Update on my butchered pussy

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Thanks for all the kind messages written by those twittering readers who, grimacing in sympathy pains, read my post on an extremely painful waxing a few days ago.  I’ve been watching my lady garden heal and it’s been an interesting set of developments….

Firstly, I’ve taken every night since off from work, because;

  • The skin is red raw, and doesn’t look paticuarly attractive.
  • Little weeping spots and tiny scabs where a layer of skin got whipped off mean that I don’t want to run the risk of infection from covering it with make-up or fake tan.
  • The thought of chaffing as I pull my G-string up and down multiple times in the night makes me wince.  Lace panties would run the risk of getting snagged, nylon seems too sweaty, and big cotton granny pants are out of the fucking question for various obvious reasons.

I’ve even had to change my usual food, as I am a big fan of spices and chilli, but its been all salt and no pepper as the bum area has naturally been feeling a bit sensitive too.  You feel like a baby getting her nappy changed when the therapist hoists your legs into the air so that she can wax your crack.  My arse isn’t a ring of fire, unlike my snatch, but it’s still a bit tender from her manhandling and over-enthusiatic hot molten wax application, so best to err on the side of caution and eat plain fare.

The vajazzle is intact, but as the skin around it is so irritated it’s taking real willpower not to pick all the gems off in a furious scratching frenzy.  The previous times I got vajazzled, I wore sexy and alluring underwear non-stop as I was so inwardly proud of my dazzling cunt that twinkled when I took a tinkle.  However, this time I have been slopping around in silk french knickers and cotton briefs from M & S and slobbing around the sofa in trackie pants and Thai fisherman’s trousers.   The only dancing I’ve done in the past 72 hours was a dance for joy when I discovered my silk pajama’s with a fleecy lining at the back of my wardrobe.  The epitome of comfort…. 
All-in-all, what should have been a standard beauty procedure to turn me into a smooth porno goddess has wrenched my bits apart till I am a hobbling feral-cat that scratches herself on the sofa more often than an ITV ad-break.  The only equipment I’m letting within a five foot radius of my poor frazzled pussy is a hot water bottle.  But I’ve discovered a solution.  It’s friday, I’ve called in sick and the local pub doesn’t mind if I wear the same trackie suit all weekend.  Alcohol is also a much better pain reliever than aspirin, paticuarly for butchered pussies (true- the ships cat’s of old loved a tot of rum when on the high seas).  
I’m off for a pint….
About author

sassy

Sassy by name, Sassy by nature, I write to explode the myths which surround the lapdancing profession - standing up for the clubs, the girls and the customers. Its not always drinking champagne and playing with my tits - it can be hassle, hustling and hangovers. At heart I'm just a regular twenty-something posh cockney living in London who likes taking her clothes off...

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