I will admit it, I’m an awkward girl.  I’ll say goodbye to someone and then walk in the same direction as them with a stupid grin on my face.  I’ve messed up high fives more times than should be legally allowed.  I’ve called my roommates good friend (whom I’ve known for months) “Tyler,” when his name is “Lucas”…HOW DO YOU MESS THAT UP?  I’m able to take a perfectly normal moment and transform it into a typical scene in any Wes Anderson film (it’s a gift). The trouble is, I don’t realize how incredibly dorky I must look until looking back, and slapping my forehead accordingly.

So by the rules of physics (which I am unsurprisingly sucky at) it would only make sense that I would take this persona I’ve been cursed blessed with and apply to almost every sexual encounter I’ve experienced.  Well, of course, the beginnings are more of learning experiences rather than “fun timez.”   Now let’s time travel back 7 years when it all began…

Cue the hazy flashbacks and dream-like sound effects.

It’s 2002.  I am 12 years old and in 6th grade.  According to the more experienced middle-schoolers on the playground, I had a “boyfriend.”  This boy would talk to me on AOL (yeah…old skool), but we wouldn’t dare even look at each other during school.  I was so nervous to have a boy like me, I was completely unaware of how I should act around him.  Even at school basketball games together I was so scared just to sit by him because maybe he’d put his arm around me! (OMGG!!)  So one day I decided I needed to break out of my shell a bit.  My good friend lived by his friend, and on weekends I naturally spent most of the weekend there trying to make plans to have us all meet up and hang out.  For the 4 months we supposedly dated, this “weekend hang-out plan” worked literally 1 time.

That night my mom called me asking me our plans for the night, and I told her we were going to see a movie (lie). What I was really doing was sneaking out with my one friend to meet up with my “boyfriend” and his friend.  This rush I got from lying to my mom for the first time sent me on this adrenaline high of “I’M SO EFFIN’ COOL I CAN DO ANYTHING! I’M A REBEL!”  Later that night we eventually met up, and, as was naturally destined for me, it was awkward.  I’m pretty sure there was an unspoken agreement between the group that me and my “boyfriend” should seal the deal and KISS!

I can definitely say that feeling “nervous” was an understatement.  We stood there in the backyard in the dark for what seemed like hours in the middle of an mid-April night, as our friend sat on the curb of the street under the streetlight patiently waiting for the deed to be done.  It was chilly and I didn’t have a sweater, so I decided I was sick of being cold and waiting for my first kiss, so I leaned in so he’d get the idea.  He definitely got the idea, and as I was slowly ready for my first kiss to happen, even schizophrenically hearing the tune to “Dreams” by Cranberries in my head, that record scratch sound came into play at that very moment.

Instead of demonstrating a sweet (and normal) peck to be given, I felt something wet.  Huh? WTF David Blane?  He. Licked. My. Mouth.

He didn’t even start with a normal peck and move his tongue around, like an inexperienced 6th grader might.  He straight up licked my mouth like a melting ice cream cone in August.  Maybe he was expecting a sexified makeout session, or maybe he was expecting a normal kiss but started it off wrong?  Was it wrong that I was expecting just a peck?  So as a mature middle-schooler I was, I decided to stop… and start screaming.  I walked out of there wiping my mouth and ran to my friend so she’d get the idea that we had to leave NOW. 

I realize this story should be called “Seven Years After” instead of “The Morning After,” but I also know that first kisses tend to stick around in everyone’s memories. And this one just had to be shared. Anyone else have some first kiss horror stories?

Being Italian, I’m blessed with lots of the stuff. It’s nice on my head, but anywhere else…a little less so. At least according to society.

The first time I realized nobody liked a hairy girl was in 6th grade. I was sitting in class in a t-shirt, trying to deal with early June heat and a new sensation I now know as “bra sweat”.

A kid, who I’m pretty sure was (and probably still is) named David, turned around and stared at me while the teaching wasn’t looking. “Yo, look at your arms!” he said as loudly as only a 12-year-old boy can, “who invited Harry and the Hendersons over?”

Harry and the Hendersons was a show based around Bigfoot.

That stinging comment has (obviously) stayed with me for years, and since then I have shaved everything—at least everything I could reach.

I often wish I could just chuck the razor in the drawer and never deal with balancing precariously in my shower again, but 6th grade David is always around, along with completely hairless movie stars, magazine models, and guys who continually obsess over girls being clean shaven “down there”.

This girl, on the other hand, is no slave to the razor. At least, she hasn’t been for a year. In a post on The F Word website about growing out both her leg and armpit hair, she explains how empowering and amazing it feels, and how she never plans to shave again.

“Eventually I grew to love my hairy armpits.” She writes, “I grew to love myself, to accept my grown woman’s body and, more than anything, to love the freedom I discovered when I no longer had to waste time and money preparing my supposedly unacceptable body for the outside world.”

Her liberated words and legs sound awesome, but I’m just not sure I’d ever be able to follow in her free footsteps. I’ve become so used to being sleek and smooth that going back to hair just doesn’t feel cool.

Society has convinced me that 6th grade David was right.

What about you? Why do you shave? Could you ever go for months without doing it?