I Got Waxed Down There and Nobody Warned Me About This

It all started in the most banal way in the world: in the gym showers. It wasn’t something I went looking for, nor a revelation wrapped in drama. It was simply observation. I’d been going to the same neighborhood gym three times a week for months, and in the locker rooms you inevitably crossed paths with other men. Most of the ones who had been training seriously for a while had their bodies waxed: smooth chests, clean pubic hair, buttocks without a single hair in sight. They moved through the space comfortably in their own skin, as if it were nothing out of the ordinary. I, on the other hand, had the body of someone who had never thought too much about those details.

I was twenty-seven then. I was a bit over six feet tall, slim without being skinny, with shoulders that were starting to take shape thanks to the last few months of effort. I didn’t have any particularly deep complexes about my body, but daily comparison starts doing its work quietly. It wasn’t telling me there was something wrong with me. It was telling me there was something I could change. Something minor, something unimportant. Just an aesthetic detail.

The first decision was the most obvious: shaving. I bought a three-blade razor, shaving foam, and locked myself in the bathroom on a Saturday afternoon. The result wasn’t bad. The pubic area was clean, and so were the buttocks. I liked what I saw. The problem came three days later, when the skin started itching in a way I hadn’t anticipated and the new hairs came in like needles. Two weeks later I was back where I’d started, only with more irritation and less patience.

I tried depilatory cream. I bought it at a pharmacy with the same discreet discomfort with which one buys things one would rather not be seen buying. It worked better than the razor: the hair took longer to grow back, and when it did, it was softer. But it still wasn’t a permanent solution. It was still something that had to be repeated every week, that left the skin sensitive, and that never gave the same clean result I saw in the locker room. That was when I started looking for what I was really after: wax, the way women used it, the way the men used it who had that smooth, even skin I was beginning to want for myself.

“Male waxing. Intimate area. Discretion guaranteed. Andrés.” It was a simple profile on a local services platform. A profile photo showed a man of about forty with a short beard and a calm expression. Reasonable price. The few reviews he had were discreet, brief, and positive. I wrote to him asking about availability.

He replied in under ten minutes. He asked what area I wanted treated. I told him buttocks and pubis, and that it was my first time with wax. He explained the process briefly and without condescension: the temperature, the pull, the recovery time, what I should do before and after the session. No drama, no insinuations. I gave him a name for the booking and we arranged it for the following Thursday at seven in the evening. When I closed the chat, I had the strange sensation of someone making a decision they had already made before they started writing.

The place was on the first floor of an unmarked building on a quiet street in the center. To get there, you had to pass through a ladies’ hair salon occupying the ground floor. I went up the stairs without anyone looking at me and knocked on the door Andrés had described. He opened it himself. He looked like the photo, maybe a little stockier than I had imagined. He was around his early forties, with big hands and a calm voice. He wore a short-sleeved white smock and smelled of something neutral and clean that I would later learn to recognize as the wax he used.

The space was small and functional: a long treatment couch, an articulated lamp, a cart with jars of wax at different temperatures, rolls of fabric strips, a chair against the wall. No background music, no distracting decoration. Nothing superfluous. I felt awkward for about twenty seconds, until Andrés spoke to me with the same naturalness with which a doctor explains a routine procedure.

—Intimate area and buttocks, right? —he asked as he prepared the cart.

—Yes.

—Perfect. Take everything off below the waist. There’s a towel there if you want to use it. —He pointed to the far end of the couch—. I’ll give you a moment.

He went out and closed the door. I was left alone for thirty seconds. I took my clothes off, folded my pants onto the chair, and sat on the edge of the couch with the towel over my lap. The disposable paper crackled with every movement. The room was silent.

Andrés came back, checked the temperature of the wax with the back of his wrist, and told me to lie face down.

—We’ll start from behind —he said—. Most people prefer it that way the first time. Once you have to turn over, you know what’s waiting for you.

The first application of wax on my left buttock was more of a surprise in temperature than in pain. Hot but not burning, dense, with a weight that spread across the skin. The pull came afterward: dry, quick, precise. Less painful than I had imagined. Andrés placed his open palm over the area for three seconds, and that firm contact on skin he had just ripped at was, in a way that’s hard to name, completely unlike anything else I had felt before.

