Today we welcome back Sarah M. Anderson, whose Expecting a Bolton Baby comes out in just a few weeks. Sarah is no stranger to getting in-depth and personal at H&H; her past posts have including the topics of alternate names for the male appendage, the female's soft petals, and slut-shaming. This post talks about waxing—and how authors walk the razor's edge when they start discussing how bare the heroine is daring to be. Thanks, Sarah!
The other day, I was reading a book that shall remain nameless when I reached a sex scene. YEAH! Excited, I began to read faster. Until I hit the part where the heroine—who had been in a semi-abusive relationship at the age of 14 with a much older man and hadn’t had another relationship with a man for the next decade—stripped for our hero. This was supposed to be a big moment—not just because Yeah! Sex!—but because she was taking a risk on our hero by really exposing herself. The sex was spontaneous, not the planned-weeks-in-advance kind.
Except that, when she literally exposed herself, our hero noted how pleased he was that she was waxed bare.
And boy, all the fun feelings I was having up to that point came to a screeching halt. Really? I thought. She’s been living a celibate life for a decade and is waxed bare? Who the hell does that? That’s ten years of upkeep, cost, regrowth—and for what?