A Short History of My Short-Hairs

It’s a fact of life. Everyone has it. Some people try to hide it by getting rid of it. Some people try to make it look more attractive by having it cut or waxed or even shaved into pretty shapes like hearts and stars, but the fact of the matter is that almost every person has pubic hair. Some have an abundance, some are more sparse, but pubic hair is a great human equalizer.

There is probably some evolutionary reason for us having pubic hair, although I have no idea what it is. I also don’t know much about pubic hair or the answer to popular questions like, “Does the carpet match the drapes?”

I wish I could write some facts about this stuff here; it would make a good introduction; however I can’t . . . The only thing I can provide here is a short history of my introduction to pubic hair and a short history of me and my own pubic hair.

I rack my brain trying to remember when that first hair sprouted out of my crotch and I knew that I was close to becoming pubescent, but I really don’t remember. I do remember the first time I saw pubic hair on a woman, and I bet that most people would guess that it was my mother. Well, it was not. It was much more traumatic.

To this day, thinking about this event rattles me. I was very young and taking swimming lessons at the YMCA. One of those horrible women who love to walk around the locker room in the nude came into the showers while I was showering in my bathing suit. She was a redhead and promptly removed her bathing suit, and her daughter removed hers. I stared at the mother, in awe of her huge red bush. Then I looked at her daughter, also a redhead, and about my age, and her bare little vagina. The sight of the two of them was so confusing to me.

You see, my family was not a “nude” family, and I was always glad for this. But looking at this woman and noticing her . . . she was fat, had rolls, a huge stomach pouch, breasts that dangled to her stomach, and then this . . . this hair, all over her “flower” as I was taught to call it as a kid.

It was disgusting. It looked like Bozo was right there, caught between her legs. I did not understand why she had hair there. I still to this day curse women who walk around the fucking locker room naked. I think I would have been less traumatized by walking in on two men buttfucking in the showers than to see this saggy-sacked monstrosity wash out her big red bush.

The next time I saw pubic hair, it was my mother’s, when she was douching, and it was a lot less unnerving. I remember being way more fascinated by the big bright orange douche bottle than the fact that she had hair down there. Plus her pussy hair was brown, not red . . . far less disturbing for me. And it was a lot less. But I digress.

I want to start talking about the history of my own pubic hair, but there are so many experiences that are coming to mind now that I am fixating on pubic hair, my mind is being flooded with them and it is hard to concentrate.

Puberty hit me late. I remember sprouting a few hairs but always not really wanting a whole lot. I never wanted to look like that clown-crotch at the YMCA. From then on, I hated wooly crotches, although to this day (for the most part) mine remains hairy. But that is more out of laziness than anything else. If it were up to me, I would have a finely waxed vagina all of the time.

When I was about eighteen, my friend told me that she and her boyfriend had both completely shaved their genitals, thereby making their sex so much more amazing. She told me to try it. Boy, that was a mistake. They didn’t explain to me how I was supposed to get rid of the hair, and it turned really messy.

I went into my mother’s bathtub and just took the disposable razor that had been sitting on the tub since I was fifteen to my crotch (my mom had stopped buying disposable razors after she had chemotherapy and her armpit hair went away forever).

So there I was trying to scrape this dull blade across my crotch. I got a bunch of hairs stuck in it, and washed them out, and repeated this over and over. Soon, the whole tub was filled with little curly hairs. I had no idea how to get out of this one. The last talk I wanted to have with my mom is the “I see you’re shaving your pubes” talk.

I tried to wrangle all the little hairs up and shove them all into the drain, but it was way too hard. Pubes have a special way of sticking to the wall of a tub as if to say, “Hey everyone! Look, someone in here tried to shave her cootch!” (This has happened to me on more than one occasion.)

My snatch ended up looking like a blind man took a razor to a cat. There were tufts of uneven hair next to splotches of baldness. It was a complete mess. I just hoped that no one would notice until it grew back. The worst part about it though was the fucking itching. It wouldn’t stop, so I was constantly scratching my crotch, obviously looking like I had some sort of VD. I just kept scratching and waited for it to grow back.

This sort of set the pace for me shaving my pubic hair. I’m horrible at it. I try to do it at times, but it never turns out looking how I want it to. I know I could get it waxed, but there’s something wrong with that to me. One day I might. As a result, my bush is usually all there for the most part. I’d like it nicely groomed, but I’m too lazy to go all out.

It’s obvious that I have an above-average amount of pubic hair. I had another locker-room tragedy in high school, and that, coupled with my earlier YMCA trauma, helps me never to be too self-conscious about the amount of pubes I possess.

My two best friends were twins who also subscribed to the repulsive “walk around the locker room naked” philosophy. These girls had pubes down to their knees. Whenever I get down on myself thinking my pubic hair is out of control, I just think of these twins and realize that at least it is not as unruly as theirs, and at least I don’t walk around locker rooms naked, and then usually I’ll cut it with scissors.

I generally don’t take a razor to it anymore. Like I said, when I do that, it usually looks like a rat who has been attacked.

Maybe somebody out there likes that.

