HAIR TODAY, GONE TOMORROW
Anyone who has spent even a little bit of time looking at my profile knows I have a wide ranging taste in porn and women, and the occasional trans woman at that. But I am a c***d of the Seventies, and in the Sturm und Drang around the newly evolving post-first-wave-feminist sexual revolution, the subject of body hair seemed enticing and fraught all at once back in the day. This is reflected in the evolution of porn and more general circulation girlie magazines, as well as the changing mores and modes I encountered as I stumbled through my tangled sex life.
Looking at images of women through the ages, whether in classic paintings and sculpture or contemporary photography from its invention until the present day, the presence of body hair varies with the era and the culture in which it originated. I am not a keen student of fashion, but it’s my understanding that any real attachment to or expectation of women shaving themselves didn’t really start until the 1920s or thereabouts. That Victorian era paintings may still have shown women with clean underarms was probably more a matter of the prudishness of the era than whether it was common in real life at that time. The classical “ideal” may have had as much to do with the difficulty of portraying body hair in sculpture than any attachment to reality. But God knows if you look at enough late 19th and early 20th Century porn photography, you see plenty of body hair on women.
There was a cute video on Vimeo (PM me if you are curious, I’ll send the link. . .) I shared with a brazen Texan woman I worked with a few years back, in which a nude young lady sort of crawls around a photo studio acting like a puppy. Not sexual, literally rolling around and letting her tongue hang out like a panting pup, barking, and chasing a rubber ducky being thrown around the floor. All this while Maurice Chevalier sings some corny song. She is a small breasted and winsome brunette, and she has a nice bush and readily apparent hair under her arms. Not heavy, just there. . . My co-worker said, “She must be from Europe.” I have no idea where she was from, even given that the video originated in a Brooklyn studio. My coworker was an affable, big ol’ girl with tattoos and a hearty laugh. I never thought of her as any sort of fashion maven, but clearly she was providing me an insight into the mode of the day. I think it’s the first time I tumbled to the idea that shaving one’s pussy, or at the very least trimming it, had actually become somewhat de rigueur here in the States.
I think as a c***d I may have seen my mother’s bush once when I was maybe three years old. . . vague recollections of a dark mass between her legs as she went from the shower to the bedroom. Thereafter, I had no more exposure to women’s naked bodies beyond classical art and the occasional National Geographic, and copies of Playboy when my older brother started to get his hands on them. I was blissfully unaware of women’s body hair, although I had some vague idea that they shaved their legs and underarms.
At a scout camp overseas in Taiwan, somebody produced a volume he referred to as a “skivvy book” which was a photographic collection of tastefully posed Japanese nude women. There must have been over a hundred of these photos, full page, in a book bound and sized like what we would call a trade paperback these days. I’d been exposed to little girls’ vaginas by then, so the women in these photos presented an interesting illusion. Their pubic mounds were carefully airbrushed so they still looked like mounds, with dimensional highlights and shadows, tapering off between their thighs. . . but nary a wisp of pussy hair nor a vaginal slit was to be seen. The chatter around the cabins at night centered on some of the older boys relating what they knew about female anatomy. . . a “button” being described that you had to manipulate to make a woman’s vagina open up. Clearly a rudimentary concept of the clitoris, but no one knew that’s what it was. This is 1966, mind you, in an overseas American military community. The carefully coy poses of Playboy and those mysteriously obscured vulvas in the Japanese “skivvy book” were not helping to clear up our misconceptions. But at least we knew about tits and ass.
