Is that anti-feminist?
“Okay on the count of three,” says the lady between my thighs “one, two…”
“Arggggghhhhhh” I scream.
Within the sterile room, my knees are spread wide, my vagina on show. I squeeze Kit’s hand hard, digging my nails into his palms, but he doesn’t complain. As an alternative, he kisses me on the pinnacle: “you’re doing rather well.” I just want it to be over.
“And again,” says the lady.
“Owwwww! Holy Mother of F….”
No, this shouldn't be a flashback of childbirth. This was last month at a waxing parlour where, for the primary time, I used to be getting my pubic hair ripped out at the basis. And it was Kit’s turn...
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