The Eternal Appeal of Incest

People say that prostitution was the very first profession, at least the pimps do when they’re trying to talk me into a new and interesting occupation. It makes sense though; as long as there were women, there was sex, and before money even existed, people exchanged goods and services to be with these women.

Now if you are Bible-carrying folk--or even if you are not--it would seem to me that in order to procreate, incest had to exist. It exists in the natural world all over. Most animals have been known to procreate by sleeping with brothers, sisters, mothers, or fathers.

Royalty, dating from very far back until the present day, has been rumored to fuck family members to keep the regal blood in the family. It is also rumored that this accounts for how fucking weird world leaders have been throughout history. You get a family that constantly fucks each other and then give them a bunch of power and all this bizarre history happens.

Incest is very off-putting and rarely talked about among most people. It has always interested me. Not necessarily because of its rich history, just because anything that is viewed as being a very deviant sexual practice interests me.

As far as any other deviant sexual practices such as pedophilia or any type of fetish (foot, balloon, baby, monkey), incest seems the most natural to me. I mean who is closer to a person than their family? And it did take me some time when I was young to learn that you were supposed to love your family, but you weren’t supposed to “love” them.

I experienced this sort of “love” for a family member first with my cousin Danny. He was about seven years older than me, and around the age of five or six, I used to follow him all over the house and tell him how cute he was. And he was!

Boys appealed to me early on, especially my family members. I could even go far enough to say that cousin Danny was my first crush. He was already past the age of knowing that incest was not cool, and eventually I reached that age...I think.

When parents give a sex talk to their kids, there has to be some kind of “you should not be attracted to your brother or cousin” addendum. Or maybe most people don’t need it. I don’t recall ever having one. When I was young, no one ever discouraged me from following little Danny around, so I figured it was okay. But then I somehow realized it was not.

My father forever hammered the idea into my mind that our family was descended from an incestuous relationship between my great grandmother and great grandfather, whom I never met, but who shared the same last name of Flood. They were said to be first cousins.

It is a belief that one of the reasons that incest is socially forbidden is the fact that the offspring of the incestuous couple will grow up to be insane and their brains won’t properly develop. Sometimes it means that they will become geniuses, other times it means that they will be retarded. That’s a fine line anyway. Other times, I’ve heard, incest babies have a bluish tint to their skin, like Smurfs.

What I deduce from this is that if you fuck a cousin, you get a really cool kid.

So back to my great grandparents. I don’t know if my father made this little fact up just from his bizarre sense of humor--or because he is insane and needs a reason for it--but I have heard the same thing from other family members on his side, who are also not all there mentally.

Family fucking would definitely make sense in my bloodline, considering my great aunts and uncles. Two of them died in mental hospitals. One of them became a nun. One of them was a homosexual and a pedophile who sold socks and contraceptives on the street to make a living. Another was a homeless alcoholic hustler.

And then there was my grandmother. She was a very cruel alcoholic who managed to spawn four of the most bizarre children ever. Each generation is supposed to be a bit less insane, and they are, but they are far from being close to normal. All have problems. Too many to list.

I have always fantasized (especially when I was growing up an only child) about having a brother who was around my age who was my best friend, and who could be there for me throughout my freakshow childhood and witness what went on in my home and help me make sense of it all.

I wish I could craft him myself, so that he was a male version of me and he’d have all the same problems and redeeming qualities as me, and he would completely understand me and one day we would run away and get married. I could have fantasized this all happening with a friend, but when I was a kid it was a sibling--and not a sister, a brother.

Then Dream Brother and I would have all these kids that were blue and retarded and we’d live on a big empty lot in the desert and maybe start a cult (this is a bit more of me getting older, like my junior-high fantasies).

Just thinking about how perfect this would all be excites me all over again. I wish I had a brother. All of my cousins are too lame to carry my plan out. None of them would go along without some kind of mind-control device.

Even though Danny has disappeared from the family because his mother is an intolerable greedy bitch, and he has a real taste for cocaine, I think he would still be the best option in the family for me to execute this plan. I’m sure if he ever heard this he would be horrified and never want to talk to me again. Maybe not.

There is another thing I think about all the time regarding incest. I have discovered on a couple of different occasions in my life that I had more brothers and sisters than I thought I had.

Papa was a rolling stone and he drank a lot and was with a bunch of women who I guess were popping babies out left and right. We were always changing our identities when I was growing up because he did not want to pay child support for all these kids.

Sometimes I meet people and think that they could very well be one of my brothers or sisters. I’d like to think that it has happened and will happen again, but it is a far stretch, I know.

If I found out that someone that I was with was actually my brother, I would be more intrigued than angry. Things like that do happen. I love to entertain the fact that that possibility exists. It makes me feel better about the world.

Things That Have Been Up My Ass

“Things that have been up my ass.”

The phrase itself makes me uneasy.

I am not an ass girl, and have never really been.

Well, there was one phase of about six months when I was reading a ton of Marquis de Sade and like-minded libertine literature and they kept talking about how great ass sex was, and I admit I was totally drawn to it. And then I tried it. And it felt just like taking a big shit to me.