He worked efficiently, without haste but without unnecessary delays. Strip by strip, moving toward more intimate areas. Sometimes he would say something quietly: “This is going very well,” “Good hair to work with.” His left hand was always there: holding the skin taut before the pull, soothing the sting afterward. There was something hypnotic in that rhythm, in that alternation between heat and tension and relief. I had my chin resting on my crossed arms and my eyes closed.

When he reached the innermost part, he paused briefly.

—For this area I need you on all fours —he said—. The muscles open up on their own that way, and I can work properly without hurting you.

I got on all fours without thinking too much about it. Andrés kept working. In that position, the buttocks naturally separated, and I was very aware that there was no distance you could call comfortable between my knees and the wax cart. My testicles were on display, hanging heavy between my open thighs. My cock, still soft, fell onto the disposable paper. Andrés didn’t alter either the pace or the tone of his voice. With two fingers he separated one cheek from the other, and I felt the cold air of the room directly on my ass, on the completely exposed hole. He applied wax very close to the opening, waited a second, and pulled. A dry, clean burn. His palm came down there immediately, pressing, extinguishing it. One strip, another, another. Each pass a little closer to the center, until his fingers opened me fully and he applied the last strip right on the edge of the anus.

—Hold still —he said, and pulled.

That time I did let out a gasp. Not from pain. From something else that was beginning to mix with the pain and that I didn’t yet dare name.

—Good —he said when he finished—. Turn over.

I lay on my back. The towel had ended up to the side of the couch and I didn’t reach for it. Andrés took the jar of hot wax and started on my pubis. He spread the wax over the bone, pulled, pressed. He worked down to the base of my cock, and there he had to take it in his left hand and pull it upward, against my stomach, to be able to work the clean area. Andrés’s fingers closed around my dick with a technical, functional firmness, the same way he might have gripped a paintbrush. It didn’t matter. My cock didn’t distinguish between technique and caress.

It started to swell in his fist.

The erection came without my making any decision about it. It filled quickly, each pulse pushing against his fingers, until it was fully hard, pointing toward my navel, and he had to let go of it so he could apply the next strip. When the wax fell onto the skin of my scrotum, I jerked. Andrés held my balls with his open hand, lifted them carefully, and waxed the folds underneath, one by one, pulling with his usual efficiency but resting the palm a second longer than strictly necessary after each rip. My cock was throbbing against my belly. A clear drop had already gathered at the tip.

Andrés didn’t stop moving. He didn’t change expression. He kept applying wax to the remaining area with the same methodical precision as before. When he looked up for a moment and found me staring at the ceiling with my chest tight, the only thing he said was:

—It happens. You’re not the first.

And he kept working.

It took another four or five minutes to finish. I felt the last wax pulls almost without pain, because there was something in that room that had shifted all my attention somewhere else. When Andrés put the jar back on the cart and took a wipe to remove the wax residue, the pace of the session changed without anything external marking it.

The wipe moved slowly over the area he had just waxed. Slower than necessary for cleaning. He ran it over the pubic bone, the groin, the inner thigh, the balls. His fingers paused when the wipe no longer had anything to clean and still remained there, brushing against me. He let it fall to the floor. His hand, now bare, returned along the same path. Open palm, fingers spread, gliding up the thigh until it rested at the base of my cock.

I said nothing. Neither did he.

He closed his fingers around it. This time without any technical pretext. The warm, dry hand, squeezing with a slowness that left no doubt that this was no longer part of the session. He moved his fist upward, slowly, to the head. The skin tugged. He pushed downward. A gasp escaped me through my nose.

—All right? —he asked.

—Yes.

That was the only thing I managed to say. Andrés came closer to the side of the couch. His left hand rested flat on my stomach, holding me down against the paper. His right began to jerk me off at a steady pace, unhurried, with the wrist of someone who knows exactly how hard to squeeze and where. His thumb brushed over my frenulum on every upward stroke, drawing small involuntary spasms from me. The other hand went down, took my balls, weighed them, rolled them between his fingers.

