Monday, January 17, 2011

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This is more flash fiction from the radio show I contribute to. Warning: It is kind of dirty.

Fantastic Sam’s, Dollar Cuts, Paul Mitchell, these were the places he went. Young girls caressed his scalp with shampoo and conditioner; soft hands, tender fingers. They leaned forward, cleavage heaving like riverbeds between the straps of black vinyl aprons. He often imagined that they were not scrubbing, tugging, and arranging his scalp, but reaching beneath the long silky poncho hanging from his neck. But this is not to say he desired some cliché type of fantasy containing a firm grip, eye contact, and the understanding that he’ll let her know before it happens. He just liked the idea of being groomed below the navel.

Sometimes he dropped his pants in the basement and examined his genitals before a full-length mirror. He despised the way the curls puffed up and out with tangles and off shoots like a lawn full of noxious weeds. Sometimes he gripped and snipped himself, contorting his head between his legs, but he couldn’t seem to get the right angle and often nicked loose skin. While watching porn from the 70’s he would freeze frames, lean in close, and admire the way John Holmes or Ron Jeremy had been trimmed to perfection. Sometimes he drew lines on the television with a felt tipped pen, marking the slope and angle of their bush. Manscapers, cock groomers, slong stylist, he didn’t know what their official title was, but he knew they must be out there, trimming pubic hairs to perfection.

He wrote letters to Hustler, Play Boy, Swank, and so on, asking where to find someone with the ability to craft his package. Most sent back brochures filled with extending pumps and French ticklers, but a few wrote back in a seductive tone telling him to go bald, it’s just sexier.

He became consumed with the state of his pubic hair, feeling it best to hide his crotch at all times. He cancelled his membership at Gold’s Gym and regardless of the seasons, wore briefs, boxers, long underwear, gym shorts, jeans, and snow pants. Eventually he stopped going out all together, his pubic hair like chains imprisoning him.

His grandfather was a barber, and one day he stopped by for a visit. He confessed, telling grandpa about the weeds in his pants, the nicks, and the layers of clothing. “Tell me, Grandpa,” he said. “Do you know someone that can cut these shackles?” Grandpa nodded with a grunt. He told him he went through the same thing when Grandma died. “Boy… she could trim a cock,” he said. “Had to learn to do it myself.” Grandpa unclasped his overalls exposing a finely groomed dome of gray. The boy leaned in, his face inches from the V of grandpas crotch. It was beautiful. He dropped the snow pants, the jeans, and the many layers exposing a force of black hair drifting up and out, his fleshy tip barely visible. Grandpa drew his shears and snipped, teaching him the angle of the blades, the ark of the thumb and forefinger. And once it was done they embraced, bare crotches intertwined.