As a teenager in the late sixties, glimpses of Playboy were about the extent of my contact with naked women. Right around 1967, there was a subtle shift as they started to push the envelope a bit. When my father, a career Naval officer, was taking a refresher course in Spanish at the Presidio in Monterey, California, my family stayed at the Four Seasons Lodge in Pacific Grove. I was discovering Steinbeck, poked my nose into the incense infused realm of a head shop, and regularly lurked down to the laundry room of the motel where somebody had conveniently left behind the latest editions of Playboy. The holiday issue that year had the usual coyly posed buxom beauties. . . although truth be told, not all the models in Playboy had huge tits, just nice ones. But the issue had a pictorial feature called “Art Nouveau Erotica” featuring works by Aubrey Beardsley, Fritz Bayros, Norman Lindsay and the like. What caught my f******n year old eye were actual portrayals of vaginal slits, and/or furry pubes, in all their pen and ink or engraved glory. It wasn’t exactly a spread beaver porno spread, but it hinted at something other than the airbrushed fantasies of mid-sixties girlie mags
Thereafter, when our family was en route to Peru for the next duty station, Dad offered to let me look at the latest issue of Playboy on a long flight. This was a mind blowing recognition of growing up, but I think it was understood I was actually going to read the magazine. . . which I did, and continued to after that. No, really. I won’t lie about looking at the pictorials, but there really was some interesting fiction, essays, and even letters in the forum that crossed a lot of cultural and political lines. No one will ever pretend that Playboy was always a paragon of social progress, but they certainly weren’t conservative either. And the visuals were shifting, informed by changing mores elsewhere in society. Until suddenly in the Fall of 1969, there was the briefest, teasing glimpse of pubic hair, in a time lapse photograph of the actress Paula Kelly. This gorgeous black actress and dancer had just filmed Sweet Charity, a Bob Fosse musical, with Shirley MacLaine. The feature had a sequenced shot of her supple chocolate body doing some strutting against a black background, with her dark curls showing up in relief against her taut, highlighted belly. In a sense, that was the day the Universe changed. . . at least for the horny sixteen year old I was.
Finally, a Playmate appeared in the New Year’s issue of 1971, a gorgeous Nordic blonde named Liv Lindeland, and the pubic hair arms race in general circulation girlie mags was on. Penthouse appeared on the scene with no coyness about pussy hair at all, followed a few years thereafter by Hustler, with no coyness about anything. By then, I was off to college, and finding my way to adult book stores, strip clubs, and bars with all nude women dancing. The fantasy was eventually going to yield to reality in spite of my awkwardness.
From then on, as hippies grew up and became counterculture veterans holding regular jobs with houses in the suburbs, the women in my life all had hair on their pussies, and occasionally under their arms and on their legs. Given my own penchant for leaving behind my strait laced Navy k** background by growing my head hair into a ponytail, with my sideburns evolving into muttonchops and eventually a beard because I didn’t like shaving, I understood the first generation feminist ideal of going natural perfectly well. What was merely uncomfortable on my cheeks and neck must be a major ordeal across a whole body. There remained the struggle among my lovers to deal with shaving or not shaving their legs because of standards of professional decorum. For you women who deal with this to this day, the lore that once you start shaving, the more persistent the growth, particularly on the legs, may be all too familiar. We’ll deal with freedom of choice later in this essay. But I recall hearing varying degrees of frustration about that through the Seventies.
I also remember some of my less enlightened male buddies reacting to one woman on the factory floor where I worked a graveyard shift, who had fairly lush growth under her arms. Nice looking Hispanic woman that I lusted after. One redneck of a supervisor asked if I would fuck that, as if he was describing a plate of chopped liver. I asked what he thought was the problem, and it was the growth in her armpits. “Hell,” I said, “I’m not gonna be fucking her armpits!” even though I was well aware of coitus inter axilla as a fetish. I wasn’t going to be fucking that woman anyway, because I really lusted after her buxom black benchmate on the shift floor. But frankly, I wasn’t going to be fucking her either. . . I was still on the shy and awkward side. But I had defended her desirability if not her honor and dignity, by God!
Sometime around then, this one wiry young woman with whom I had an on again/off again relationship for a few years, came around a few times to my notorious bachelor pad in San Jose, that I shared with two other guys who worked different shifts on the same factory floor. This woman was lean and petite, with perky little tits with nice pink areolae around her nipples. Her coppery red hair was complemented by a nice, trimmed auburn bush. . . and I do so like it when the carpet matches the d****s. But she had developed some dermatological issue, a rash, not disease related, that nevertheless caused enough discomfort that she was advised to at least shave her vulva, even if she maintained a nice red flag above clit level. It was the first time I had the chance to taste a bare pussy, and enjoy a clearer view of my cock entering her than I might otherwise have. Her lips were delicate little petals, not flaps, and nice and rosy pink. Having no attachment to her shaving, I found I also kind of enjoyed the novelty.
Another lover of mine, with whom I actually lived for a year or so, was into trying out a lot of things. In fact she was my only regular lover who engaged in multiple partner sex with me. That’s another story for another time. But one time I persuaded her to let me shave her pussy. I actually loved her dark, curly tangle of hair, which without shaving seemed to stay in a neat triangle between her thighs. It was all about novelty, and I wasn’t expecting her to keep it that way. And I didn’t even want to address the hair under her arms. . . I just wanted to enjoy her naked cunt lips. I would have let her return the favor on me, but that didn’t particularly interest her. The process of carefully washing her and lathering her up, and gently applying a Trac II razor around her pink and plump vulva was arousing in and of itself. We had a lot of fun with that for a few days, but eventually I had to apologize for the discomfort of the stubble growing in again. I made up for that in other ways. . .
