponderously weigh this down with dry mechanics, just imagine attempting to squirt Velveeta through a wig. This is my problem.
When I wipe, especially if the consistency is of the smoother/softer “wall spackle-esque” kind, there is a ~20-25% chance that part of my wiping hand (most often the thumb) will make contact with my feces, which I always discover with grave horror when I bring my hand back up. Since the invention of plumbing, modern humans are not anthropologically conditioned to interface with their fecal detritus; a quick drop from the ass to toilet bowl, neatly submerged in water, taken for granted. (Please note that I furiously scrub my violated digit(s) with soap under hot water until the fecal matter is completely gone.)
Regardless of how my last relationship ended, I will say that my ex showed near-unconditional love when she offered to cut my ass hairs (I don’t use the word “trim” because far much more was required). I was reluctant at first, mainly out of self-respect, and for hers as well; but ultimately, after a shower, I sheepishly dropped my boxers and spread my legs wide, curving my torso inward so that my ass would jut out. (Those of you who wonder why I didn’t bend over do not understand the human body enough.) I recall her dodging her head out of the way so that it wouldn’t obscure the non-clinical domestic lighting from above.
Now and then, as she snipped away, the cold metallic cosmetic shears with which she attended to her task would grace my anus, sending shivers of apprehension through my sack and up my spine. It wasn’t that I didn’t trust her intentions, or aim; it was simply being in such a humiliating, vulnerable, and helpless position. For a rather self-conscious and abashed person, the last thing you want is your dear loved one with her nose in your asshole. I feared that my asshole would look drab to her, a squinting brown note which mirrored my uninspired face.
This was in 2009, so if you’ll kindly do the math, you’ll know that 2 years have transpired since my ass hair cutting — and my ass hairs grow fast, perhaps in a race with my mortality. My ass hairs, at the time of this dreadful article, are currently out of control. In a place where the “sun never shines,” they are so confident you’d think they are wearing sunglasses. They are so long and bountiful one could braid them, though that is hardly an invitation. Fear not: the thumb which frolics the space bar after each word you are reading is completely shit (and its redolence) free. I have not touched my own shit, I’m proud to say, in over five days.
The sad thing is, I doubt I will find another woman who will cut my ass hairs for me. Mom is getting old, and I’m skeptical of her eyesight. I tried to do it myself, using an arrangement of mirrors and blunt child safety scissors, but only ended up accidentally sodomizing myself. I was not aroused, or charmed, so neither should you.
The religious folk offer Intelligent Design as the instrument of our doing, suggesting that an attentive God is responsible for the perfect machines of love and happiness that we are. These are the same people who say I’m going to hell, which is an evite just waiting to be clicked. Ass hairs, people. I have a problem. Anyone who has heard me struggle in the bathroom stall, frantically consuming a fifth of a roll of toilet paper going “oh shit, shit” (literally) would accept my humble slightly shit-smeared self as a counter argument.
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