Confession: I get waxed!

I get waxed. Not a Brazilian, as I draw the line at getting on all fours to have hot wax poured and then ripped off my ass (really, a girl has to have SOME standards!), but I do get a nice, tasteful French wax so that things are, well, ‘tidy’ down there for whenever I happen to be seen in public in bikini bottoms.


I sometimes compare my status as a cop’s wife to a bikini wax. So many things about it hurt, so badly it steals my breath, but the glories and the benefits are worth the repeated and habitual pain.

But tonight, tonight dear readers, the pain is sharp and hot and I’m struggling to remember the smooth and sexy reasons I put up with this. Tonight is like the moment the Helga-torture-bitch tests the hot wax she just spread liberally all over my bikini area to see if it is ready to be ripped off. In that moment, I KNOW it’s going to hurt. In fact, it’s going to hurt like a mother-fucker. And the only way to get that fucking wax off my sweet, soft, vulnerable vagina is for her to yank it—and the hair and top layer of skin—off in one brief, life-altering moment.

Why is tonight so hard? Because I love my husband. Because his job prevents me from loving him the way I want to, when I want to, how I want to. Because I’m alone and lonely and because I know he’d rather be here, too, than dealing with the scum of the earth. Because I’m selfish and sad and want my man here, with me, on me, in me, beside me where he belongs.

You see, if I had it my way, I wouldn’t be writing right now. If I had it my way, I’d be bent in some almost-impossible position, experiencing the transcendental orgasmic bliss only he can bring me. And then I’d press my cute little ass against him and fall asleep, only to wake in his arms sometime tomorrow morning.

Instead, I am here in bed, alone, with only the warm, soft vibration of my laptop on my crotch, my hair in a bun, a not-so-sexy nightie on my body and tear-tracks marring my cheeks, looking forward to being awakened by a little voice insisting, ‘Mommy, I want WAFFLES!!”

I hate sleeping alone.

Some nights, one or both of my girls ends up climbing into bed with me. While I don’t want to welcome them—for small creatures they take up an immense amount of room—I am secretly relieved. I hate sleeping alone. I hate the silence of it, the coldness of it, the ‘I’m all-aloneness’ of it. I haven’t had to sleep habitually alone for 15 years (yes, Mom, we slept in sin LONG before there was a ring on my finger!).
Don’t get me wrong: I’m not one of those people who clings sadly to her little corner of the bed because it’s ‘her side’ or some such shit. Oh no...I sprawl. The 5 out of 7 nights he is gone, I sleep smack-dab in the middle of our king-size bed, arms and legs splayed full-length. In fact, some nights I sleep diagonally across the whole 25’ cubic expanse…just because I can. I LOVE the room…I just wish he was there to mold himself around my contorted frame.

And the most ironic thing is, the man snores! Loudly.

Seriously. He’s no peach in the bedmate department. For one, he's huge and believes in the 'law of proportions', which roughly translates to, 'the bigger person gets more of the bed'.  This results in little me clinging precariously to the edge of the bed, clutching the scrap of comforter he has left me.  He snores. He twitches. He gets up to pee more than I do…and I’ve had 2 kids! He talks in his sleep, thrashes about and once urgently shook me awake to inform me that he ‘doesn’t slay dragons!’

…Good to know.

But still, I miss him. When I’m alone, I don’t have anywhere to warm my cold ass. And my ass is COLD at night. One of my girlfriends, Janey, informed me she has “Cold Ass Disease”. I think ALL cop wives have “C.A.D”. We lack the warm male body upon whom most women warm that freezing cold hunk of fat.

In fact, I am now so used to sleeping alone that when we took the girls to Disneyland once in the middle of a graveyard shift cycle, I was shocked to awake in the middle of the night and find a full-grown, flesh-and-blood man in my bed. This was such a novel experience that I groped him, quite intimately, for several minutes to determine that he really was there, that this was not one of my better and more realistic fantasy-dreams in which Matt Damon magically visits me in the middle of the night and makes all of my secret fantasies come true. Unfortunately for Stuart, once I ascertained that it WAS a real man in my bed and that real man WAS my husband, I promptly rolled over, stuck my cold ass against his crotch and went back to sleep.

I just can’t sleep well without him. I don’t think I’m worried about an intruder or anything…I’ve got that one handled. I’ll just run out naked with my trusty steel Mag flashlight, screaming. I figure THAT’ll scare the living fuck out of them. If not, I’ll grab any one of the trusty guns hidden around the house and shoot the floor. I figure they’ll be so horrified by a) my aim and b) my sheer ballsiness in shooting a gun when I clearly have no sense of aim that they will hi-tale their intruding asses right on out the window before I accidentally shoot off their dicks while aiming for their heads.

And it’s not necessarily the sex I miss, either. In fact, if anything, graveyard shift HELPS our sex lives. It’s like we’re dating again. I eagerly anticipate the moments when we’re both awake and coherent and am so ready to go at those precious times that I go off like a freaking rocket the moment he touches me. The other morning we ‘met’ in the shower and, I gotta say, porn stars and got NOTHIN’ on me!!!

No, pure and simple, I just miss the presence of my husband. Graveyard shift is like the three days before a bikini wax: it’s just not pretty. Things are rather, ahem, ‘hairy’, and uncomfortable and undesirable. And while I know that soon they’ll be smooth and soft and sweet again, I also know the fixing process will be painful and awkward and faintly humiliating.

All of this reminds me; I’m due for an appointment. And as Stu has another four months of Graveyard Shift, maybe this time I will get a Brazilian: perhaps all that hot wax will cure my Cold Ass Disease until I have a man warming my bed on a regular basis again!