I think I told you guys about this guy from way back, Tonio. He was a cute recent grad living and working in Maryland. I thought that he was charming and witty. D.C. guys like to joke around, so he made me laugh…you know, until he unexpectedly drove me to his house and blew reefer smoke down my throat. But I digress.
Tonio came over to my apartment one summer before I headed to New York to begin my internships. “We’ll just chill and watch a movie,” he told me. Yeah. Okay.
Sex wasn’t going to be a possibility. But just in case some PG action happened, I needed to be prepared. I’d never been waxed before…never even tried shaving my umm…down there. But I assumed that all women wax and that it was the grown thing to do. And I’m a grown woman. I can do whatever I want.
On my MegaBus ride to D.C., I booked an appointment at Polished, THE go-to place for waxes. People call in to get a spot months in advance. I chalked it up to fate when a slot was open for me that afternoon. After dropping my bags off at my College Park, MD digs, I trekked all the way to Georgetown to get it over with.
You know, I’d always heard horror stories about how painful waxing is. It’s not like I hadn’t experienced it in a smaller dosage – I routinely got my eyebrows waxed. But there is a huge difference between getting your brows waxed and getting a Brazilian. HUGE. I could’ve asked for a bikini wax, the “starter” procedure…but nope, not my dumb ass. I had to go big or go home. Had to.
After downing an Advil and whispering a few prayers out loud, I laid back and waited for what was coming to me. My technician, Tammy, was super-sweet and funny.
“Is this your first time?” she asked.
“Yes,” I whispered to her.
“Great, we’ll make this as quick as possible,” she said, placing the hot strips of hell – oops, I mean wax – on me.
Not even going to go into detail about how much it hurt. Because it did. It hurt. Like any and all available hell. But I thought that it’d be worth it, especially for Tonio.
“Pick up a bottle,” he texted me as I writhed in pain. “I’ll get the mixers and make us cocktails.”
Sure, a bottle of juice is considerably less than a bottle of alcohol, but whatever. I was a waxed woman with her mind made up. I was getting the bottle. And I was getting some kind of physical contact that night. I had sacrificed too much not to.
Later that night, I cleaned my apartment from top to bottom, exfoliated every surface of my body, picked out a cute-but-casual outfit and waited for my boo thang to come thru. An hour passed. Then two. Then four.
He’s standing me up, I thought. I’m playing myself.
A few minutes later, I got a text from him. “I stopped at the bar with my friends,” he said. “Imma still come your way, though. Don’t fall asleep!”
And then, of course, I knocked out right next to my phone.
Though Tonio did end up coming over, but I didn’t get a chance to utilize the bottle or the Brazilian. Le sigh.
That wasn’t the last time I did some stupid stuff for a guy that I like. I’ve helped with homework, edited cover letters and résumés, paid for drinks and purchased screenprinted t-shirts from really lame clothing lines. All for the sake of a boo.
At first, I didn’t see anything wrong with any of the above. I’m a nice girl. Nice girls do nice things. My close friend Tiana told me to cut all that out, though.
“Khalea, you gotta get better boo,” she told me. “These dudes will eat you up and spit you out when they see that you’re weak and you care.”
I guess that being generous and doing stupid stuff for stupid guys equates to weakness, or another losing tactic in the dating game. I think that I’ll be a nice person no matter what – that’s just my nature. But I shouldn’t have to pay to play.
When she’s not watching for Blue Ivy sightings or doing some serious Facebook creeping, Khalea, a recent Howard University graduate, moonlights as a magazine intern and a freelancer in New York City. Follow her on Twitter at @letsbeKHAlear, or feel free to Twatch. Whatever works for you.