A guy called my voice mail this morning, and read my entire ad into the machine, noticeably lingering at the part where I say I’ll do “yucky stuff.” I figured the worst I’d be doing would be emptying bedpans or something, but nobody’s asked me to do anything more disgusting than babysitting….until now.
I called back to see what he wanted, and he hemmed and hawed embarrassedly for a few seconds till he got up the nerve to get to the point. “I’m really a hairy guy,” he said, “and I’ve got a really hair butt.” Then there was a long silence, and I think he expected to hear me hang up. “It’s very difficult,” he continued, “to wipe myself, because shit gets stuck in my hair. And sometimes the hair gets caught in my underwear…”
“You need someone to shave your ass?”
I thought this over for a few dozen heartbeats. “Well,” I said, “I’ll tell you what. I’ve been sick. I’m still sick, and this sounds like work that might make me sicker. Give me another week or so to get my strength back, and I’ll shave your ass, okay?”
“Great,” he said.
I ain’t looking forward to it, but I do need the money. Called back the guy with the hairy ass—let’s call him Harry—to clarify a few things. “First off,” I said, “my rate is five dollars an hour, but this sounds like it won’t take ten minutes. There’s a four-hour minimum, so it’ll cost twenty bucks. Okay?”
“That’s reasonable,” he said. “No problem.”
“I’ll be in the city tomorrow evening. Is that good for you?”
He said it was, gave me his address, and told me to be there at 6 p.m.
“Now either you provide the shaving necessities, and rubber gloves, or I’ll buy ’em and bill you.”
“I’ve got shaving stuff,” he said, “but I don’t have any rubber gloves.”
“I’ll bring the gloves then. Four bucks extra.”
“Okay,” he said complacently. That’s four bucks more profit, because there are rubber gloves everywhere at Black Sheets, the sex magazine where I do some work. I’ll just ask the editor, Bill, and take a pair.
“I’d also appreciate it if you’d shower just before I get there.”
“I’m planning to,” he said.
“All right then,” I said. “See you tomorrow.” Yeah, I’ll see more of you than I really want to see, tomorrow.”
I arrived at Harry’s house right on time. We shook hands, he invited me in, and I was discretely looking the situation over, but everything appeared on the level. He seemed embarrassed, and I told him not to be. On the living room carpet, he had already spread out some newspapers.
“I figured I’d be on the floor, on all fours,” he said, “and you can sit on this chair.”
I nodded, and put on the gloves while he went into the bathroom. He came back with a Bic disposable razor, a can of shaving cream, and a towel.
“Ready when you are,” I said.
He took his shoes and socks off, then his pants and underwear, and assumed the position, naked from the waist down. His asshole gaped open at me, but what really startled me was the hair—man, his butt was almost as hairy as my face, and I’ve got a short beard. It was hairy like Esau. Hairy like an Angora sweater. There was hair everywhere. With a comb, I could’ve parted it.
As promised, he’d obviously showered; everything was clean. So I sat behind his behind, lathered him up, and gently sheared him.
This being San Francisco, I half-expected to see him getting off on it, but apparently it wasn’t a turn-on. And boy, he needed the service I was providing. I felt I was truly making his life better. It must be frustrating to always have yesterday’s shit stuck to the hair in your crack.
At one point, everything I was looking at sorta tightened up for a few seconds, contracted just a bit. I didn’t ask, but I think the guy was holding a fart, and I really appreciated the effort. Didn’t want to shave all of both cheeks, because I figured that would leave his whole bottom itchy and scratchy for a few weeks whenever he sat down. Instead I left a bald circle extending several inches around his sphincter; beyond this was the almost ape-like hairiness remained untrimmed. Then I gently toweled him dry.
“I’ll let you tell me whether it’s a close enough shave,” I said.
Still on his hands and knees, he tentatively fingered the inches around his anus, shook his head yes, and quietly stood up and got dressed.
“Smooth as a baby’s butt” is the cliché I was waiting to hear. Thought of asking if he had some aftershave to slap on, but he seemed completely ill at ease, so I didn’t make any jokes, just discarded the gloves and washed my hands in the bathroom.
At the front door, he thanked me, gave me three tens and said to keep the change. Thirty bucks for about 15 minutes work made me a happy man, so I decided to make him a happy customer.
“Hope you’re not embarrassed,” I said. “I’ve done this before, you know.”
“You have?” His face brightened.
(Of course I haven’t.) “Sure,” I said. “It’s not that unusual.” That’s what every weirdo wants to hear, I suppose—that he’s not so weird after all.
“I just,” he stammered. “I just really appreciate this.”
“Happy to be a help,” I said. “Call me if the stubble starts to itch.”
Not my story, but my best bud’s. Yeah, it’s true.