—Open your legs —he said.

I opened them. One of his fingers, damp with my own fluid, slid down behind my testicles and pressed on my perineum. He pushed there, against that inner spot, while the other hand kept moving up and down my cock. My back arched off the paper. I let out a short, rough moan that sounded strange in that silent room.

—Hold on a little longer —he said, very softly—. Don’t come yet.

He let go of my cock. He leaned over the couch. I felt his breath first, warm, on the head. Then his mouth. He closed his lips around the tip and went down slowly, taking half my dick in a single motion. His tongue curled underneath, pressing me against his palate. He came back up. Down again, deeper this time. His hand kept working my balls, squeezing them softly, letting them go. The finger of the other hand returned to pressing my perineum every few seconds, setting an internal rhythm that merged with the rhythm of his mouth.

I had my arms stretched out at the sides of the couch and my eyes fixed on the unlit ceiling lamp, my hands gripping the edges of the disposable paper until it wrinkled. There was an accumulated tension of weeks, perhaps of longer than that, that suddenly found a channel there. Every time Andrés went down to the base, his nose touched my freshly waxed pubis, and that contact on virgin skin sent a jolt up my spine.

He sped up. He started sucking harder, cheeks hollowed, swallowing saliva without letting go. The finger under my balls pushed harder.

—Tell me —he said, pulling my cock out of his mouth for a second before taking it back in.

—I’m close —I managed to say. And then, almost at the same time: —Andrés, I’m coming.

I warned him when it was already too late for much warning. Andrés didn’t pull away. He went down to the base, stayed there, and I came into his mouth with a convulsion that shook me from my thighs to my chest. I felt every spurt leave me, one after another, and I felt him swallow too, felt his throat moving around the head without letting a drop escape. My cock throbbed inside him, emptying in long pulls, and he kept squeezing my balls with his hand and pressing my perineum with his finger, milking me down to the last drop.

When I finished, he rose slowly. He wiped the corner of his lips with the back of his thumb. His expression was the same technical serenity as throughout the entire session, as if he had just applied the final wax strip.

Then there was silence. The kind of silence that doesn’t ask for apologies or explanations, that simply exists because the two people sharing a room need a moment to inhabit their own bodies again. My cock, now soft, rested on my clean stomach. A thread of semen had remained at the tip. Andrés picked it up with the wipe, without ceremony, and passed the cloth over my lower belly.

—Take all the time you need —he said, and left, closing the door without a sound.

I got dressed slowly. I mentally checked whether there was anything I ought to feel more urgently: guilt, confusion, something that demanded explanation. I found neither. What I found was more like clarity. Like the feeling that something that had been circling without direction had finally found a place to settle.

***

Andrés came back with a small cardboard card bearing only his name and a phone number.

—In case you want to repeat the session. Wax lasts between three and six weeks, depending on the hair.

I paid. I thanked him. I went down the stairs and through the ladies’ hair salon at the same pace I had come up. The clients were still under their dryers. The street was exactly the same as when I’d left it.

I put the card in my pants pocket.

Over the next three years I went to see Andrés every month and a half, sometimes every two months when work piled up. Waxing remained the official reason for each visit. Some sessions ended like that first time, with his mouth closed around my cock and me coming into his throat without pulling away. Others went further: me on all fours on the couch, skin still red from the wax, and him behind me, fucking me with the same patient cadence with which he had learned to work my body, one hand on my hip and his cock going in to the hilt while he whispered for me to hold on, to open more, to breathe. Other times nothing happened, I finished the session waxed, paid, and left. We never spoke about what happened between us directly, never put a name to it, never turned it into something that required a conversation neither of us seemed to need. It was what it was, with no more weight than the one we chose to put on it.

What did change, over time, was something harder to describe. I stopped building explanations for what I simply felt. I stopped asking myself why I looked at certain things in the gym locker room. That afternoon on the first floor of that unmarked building didn’t turn me into another person. It only took away something I’d been carrying without realizing I was carrying it.