By and large, however, I would say about 99 44/100 % of my lovers and casual flings were hairy, although the more genteel sorts who chose to bless me with their sexual favors did engage in trimming their pubic delta of Venus. Variety, as they say, is the spice of life. . .
I think, seeing less porn in some ways after I was married, I kind of missed the transition from a woman’s pubic hair being the natural thing to it becoming something of a fetish. I will not venture into the realm of sexual politics and venture opinions about a backlash against first generation feminism, or traditional consumer society’s reaction to New Age naturalness, for that matter. I just know that sometime in the mid-1980s this was still considered to be the fetish:
And by some time in the late 1990s to early 2000s, this became the odd thing, something raved over by the pervs in videos as the women revealed their hirsute selves:
And venerable old Playboy, at least in its online and cable/satellite modes, has gone through a kind of reverse metamorphosis in this regard. When the horny teenager had his prick stand immediately erect at the sight of pubic hair between the Playmate’s legs, or on the bodies of the other models elsewhere in the magazine. . . the more contemporary evolution through the nineties to the present decade saw the discreet appearance of a vaginal slit on a model with a trimmed or partially shaved pussy. I remember in particular a Playboy calendar in the 1990s in which Kim Conrad, who was at that time Mrs. Hugh Hefner, appeared with her slit prominently displayed beneath a lacy flag of a landing strip. Still, for the better part of four decades, the pussy was largely discreetly hiding out in the bush, so to speak, under soft lighting and shadow, reminding me of the supposed truism. . . “If it’s in soft focus, it’s erotica, and if it’s in hard focus, it’s pornography.” Not sure I buy that one, but it trips lightly on the tongue. Now when you look at pictures or videos of models on Playboy Plus, they coyly tease around bare cunts, and upon occasion the lips even venture to open a bit before your wondering eye. Mind you, this is the respectable nudie mag here. . . no one actually touches themselves there. Gotta go to the “Swing” series or “Playboy Hardcore” for that. But it still represents an interesting evolution.
And in more recent times, even the issue of body hair on men seems to have risen to a point of contention or delight, depending on your point of view. Thinking back in popular culture when Hollywood leading men generally were hairless when their chests were exposed onscreen, the evolution within general popular culture of hair being seen onscreen probably roughly paralleled the more frequent appearance of nudity in general in modern cinema. I’m not sure that was the case in European cinema, by the way, but I’ll let others wrestle with that one. In the porn world, men were generally proudly hairy until fairly recent times. . . at least in the realm of straight sex portrayals. Fans of gay porn can feel free to weigh in here any time. I have mixed feelings about seeing body hair disappear in porn on both sexes, but still find myself drawn to certain images of bare, hairless bods because of the artistic nature of the erotica. The Hegre Art studio get a special plug from me, but there are others.
I have had a couple of friends here on Hamster who have actually seen pictures of this tired old hippie’s body express their desire to shave my privates. The only time this has been done was by a rather attractive and comforting nurse in the urologist’s office prior to my vasectomy at age forty. . . and it felt funny growing out. You women. . . or for that matter, you men, which can include competitive swimmers and bicycle racers, as well as body builders and porn fetish models. . . who engage in regular depilation of your bodies, and especially your private parts, deserve special appreciation and a certain what-the-fuck respect from me. Even using lotions or other methods beyond the old Trac II, I don’t think I could bring myself to do it. But again, isn’t it all about freedom of choice once more?
I don’t expect anyone to view this as anything particularly profound. We humans are a curious bunch, and our sexuality and the way it manifests in life, culture, and society is complex. But tell the truth now, oh denizens of Hamsterland. . . would we have it any other way?
“Now wouldn’t it be a real drag
If we were all the same?”
--Savoy Brown
Looking at images of women through the ages, whether in classic paintings and sculpture or contemporary photography from its invention until the present day, the presence of body hair varies with the era and the culture in which it originated. I am not a keen student of fashion, but it’s my understanding that any real attachment to or expectation of women shaving themselves didn’t really start until the 1920s or thereabouts. That Victorian era paintings may still have shown women with clean underarms was probably more a matter of the prudishness of the era than whether it was common in real life at that time. The classical “ideal” may have had as much to do with the difficulty of portraying body hair in sculpture than any attachment to reality. But God knows if you look at enough late 19th and early 20th Century porn photography, you see plenty of body hair on women.