So I waited about three years and again got that stupid urge to put someone’s penis in my ass, and it felt exactly the same--like taking a shit that was too massive for me to handle. I figured you had to maybe get your asshole stretched out and do it a couple of times before it was enjoyable, but I do not enjoy pain in my anus. I have a hard enough time shitting (which you’ll hear about soon). So I just could not bear to ever have anal sex again, and I realized that my asshole was “exit only” (I can’t believe I just said that).

Thus a story regarding “things that have been up my ass” seemed to hold no promise. But then I said to myself, Lil Princess, think of all those times you couldn’t shit and you had to shove all that stuff up your ass to make you shit, the time that you went along and let someone shove a string of beads up your ass...oh and of course the drugs that have been up your ass, so many times.

I realized that a lot of things have been up there. I just had to stop focusing on the erotic and get to the down and dirty. So here is my list of things that have been up my ass.

Suppositories

Constipation is my life. I’ve sought relief in suppository form. It was no type of exciting suppository, but it was just one with some stimulant in it that makes you shit as soon as you slide the little lubed peanut up your ass. The trouble is keeping it up there. I know my sphincter is tight, but I was so afraid it would slide out. It did the first time, but then I got the hang of it.

Once it works, your ass pretty much like starts going crazy and convulsing until shit comes out. If (and pray this never happens to you) it actually falls out before it effects you too much, some of the medicine remains on it and it burns so bad, and then it starts itching, and you can’t get it off without a full shower. It’s horrible. But even if you do it all proper and leave it up there, and then shit, some medicine still sticks to your sphincter and innards and let me tell you . . . it sucks!!

Enemas

It’s pretty self-explanatory why someone would use such a device. Although some do irrigate themselves for pleasure, I don’t like ass-play. So I did use it for some serious constipation, like when those little suppositories would fall out or just not work.

The enema is the granddaddy of all laxatives or anything that exists to make you shit. It’s such a simple idea: a big jar with some salt water in it attached to a tube that goes up your ass. I don’t even like to think about this one, but, yes, I have tried it, a couple of times, and when you use it, you can’t expect anything gentle. You must brace for an EXPLOSION, and it is so unpleasant. To me. Other folks just love enemas so much they will do them all the time.

I have done so much to help me get back on track with my bowels, and this one definitely works, but it is by far the most violent. As far as what goes up your ass, it’s a little tube, so it is barely bothersome, but when the water comes is the terrible part.

Fingers

Whether they have been my own digits, or someone else’s for whatever reason (medical, presumed pleasure, or to pull gobs of shit out of my anus) fingers have been up my ass.

For many reasons, mostly listed above. I never mind when it’s in a medical setting because it is so clean and dry, and for some reason I can NEVER feel their fingers. But in any other situation it’s not good. Again, to me.

Penises

The Marquis De Sade--who at one juncture was my biggest crush--rails on an awful lot about anal sex, so I figured it had to be the best thing around. Once I gave it a crack, I felt like I was taking the hugest dump of my life. And the second time, since the penis was much smaller, it felt like I was taking the second hugest dump of my life.

I think the secret to all of this is trying over and over, but I am not about to jeopardize my ass like that and go through all that pain. I would, however, like to perform anal sex on someone else, but I do not have the right parts for that. But, for me, no more sexy ass stuff.

Anal beads

Please understand that these sex toys were not used in any sexy sort of way. I was taking pictures with three people, and one of them had these beads, and I did not know what the hell they were, or what they were used for. But they were red and latex and looked nice.

So I asked the host and he replied, “They’re anal beads; would you like to try them?”

I could not believe that people put that many beads up their asses, because they were like a foot long. And they started out small and got to one massive bead in the middle and then went back to being small.

But I was curious so I said yeah and then I put tons of lube on them, and I put them in and I was amazed how far they went in, after I pulled them out. I thought with that many beads up your ass and you would rupture an intestine or something. But I walked away unharmed. And not aroused.

Drugs

There are two distinct ways that drugs have played a part in my anal cavity.

One is what most people would assume, you buy drugs, you don’t want the cops to find out about your little secret in case they pull you over. So you shove them up your ass in some kind of cigarette cellophane or something because otherwise you could be in great trouble. And also when doing this be sure not to put them up too far, because then you lose them or you have to fork through your shit to find them. That has never happened to me.

I have not had drugs up my ass too many times. That’s more of a masculine job, so I try to never have to do it, but there have been exceptions. This does not really hurt that much, I think, only because you know that your drugs are safe and warm in your anus.

The other entry for drugs into my rectum is referred to as “stuffing”. It is supposed to carry close to the same high as actually shooting the drug into a vein, but without any of the hassles that come with it. I tried it once, just to see how it went. You have to have the drug in liquid form and then stand on your head and put the drug in a syringe without a needle on it and shove it up your ass. Then you stay on your head, hopefully propped against a wall, until it gets completely in and does not leak out. I have read that the ideal time is thirty minutes, but that seems ludicrous to me. So lots of mine leaked out, plus it burned my ass. I really don’t recommend this, but I do think it is interesting that drugs have found their way up my ass not one but two times.