The Yeti of Yorkshire and a Spot of Impromptu Kickboxing
The groundwork required for the D-Day landings would’ve been the equivalent of popping out to the shops to pick up a packet of hobnobs in comparison to the preparatory work I undertook to try and get inside Lynn’s knickers. This operation was a thing of beauty, an amazing project that required all my skill and cunning. So, on account of having the skill and cunning of a dead woodlouse, it took me a very, very, very long time to get anywhere near having a crack at Lynn’s crack.

Lynn was a girl I worked with. Head of marketing at a wanky new age sales company I worked for back in 2002. She was a few years older than me, so incredibly beautiful is she were to die on the spot her corpse could’ve been embalmed and put on display in the National Gallery as a national treasure that people would’ve queued round the block to see, and she was also incredibly intelligent and sharper than a samuri’s sword. Of course, this meant I didn’t stand a fucking chance. At the time my normal fanny fodder usually comprised of pissed birds in polyester mix tight dresses who I’d pick up in nightclubs after plying them with redbull and vodka for a couple of hours. But Lynn was completely different. She was out of my league. And this just made me even more horny for her.

I won’t bore you with the details, lets just say that eventually after about six months of pretending to be a nice, decent, normal person with a sparkling personality in front of Lynn, I eventually managed to maneuver her into a one-on-one social situation in the little poncy bar down the road from the office where we worked. I was Patten and she was the beech head on Omaha. All I had to do now was break down her defences. And then fuck her.

“Redbull and vodka, Lynn?” I asked coyly. Lynn said no, but she did have a pint of real ale. Fuck me, I could feel myself falling in love with her – or I was getting a stiffy, which pretty much adds up to the same thing in my book. Fast forward a few hours, I’ve actually managed to trick Lynn into taking me back to her place. Things are looking up. I’m charming, I’m urbane, I’m trying my hardest not to be the real me because I realise this house of cards I’ve created will come tumbling down and I’ll have a boot up my arse and a oneway ticket to wanking alone in my bedsit before I could blink. We sit on the sofa. Unfortuantely Lynn’s not that pissed. She goes and grabs a few cans of beer and a couple of tall glasses and asks me what turns me on. “Intelligence, that really does it for me,” I lie. Give me a dirty girl with a pulse and I’m hard so fast there’s a real danger I might faint.

Lynn then goes on to tell me what turns her on. Whips, chains, bondage. Being held down... Fuck me... I really was into deep, but – hey – I’d be willing to give it a go. I was getting incredibly excited. I started wishing I could somehow get her to drink about six redbull and vodkas without her noticing. But while I’m contemplating this, Lynn says: “But what really turns me off, I mean really, is hairy men. Yuk. I like my men smooth. The smoother the better. Any hair and its just horrible.” And then my world fell apart. Fuck. Now, I’m not exactly a yeti, but – like most Italians (including the women) - I do have a fair bit of chest hair. Lynn then went on to explain all the things she likes to do in bed. In great detail. It was like she was describing a sexy version of Saw, and I wanted in in a big way. There was only one stumbling block. MY FUCKING BODY HAIR... One sight of that and she’d probably spew.

I excused myself and went to the bogs. I stood in front of the mirror, arms braced on the sink, thinking desperately. Then it hit me. It was so fucking SIMPLE!!! I rummaged round Lynn’s cabinets – got slightly sidetracked when I found her medication and had a little look at all the labels; evidently she had bowl troubles of some sort... not suprising, the sort of stuff she gets up to in the bedroom with a knob of butter and a knob. Then I find it. A bic razor. One of the cheapo orange ones the ladies seem to prefer using on their hairy bits. Superman-style, I undo the buttons on my shirt, and then I get to work on my chest fur. And it fucking kills. Razor burn? Was like having napalm poured onto my tits. I look round for some shaving cream or foam – fuck all. So I make do with a bit of soap lather. Still, it burns like fuck and my chest looks like Freddie Kruger’s had an epileptic fit between my nipples. Its so fucking painful I can hardly button the shirt back up afterwards.

In intense pain I clean up the random hair that seems to have gotten everywhere, replace the razor, and go back to the living room. The perfect crime. We sit for a bit longer. Have another drink. I glance down and am painfully – and I mean PAINFULLY – aware of the little spots of blood blotting onto the cotton of my shirt. I can hardly fucking move, its so fucking painful. The thought of actually having sex is just too fucking much; they way I was, I’d have stuggled to make a cup of fucking tea.

“Do you wanna, you know...” says Lynn, and she rolls her eyes upwards, towards the bedroom. And at the same time she reaches forward and gently strokes my chest-

“OOOOWWWWWW !!! FOR FUCKS SAKE !!!” I jump back in a shower of beer and, in doing so, managed to catch Lynn plumb under the chin with my raised foot, sending her sprawling backwards and off the sofa... “Errrr.... Lynn???”

Needless to say, I didn’t get my jollies that night. And needless to say I didn’t get to expereince dirty bondage sex with the hottest woman I’d seen in the whole of Yorkshire. Fetishes, turn ons and turn offs... each to their own I suppose. Just one bit of advice – only do something if you’re comfortable with it. Don’t do anything that hurts just to make someone fuck you unless you’re really into it. And – for Christs sake – don’t kick your date in the fucking face. That’s a complete non-fucking-starter...
( SpankyHanky, Mon 26 Oct 2009, 11:41, 5 replies)

Ha! classic Spanky
as a man who started growing chest hair at 17 I can relate to this. I have even looked into laser removal but it costs c.£100 per session and can take up to 8 sessions. Sod that.
( Colonel Dracula Two manky hookers and a racist dwarf, Mon 26 Oct 2009, 11:56, closed)

Boots
They do a "pulsed light" hair remover for £250 www.boots.com/en/Boots-Smooth-Skin-Intense-Pulsed-Light-hair-reduction-system_117122/ ...

It's got great reviews from those comparing it to the laser removal - I haven't got one but I am thinking about it.

_{PS I'm not excessively hairy or anything, just fed up with the waxing/epilating/shaving routine!}
(Penguins_Made_Me_Do_It is a dolt ... and she don't care, Mon 26 Oct 2009, 13:48, closed)

ME WANTEE!

( Colonel Dracula Two manky hookers and a racist dwarf, Mon 26 Oct 2009, 14:50, closed)

I have not read it yet
but, have a click for the length alone.
(bad_advice QOTW survivor from the first trollocost!, Mon 26 Oct 2009, 13:18, closed)

It's not reached a fetish level yet but I'm definitely developing an obsession with your posts...
(Pope Jamiroquai III, Tue 27 Oct 2009, 20:40, closed)