the bush years (redux)
in my twenties, smooth was gospel. every guy i knew went bare. pubic hair was something to erase. i wasn't sold, but i was young, eager to blend in. so i went along with the trend. the lathering, the scraping, the wincing. the aftermath always punished me. razor burns, ingrown hairs, the sharp sting of stubble against the skin. but i kept at it, chopping away. week after week.
then i met him. twenty years older. a relic of the old school. thick, coarse, full bush. i went down on him and felt it against my face. it was soft, musky, alive. the scent alone undid me.
“you should let yours grow out,” he said.
so i did.
now i run my fingers through it when i’m alone. tug at it when i’m close. sometimes trim the edges, but never all the way. i like the wildness. the heat. the reminder that i stopped trying to look like everyone else and started feeling like myself again.