There was a cute video on Vimeo (PM me if you are curious, I’ll send the link. . .) I shared with a brazen Texan woman I worked with a few years back, in which a nude young lady sort of crawls around a photo studio acting like a puppy. Not sexual, literally rolling around and letting her tongue hang out like a panting pup, barking, and chasing a rubber ducky being thrown around the floor. All this while Maurice Chevalier sings some corny song. She is a small breasted and winsome brunette, and she has a nice bush and readily apparent hair under her arms. Not heavy, just there. . . My co-worker said, “She must be from Europe.” I have no idea where she was from, even given that the video originated in a Brooklyn studio. My coworker was an affable, big ol’ girl with tattoos and a hearty laugh. I never thought of her as any sort of fashion maven, but clearly she was providing me an insight into the mode of the day. I think it’s the first time I tumbled to the idea that shaving one’s pussy, or at the very least trimming it, had actually become somewhat de rigueur here in the States.
I think as a c***d I may have seen my mother’s bush once when I was maybe three years old. . . vague recollections of a dark mass between her legs as she went from the shower to the bedroom. Thereafter, I had no more exposure to women’s naked bodies beyond classical art and the occasional National Geographic, and copies of Playboy when my older brother started to get his hands on them. I was blissfully unaware of women’s body hair, although I had some vague idea that they shaved their legs and underarms.
At a scout camp overseas in Taiwan, somebody produced a volume he referred to as a “skivvy book” which was a photographic collection of tastefully posed Japanese nude women. There must have been over a hundred of these photos, full page, in a book bound and sized like what we would call a trade paperback these days. I’d been exposed to little girls’ vaginas by then, so the women in these photos presented an interesting illusion. Their pubic mounds were carefully airbrushed so they still looked like mounds, with dimensional highlights and shadows, tapering off between their thighs. . . but nary a wisp of pussy hair nor a vaginal slit was to be seen. The chatter around the cabins at night centered on some of the older boys relating what they knew about female anatomy. . . a “button” being described that you had to manipulate to make a woman’s vagina open up. Clearly a rudimentary concept of the clitoris, but no one knew that’s what it was. This is 1966, mind you, in an overseas American military community. The carefully coy poses of Playboy and those mysteriously obscured vulvas in the Japanese “skivvy book” were not helping to clear up our misconceptions. But at least we knew about tits and ass.
As a teenager in the late sixties, glimpses of Playboy were about the extent of my contact with naked women. Right around 1967, there was a subtle shift as they started to push the envelope a bit. When my father, a career Naval officer, was taking a refresher course in Spanish at the Presidio in Monterey, California, my family stayed at the Four Seasons Lodge in Pacific Grove. I was discovering Steinbeck, poked my nose into the incense infused realm of a head shop, and regularly lurked down to the laundry room of the motel where somebody had conveniently left behind the latest editions of Playboy. The holiday issue that year had the usual coyly posed buxom beauties. . . although truth be told, not all the models in Playboy had huge tits, just nice ones. But the issue had a pictorial feature called “Art Nouveau Erotica” featuring works by Aubrey Beardsley, Fritz Bayros, Norman Lindsay and the like. What caught my f******n year old eye were actual portrayals of vaginal slits, and/or furry pubes, in all their pen and ink or engraved glory. It wasn’t exactly a spread beaver porno spread, but it hinted at something other than the airbrushed fantasies of mid-sixties girlie mags
Thereafter, when our family was en route to Peru for the next duty station, Dad offered to let me look at the latest issue of Playboy on a long flight. This was a mind blowing recognition of growing up, but I think it was understood I was actually going to read the magazine. . . which I did, and continued to after that. No, really. I won’t lie about looking at the pictorials, but there really was some interesting fiction, essays, and even letters in the forum that crossed a lot of cultural and political lines. No one will ever pretend that Playboy was always a paragon of social progress, but they certainly weren’t conservative either. And the visuals were shifting, informed by changing mores elsewhere in society. Until suddenly in the Fall of 1969, there was the briefest, teasing glimpse of pubic hair, in a time lapse photograph of the actress Paula Kelly. This gorgeous black actress and dancer had just filmed Sweet Charity, a Bob Fosse musical, with Shirley MacLaine. The feature had a sequenced shot of her supple chocolate body doing some strutting against a black background, with her dark curls showing up in relief against her taut, highlighted belly. In a sense, that was the day the Universe changed. . . at least for the horny sixteen year old I was.
