For me, an extract from Europe, there are two exotic things in America: circumcision and bold pussy. I still have to meet a European who could reconcile with these peculiarities of American life. Italians say that pubic hair on a woman’s vagina is stronger than a thousand bulls. On the other side of the world, in its greatest empire, the girl power completely surrendered to Gillette Venus. Now whether local men like it or not—they told me on many occasions that they do, but hey, they didn’t have anything to compare it with—the original free usage of blade was hygienic. Menstruation liquids clog pubic hair and it looks unappealing. Which is also the case with the circumcision. Some doctors justify it as the means of hygiene: makes penis user-friendly for cleaning purposes. Such dubious justifications remind me of having to wash one’s hands every day, and an alternative of simply cutting them off and not having to bother with washing them ever again.
The first time I saw a bold pussy was of my first American lover. We met at the university and planned a date—a movie—and later that evening wound up on the upper bunk in my dorm. It turned out we both had surprises in store for each other. I discovered it with my fingers in the dark: her mount Venus was as bold as an eggshell. Honestly speaking a word “cancer” flashed in my mind. Simultaneously, she made her own discovery: my dick was uncircumcised. She even turned the lights on to see the throbbing freak with her own eyes. A modest-size shaft ended with the bulging head comfortably encrusted in foreskin. “I have never seen such a dick in my entire life.” Not much of her life—twenty years—but surprised she was, genuinely so. Then she added thoughtfully, “It looks ugly.” I said with relief what was on my mind, “So does yours.” What a clash of cultures on the top bunk of a dorm! In the end we didn’t have sex that night. In fact, we hadn’t met each other ever since.
I went on dating American women and started having sex with them. But I always took care to make prior arrangement: before going out on a date, I peeled my foreskin down, so my dick would look American. Xenophobia runs all the way to the groin. As my dates were OK with my state of things, I could never get used to theirs. The bold pussy somehow never looked attractive to me. It was just too open. It hid no secrets any longer. It was too obvious. Too ordinary. The act of love became mechanical. It was like playing hide-and-seek on the open field. It lost the charm, the excitement. Not that I didn’t feel aroused. I was. But I lost the spice. The moment I touched my lover’s hairless body I felt like someone who wanders into the movie theatre and time and again it’s the same movie on. The truth is, all bold pussies look alike. Pubic hair is what brings the character in them, makes them special, distinct. All that seems to be lost on American women, and American men too for that matter.
My love life became dull and disjointed, as I failed to convince my recent date about refraining from using Venus Gillette. “No way,” she would scream at me, “I’m not gonna do it. It’s disgusting.” Oh the diversity of values among the nations! The wars were unleashed over the smaller issues than women refusing to grow their pubic hair back. Not much of a military man, I gave up and started looking for a woman from my own part of the world, who didn’t try too hard to look American. When you attend a university it’s not exactly the hardest task to achieve.
The girl was from Eastern Europe and when she raised her right hand to shake mine I glimpsed a thick wisp of hair under her armpit. I blushed, feeling self-conscious, like some kind of pervert. But had I just tricked myself? Did I actually feel the reverse -- that razing off body hair was perverse? So in the maelstrom of this inner turmoil and deep confusion, we went on a date and at its end headed for my dormitory. My date joked about American men who had circumcised penises, which to her feels all the same, because when you’re not circumcised you still need to draw your foreskin down before proceeding to having sex, but for the guys it must be different. “They must be losing a hell lot of sensitivity on the tip,” she said jovially.
We lay on my bunk with other students doing their thing on the rest three of the bunks: be it jerking off or studying for the midterm exams, and I turned on the light, because I wanted to see, I wanted to find a surprise in store for me. She drew her jeans down and I stared at her white underwear. There was hair sticking out of its sizable triangle. Black bristles, unshaved, untrimmed, unattended. I pulled at her panties tearing off its fabric. “Easy, easy. You seem to be terribly hungry,” she tittered. Oh the holy sight! The pubic hair grew all over the mount, a wild forest, Amazon jungles, tangled up, tussled, erupting in wisps and clots. The hair ran down the thighs to the calves and almost reaching the ankles and up an inch-long line to the navel. She was an apogee of body hair. She was my savior.
I went down on her, like a virgin, or a soldier after an especially vicious battle. I dipped my mouth into her pussy. I ate it, feeling her pubic hair tickling the inside of my mouth. I felt crazy, I felt delirious. I had probably had the biggest hard-on in my life. I couldn’t even make love properly, lengthily. I came right away, sprinkling my seed over the black bush, slumping on the girl who dared to break the rule of Venus Gillette.
I didn’t date American girls ever since.