Muff Up

What does the future hold for pubes? Ladies? Gentlemen?

The word on the street is that pubes are becoming a thing of yesteryear as modern media pushes the youth of today to aim for a hairless, flawless, naked future.  

Single girlfriends inform me that to own a massive 70's bush is just not cricket and that if your not trimming the minge, or going for a Brazilian, or even a Hollywood - then, quite frankly, your not going to get laid.

Moran, in her bible How to Be a Woman, confirms this phenomenon that girls, yes mere girls not woman yet, feel peer-pressure to have little or no hair downstairs and this, according to a recent interrogation I had with a beautician, is becoming the norm. 

Despite the fact that by law under-16's aren't allowed to have a wax without a consenting adult, younger and younger girls all want hair removal. I kid you not. 

Going on-line reveals a a myriad of mothers and beauticians on forums asking if it is ok to wax their 11 year old's armpits/legs, this grim video on YouTube shows a mother waxing her screaming 5 year old's eyebrows. 

I digress, because that is, well the States, but is it beginning to happen here - on the island? According to my insider beautician: yes. And she claims its down to shows like The Only Way is Essex screening images of waxing, bikini lines and plenty of slap to impressionable teenagers - they love it!

But also it is fashionable and topical and these are things that matter - right?

A small survey amongst my peers reveals that the chicks are keeping things pretty darn trim among their ladygardens - with the majority heading towards a Brazilian - I was, and continue to be, impressed!

But, amongst the gardeners one digressed and said did I not realise that the men were in on it too?

Manscaping is the new state of play for gents out there. A brief whisker on google turns up a whole host of manscaping advice, including how to keep you chest, back, bush (yup - it was dubbed bush) and balls either hair-free or trimmed down. The basic premise, it turns out, is that if the boys keep their bush trim, and I quote here: " We all know the shorter the hair is the longer the junk looks".

So there you have it ladies - it all comes back to the size of their manhood.

Generally, however hair or no hair is simply a fashion statement; manscaping, Brazilians - its just fashion - just as keeping it fluffy and natural is too - although that is not completely in right now, but give it time - the big bush, for both boys and girls, is an underground movement that is, quite literally, spreading...

Pea. s - for the record - Chew Bacca is my ideal partner

Doff your hat gents....welcome to Worsted

"Hey - MEN out there, you want to bag yourself a laaaadddieee? Yes. Well get you tit for tat on and listen to Worsted":

"If you want to get a girl - get yourself a hat and doff your way into her heart. The Watson, for example is perfect as a cordial form of introduction, charrrrming young things will be charmed and ripe for seduction."

I had, once again, the fabulous good luck to hear Worsted on la radio - what an insanely fabulogo invention that is - this afternoon and, well, welcome to Doffing my friends.

Grab yourself the nearest tit for tat - hat - and get it on your head.

Those lines, btw, were taken straight off the fabulous jazz/latin juices of Seduction and Doffing (click and listen hear) from their album Chapology offers a wildly eccentric and very British take on how to bag yourself a chick. By raising your hat and commenting on the weather or such seemly sentiment and learning the art of behaving like an old fashioned gent you will seduce the ladies through the gentle craft of adroit allurement.

They were in Brighton last weekend and are coming to Bath for the fringe festival and performing at the Mission Theatre on Wednesday 30th May.

So grab your tit for tat and get down there - lets learn ourselves some old fashioned sophistication and a leeetle bit about the great art of seduction...

I'm ready...

The shower cleansed her naked body of its long working day; its glass walls erotic to the touch, slicked with dripping aqua pura, the steam growing steadily, rising and pooling above her head. The droplets of water stinging in their anticipation – pouring, raining down on her – unable to satisfy themselves.

She scrubbed, she rubbed, she groomed and lubed, she soaped and bathed and at last, felt ready.

The bathroom was littered with its personal and private implements: the toothpaste squeezed up to its neck, lay pathetically, waiting for its next crushing embrace. Bottle tops; strewn carelessly across the dressing table, noted their ineffectiveness, as former partners distanced themselves; standing open, gaping necks, ready to pour, decant and surge - just as she bidded.

Unblemished, flawless, oiled: expectant – she held the doorknob, slightly moist in her hand – her breathing short – turned and pushed it open.

The chest held one open draw – a black stocking lingering on its lip. Soft echoing evening light stroked the old curved walls. The cupboard door, open just a crack, revealed the hem of a long, red, silken dress.

Softly she peeled back the cool, crisp, white John Lewis sheets that swathed the large, square bed – poised majestically, nonchalantly…invitingly, in the middle of the room.

The touch of clean, warm skin against laundered cotton was shivery.

She lay there; groomed, expectant, virginal and, near as damn it, perfect – so she thought.

“ Steve, ohhh Steve” She trilled.

NOTHING.

She edged deeper into the curves of the mattress – her toes delicately inching into the dark corners.

“Steve – Dahhhhhling…”

NOTHING.

“Steve, STE…” She hopped out of bed, ran into the bathroom; clutching her boobs as she scampered – her white bottom wobbled behind her. She found her mobile behind the massage oil.

"Freeeeezing …STEVE”- she yelled at the closed bedroom door.

NOTHING.

“Bloody Hell”. She snapped to herself tripping over a pair of dirty reeboks.

Jumping quickly back into the comforting confines of the white sheets, she pulled the topmost one up to her chin.

She jabbed the buttons:

“07473 – 261823”. As the ring tone began in her ear – her gaze rested on a pair of soiled Y-fronts hanging out of the laundry basket, a half-popped packet of nurofen nestled by the skirting against the wall.

“STe, STEVE – where the bloody hell?...I’m waiting…Where? Where do you bloody think?...I don’t care about the Chelsea – Barca game – just get your arse upstairs NOW.”

She jabbed the off button.

Then lay back on the bed – tense, angry.