Finally, a Playmate appeared in the New Year’s issue of 1971, a gorgeous Nordic blonde named Liv Lindeland, and the pubic hair arms race in general circulation girlie mags was on. Penthouse appeared on the scene with no coyness about pussy hair at all, followed a few years thereafter by Hustler, with no coyness about anything. By then, I was off to college, and finding my way to adult book stores, strip clubs, and bars with all nude women dancing. The fantasy was eventually going to yield to reality in spite of my awkwardness.
From then on, as hippies grew up and became counterculture veterans holding regular jobs with houses in the suburbs, the women in my life all had hair on their pussies, and occasionally under their arms and on their legs. Given my own penchant for leaving behind my strait laced Navy k** background by growing my head hair into a ponytail, with my sideburns evolving into muttonchops and eventually a beard because I didn’t like shaving, I understood the first generation feminist ideal of going natural perfectly well. What was merely uncomfortable on my cheeks and neck must be a major ordeal across a whole body. There remained the struggle among my lovers to deal with shaving or not shaving their legs because of standards of professional decorum. For you women who deal with this to this day, the lore that once you start shaving, the more persistent the growth, particularly on the legs, may be all too familiar. We’ll deal with freedom of choice later in this essay. But I recall hearing varying degrees of frustration about that through the Seventies.
I also remember some of my less enlightened male buddies reacting to one woman on the factory floor where I worked a graveyard shift, who had fairly lush growth under her arms. Nice looking Hispanic woman that I lusted after. One redneck of a supervisor asked if I would fuck that, as if he was describing a plate of chopped liver. I asked what he thought was the problem, and it was the growth in her armpits. “Hell,” I said, “I’m not gonna be fucking her armpits!” even though I was well aware of coitus inter axilla as a fetish. I wasn’t going to be fucking that woman anyway, because I really lusted after her buxom black benchmate on the shift floor. But frankly, I wasn’t going to be fucking her either. . . I was still on the shy and awkward side. But I had defended her desirability if not her honor and dignity, by God!
Sometime around then, this one wiry young woman with whom I had an on again/off again relationship for a few years, came around a few times to my notorious bachelor pad in San Jose, that I shared with two other guys who worked different shifts on the same factory floor. This woman was lean and petite, with perky little tits with nice pink areolae around her nipples. Her coppery red hair was complemented by a nice, trimmed auburn bush. . . and I do so like it when the carpet matches the d****s. But she had developed some dermatological issue, a rash, not disease related, that nevertheless caused enough discomfort that she was advised to at least shave her vulva, even if she maintained a nice red flag above clit level. It was the first time I had the chance to taste a bare pussy, and enjoy a clearer view of my cock entering her than I might otherwise have. Her lips were delicate little petals, not flaps, and nice and rosy pink. Having no attachment to her shaving, I found I also kind of enjoyed the novelty.
Another lover of mine, with whom I actually lived for a year or so, was into trying out a lot of things. In fact she was my only regular lover who engaged in multiple partner sex with me. That’s another story for another time. But one time I persuaded her to let me shave her pussy. I actually loved her dark, curly tangle of hair, which without shaving seemed to stay in a neat triangle between her thighs. It was all about novelty, and I wasn’t expecting her to keep it that way. And I didn’t even want to address the hair under her arms. . . I just wanted to enjoy her naked cunt lips. I would have let her return the favor on me, but that didn’t particularly interest her. The process of carefully washing her and lathering her up, and gently applying a Trac II razor around her pink and plump vulva was arousing in and of itself. We had a lot of fun with that for a few days, but eventually I had to apologize for the discomfort of the stubble growing in again. I made up for that in other ways. . .
By and large, however, I would say about 99 44/100 % of my lovers and casual flings were hairy, although the more genteel sorts who chose to bless me with their sexual favors did engage in trimming their pubic delta of Venus. Variety, as they say, is the spice of life. . .
