Manscaping Beijing: Where to Beat Back the Man Muff in the Capital

Trey | May 22, 2019 8:30 am | Add a comment | 1115 reads

Could it be true what the tenured expats say? “Either you leave before five years, or you stay for good.” I thought I had escaped the nine-to-five, find-a-wife, buy-a-house, settle-down, monotonous, endless cycle of suffering the Buddhists call saṃsāra and Americans call suburbia. Life was bound to catch up with me.

Everything was different back then; nothing has changed since, and I am tired of the same routine. Burger Cup. Pizza Cup. Burger Cup. Pizza Cup. Burger Cup. Alba remodeled, ready for Pizza Cup. Maybe I’ve stayed too long. This year is my sixth. China used to be wild: the Wild, Wild East. I can’t handle another movie night. We tried making it fun by watching fringe content. But those mothers who rampaged against violent video games were right; once you watch enough snuff films, you do get desensitized. Death just bores me, back to cat videos. Beijing is a lot like that; first it’s all chicken hearts, then it’s pig brains that are just like tofu, then why not eat a goat penis. Where does this madness end?

Am I just a full-blown masochist now? I do seem to be on a quest of self-impediment if not full-blown self-sabotage. Maybe I need a girlfriend. I’d probably just ruin that too. Well, there is no turning back. Daisy’s Beauty Salon it is.

“This is your first time?” says, presumably, Daisy.

“Yes.”

“You know it really hurts.”

“Yes.”

“So, you want to take it all off?”

“Are there other options?”

“Most men remove everything, some like to leave a little something on.”

“Err, let’s do it all.”

“Great, get on the bed and spread your legs.”

There’s a certain face we all make when we choose to be ignorant of imminent danger, much like that of the headlight-stunned deer. Some call it bravery.

“Oh my, it’s quite long.” She says in a non-complimentary way.

“I’m sorry, I have never done something like this. I don’t know the protocol.”

“Just sit back. Try to relax.”

Using a large wooden tongue depressor, she smears on a warm honey-like substance and then presses down with the full weight of her body. Yank.

“Your hair is very thick.”

She yanks the cloth again, this time stripping a patch of pubic hair with it. Yelp.

“Who handles the pain better men or women?” I ask hopefully.

“Women are packaged a little nicer, or maybe they are just stronger...” I should have known. “You may want to breathe for this one. Men seem not to like it.” She uproots a forest from the base of the mountain.

“[Insert expletive]!”

All fear of accidental arousal vanished as a dreadful sense of vulnerability sinks in. If a man holds a knife to you in the street, you give him your wallet. But what do you do when they already have the family jewels in hand? Anything they say. Then again, there is something rather maternal about a woman so methodically treating your undercarriage, which again beckons compliance. Either way, I quietly bite down on my tongue in pain and follow the instructions.

“Flip over... No, no, ass in the air. Head to the ground. Yes.” She contorts my backend into the optimal open-canyon. There’s a certain apprehension we all feel when a warm goo oozes down our ass cheeks. However, this intensifies when you remember it is hot wax and not yesterday’s hot pot. She wrenches out the backcountry undergrowth in a series of rips.

“Flip back over. Wider. Good. Now, I will tweeze the stragglers.” Somehow, it is even worse. I soon come to miss the acreage of the last method as she tears lone hairs out of the razed terrain, follicle by follicle. As the plucks feel more like stabs, I peek from behind my fingers to confirm I have not been dismembered. Phew, intact. I try to be a man. Only to remember, this is the least manly thing I have ever done. Irony may be our only comfort in this postmodern world.

Daisy assures me it is done. She then applies a cooling ointment. It feels nice. I exhale slowly. She leaves me alone with my dignity to see if we can reconcile. As per usual, we can’t. Then, my dignity leaves me alone with my pluck-pocked cock. It looks awful. I quietly get dressed and simper home with my still rather sensitive secret between my legs.

All in all, Daisy (or perhaps her employee) was extremely professional throughout the entire ordeal, which turned out to be a brisk forty minutes. She promised that the redness would reduce, and as of the next day, it has. It also feels amazing. She promised next time would be easier too. Maybe it will, and maybe I will never find out. So, if you want to gain a few optical inches, increase dance floor confidence, and feel smoother than a prepubescent boy, visit one of the establishments below for your first and unforgettable taste of manscaping.

Dare to try? Rough up your muff at the following beauty salons: