I’m infected

Not with Rona. So, relax.

I just needed a provocative, yet truthful, title to get you to click.

Let me explain.

It’s not fun for anyone involved, but there’s something about hot wax in your butt hole on a Monday that just makes everything else seem much more doable.

Or so I thought.

On COViD-Quarantine Eve, I had a calling. I had to take responsibility for the shrubbery that God bestowed upon my nether-lands…and tear her out. Well, to pay my homegirl Anam to tear her out for me a la Brazilian, a practice that I’ve engaged in regularly for at least a decade.

Dayum. Das a lot of coins spent on the coochie…

I digress.

I don’t know who has it worse, quite frankly, her for lathering hot sticky wax onto my taint-hairs, accessible via a position I can only describe as – if spread eagle and doggy style had a baby – or me, for voluntarily submitting myself to this form of aesthetic torture. AND paying for it. #CoochieCoins

Given the forecasted shut-down, I wasn’t sure when I’d next have the opportunity to grace Anam with my pubic presence, so I decided to be proactive.

That is being responsible. Because if too much time passes without a waxing, the consequences are far worse. A furry bush – and its butt buddy, the fuzzy booty hole – can host a lot of unwanted…materials – to put it lightly – throughout the day. We’re talking skidmarks on the draws, dried-up discharge that makes you have to pry your pubes apart – making them so much less fun to twirl, which is a thing we obviously all do to our heart’s content – plus lingering odors. Basically, a vault for farts. A fart vault. Good luck getting out of there little pootie tangs.

Not to mention, if I wait too long, it becomes a LOT more work for Anam when I do decide to woman-up and come through. I know this because when I’ve gone too long in the past, she’s made it a point to show me the quantity of hairs on each wax strip as she rips.

Sooo basically staying on top of my Brazilian-scheduled programming is being of service. To Anam, to the neighbors I share washing machines with and to the world at large (see: lingering odors).

Now that you have all of those pristine visuals of me and my vajay in compromising positions in your mind, brace yourself.

It gets worse.

Now, after imposing trauma upon your coochie there are some dos and don’ts.

Naturally, one of the things I thought it would be great to do post-Brazilian was to…show someone.

Catch my drift?

Picking up what I’m putting down?

Cuz he damn sure picked me up and put. it. down.

Several times.


No, really though OWWW.

Folks, what you are NOT supposed to do post-Brazilian is:

  1. Exercise
  2. Induce too much friction down therre
  3. Get sweat down therrrre

Because she is sensitive. And vulnerable. And raw.

Now, usually I take heed to these grave warnings, but out here in COViD COUNTRY, a sista was not thinking! My mind was on quarantine-and-chillin. And Anam didn’t give me the safety briefing after our wax because I’ve been putting my cooter in her face for the lifespan of a 6th grader!


Two days after the encounter, I woke up to a MUTANT of a vulva. It looked like malaria-ridden mosquitoes came, and saw and conquered my nani. It looked like if Dr. Frankenstein was blind and assembled a vajay with three fractured fingers. It looked like my nana should have been donated to science.

She was not in good shape. And the mountainous bumps on her began to change shape over the course of a few days.

I checked in with my primary care provider – Google – regarding the matter. The diagnosis was folliculitis , an infection of the hair follicles.

Folliculitis is a common skin condition and usually self-treatable.

That doesn’t sound too bad, right?


Every single hair follicle in my nether-lands was infected. And in case you’ve forgotten, I’m Puerto Rican, African American and Italian (mostly). That equates to thick hairs, and a lot of them.


I’ve been walking bow legged, folks. I haven’t been able to sit down without wincing. I haven’t been able to engage in any activity that causes the least bit of friction down there.

I will say that the bow-legged walk has activated my upper booty muscles more so than my regular gait…so I’ll take that discovery as a win. Yay for silver linings.

Given the embarrassing nature of this predicament, I was determined to fix it myself. I was gonna wait it out for 10 days, which is how long Google told me it lasts in most cases.

I spent hours in the bathroom hot compressing my nana, applying witch hazel-soaked cotton balls to her, massaging her with coconut oil.

And crying. There was certainly crying.

There’s always crying.

After a week of this idiocy, I couldn’t take it anymore. I reached out to an actual doctor for actual Western medicinal solutions. He very generously and willingly provided me a prescription.

He said, “Next time, don’t wait til there’s a crisis to call.”

And a light-bulb went off.

Who the hell do I think I am trying to heal myself with nature? Pocahontas (more like Loca-hontas LOL)?

Nice try, A. Nice frickin try.

And who the hell do I think I am for trying to “wait it out” and “tough it out?”

What was I gonna wait for? For my entire body to corrode from vagina-out?

Sometimes “being strong” is being fucking stupid.

I was in pain! I had access to a solution, but chose to try to deal with it on my own. I chose to sit in suffering over expediting relief. And I feel like that is such a woman-y thing to do.

Had that been my Dad or my brother (whom I love dearly), they would’ve hit up their Docs for a good old Rx on discomfort day 0.

Then again, this whole thing started with my choice to suffer, but anyway…

Seriously though, as women we’re already expected to tolerate so much more pain. In the physical sense, we are the menstruators (that sounds like a grunge band and a band of super heroes) and the children-bearers.

In an emotional sense, we’re expected to be the communicators, the nurturers, the pacifiers, in all types of relationships and scenarios.

We hold shit down. We keep shit together. We birth life (I have not, yet, but let me be down).

We’re the fucking glue of the world.

Or, if we wanna stay on theme, the wax of the world.

I don’t know.

Focus, A.

But who keeps us together when we fall apart?

Oh, that’s right.

We do. We frickin do.

So – and this is more for me than for you – let’s strive to always treat ourselves better.

For me, this week that meant setting aside my pride and ego, and making a call to get my darling nani some damn help.

Sometimes I really frickin need it.

And I deserve it.

I feel like the only reason I was given the distinct opportunity to have this experience was to share it with all of you.

And for us to laugh at me together.

Silver frickin linings.

Consider this a cautionary tale:

  1. Wait at least 24 hours to show someone your freshly waxed nani.
  2. Splash some cold water on that delectable diamond as soon as you get home from waxing.
  3. Don’t wait for your mutated vagina to kill you in your sleep to call a doctor if you fail to implement 1 and 2.

Happy Quarantine and Chilling.

One thought on “I’m infected

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