I think, seeing less porn in some ways after I was married, I kind of missed the transition from a woman’s pubic hair being the natural thing to it becoming something of a fetish. I will not venture into the realm of sexual politics and venture opinions about a backlash against first generation feminism, or traditional consumer society’s reaction to New Age naturalness, for that matter. I just know that sometime in the mid-1980s this was still considered to be the fetish:
And by some time in the late 1990s to early 2000s, this became the odd thing, something raved over by the pervs in videos as the women revealed their hirsute selves:
And venerable old Playboy, at least in its online and cable/satellite modes, has gone through a kind of reverse metamorphosis in this regard. When the horny teenager had his prick stand immediately erect at the sight of pubic hair between the Playmate’s legs, or on the bodies of the other models elsewhere in the magazine. . . the more contemporary evolution through the nineties to the present decade saw the discreet appearance of a vaginal slit on a model with a trimmed or partially shaved pussy. I remember in particular a Playboy calendar in the 1990s in which Kim Conrad, who was at that time Mrs. Hugh Hefner, appeared with her slit prominently displayed beneath a lacy flag of a landing strip. Still, for the better part of four decades, the pussy was largely discreetly hiding out in the bush, so to speak, under soft lighting and shadow, reminding me of the supposed truism. . . “If it’s in soft focus, it’s erotica, and if it’s in hard focus, it’s pornography.” Not sure I buy that one, but it trips lightly on the tongue. Now when you look at pictures or videos of models on Playboy Plus, they coyly tease around bare cunts, and upon occasion the lips even venture to open a bit before your wondering eye. Mind you, this is the respectable nudie mag here. . . no one actually touches themselves there. Gotta go to the “Swing” series or “Playboy Hardcore” for that. But it still represents an interesting evolution.
And in more recent times, even the issue of body hair on men seems to have risen to a point of contention or delight, depending on your point of view. Thinking back in popular culture when Hollywood leading men generally were hairless when their chests were exposed onscreen, the evolution within general popular culture of hair being seen onscreen probably roughly paralleled the more frequent appearance of nudity in general in modern cinema. I’m not sure that was the case in European cinema, by the way, but I’ll let others wrestle with that one. In the porn world, men were generally proudly hairy until fairly recent times. . . at least in the realm of straight sex portrayals. Fans of gay porn can feel free to weigh in here any time. I have mixed feelings about seeing body hair disappear in porn on both sexes, but still find myself drawn to certain images of bare, hairless bods because of the artistic nature of the erotica. The Hegre Art studio get a special plug from me, but there are others.
I have had a couple of friends here on Hamster who have actually seen pictures of this tired old hippie’s body express their desire to shave my privates. The only time this has been done was by a rather attractive and comforting nurse in the urologist’s office prior to my vasectomy at age forty. . . and it felt funny growing out. You women. . . or for that matter, you men, which can include competitive swimmers and bicycle racers, as well as body builders and porn fetish models. . . who engage in regular depilation of your bodies, and especially your private parts, deserve special appreciation and a certain what-the-fuck respect from me. Even using lotions or other methods beyond the old Trac II, I don’t think I could bring myself to do it. But again, isn’t it all about freedom of choice once more?
I don’t expect anyone to view this as anything particularly profound. We humans are a curious bunch, and our sexuality and the way it manifests in life, culture, and society is complex. But tell the truth now, oh denizens of Hamsterland. . . would we have it any other way?
“Now wouldn’t it be a real drag
If we were all the same?”
--Savoy Brown
il y a 2 ans
If you had more than one incident with a wound in a delicate location, its a wonder they didn't have you all red flagged in some fashion or another. But perhaps it's a more common occurrence than I would think.
As you said, the medical care was covered by your country's thoughtful and free health care system. I know it has its problems. . . what bureaucracy doesn't? After all, Parkinson's Law was written by an Englishman, and he knew from bureaucracies. But we have nothing like that here in our benighted country. Goddammit! But some of us are still trying to see it done. . .
Shaved or hairy, bless 'em all, bless 'em all, bless 'em all.
I also recall one scene in the old porn classic "Deep Throat" when Linda Lovelace was seen shaving herself. . . with a safety razor, but the old fashioned kind you changed blades on. They showed a close up of the mug she was using for her shaving soap, and they had the Old Spice three-master trademark on it, and event played the pennywhistle tune from the ad campaign in the background. To my knowledge, Procter and Gamble never sued them over it. They would have been fools to do so. . .
I like women, and I like pussy. While I may prefer women with their natural woman fur. I remain ecumenical about that, though. And there is something about a nice clean slit when it is first revealed to your wondering eyes. . .