I was reading an article last week about a heroic college professor who is offering extra credit to her female students, if they’ll refrain from shaving their pits and legs for 10 weeks. Hero. Supposedly she’s teaching them to defy “social body hair norms.”
And once the pit fur starts a-poppin’ the students, who are paying tens of thousands of dollars per year for this caliber of instruction, are supposed to keep a journal and write about how the general public reacts to the Doobie Brother they now have festering under each arm.
That last part would be kind of fun, I have to admit. Send a bunch of cutesy female students into the community, and report on what happens when folks notice they have armpits like long-haul truckers. I hope some of the hedge-pit diaries make it online. And I hope nobody gets killed, after doing a triple-take and walking in front of a UPS truck.
The professor couldn’t exclude the sad, deluded guys who took her Women’s Studies class in hopes of picking up chicks. So, they can also earn extra credit — if they shave everything from the neck down.
But I don’t think anyone would even notice. In this era of manscaping, I don’t believe people would think twice if they saw some dude with shaved pits. The men who stormed the beach at Normandy might have a problem with it (“This is what we were fighting for?!”), but it’s a new, confusing day.
So, I think the young Alan Aldas are getting off easy with this assignment. Right? And anyway, who’s going to confirm the worst part of it? The pube eradication project? Are they on the honor system? If so, I suggest they lie.
I don’t think I’ve ever told this story before, because it’s kinda weird and embarrassing. But what’s it matter at this point? That ship has sailed.
You see… many years ago, about three decades to be exact, I entered into some kind of ill-conceived pact with my girlfriend at the time. My memory isn’t clear on the matter, but I’m almost certain it wasn’t my idea. That kind of thing is not on my perversion spectrum. But, who knows? I was young.
In any case, we vowed to go full bald eagle down below, before we got together for the weekend. We planned to do it up right, and rent a motel room for the big reveal.
And I know this seems like no big deal today, but it happened during the early 1980s — when the ladies in Penthouse looked like they were sitting on the shoulders of Lenny Kravitz. There was so much jungle down there, you probably needed a fan boat to navigate it.
And, as far as I know, men never did such things. NEVER. So, it felt like I was the one going the farthest out on the pubic limb. But I knew there was likely to be sex involved, so I agreed. I probably would’ve robbed a bank back then, if there was the promise of sex on the other side.
Anyway, it was not good, my friends. I remember nothing positive coming from the experiment, and plenty of negatives. Including: apocalyptic rashing, and an itch that laughs in the face of poison ivy.
And then there was the five o’clock shadow… I don’t want to be unfair here, but when I was getting friendly with my girl a few days later, and saw something that looked like Richard Nixon at the 1960 presidential debates, it was off-putting. Ya know?
Hell, we probably did it wrong. What did we know about performing a genital shave-down? There was little to no information about it in the Charleston Gazette.
But I’m telling you, it never happened again. No freaking way. And I counsel those poor misguided bastards in the Women’s Studies class to lie. Just tell ’em what they want to hear, and leave it alone. Or, if you have a guilty conscious, do a radical trim or whatever. But complete eradication? You’ll be sorry.
What are your thoughts on this most pressing of matters? Do you have anything to say, or possibly even confess? Use the comments link below.
And I’ll see you guys again on Wednesday, with the Name Game.
Have a great day, my friends.
Want more? You’re in luck! Sign up for the mailing list in the sidebar and gain access to a secret bonus update every Friday.