#throwbackthursday post: Fun With Vajazzling

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Originally published: January 14, 2014

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va·jaz·zle
vəˈjaz(ə)l

verb

informal
1. adorn the pubic area (of a woman) with crystals, glitter, or other decoration.

 

A friend got me a vajazzling kit for Christmas. It may seem like a weird thing to buy a friend, but she was curious about it. I was curious about it. Obviously, cupid had spoken. But not only did she want me to vajazzle myself, she wanted me to blog about it too.  On the blog that my mom reads. At first I was hesitant to do it because this was my hooha we were discussing, but eventually curiosity and writers block won me over.  So with nothing else to write about, I decided to vajazzle myself.

Thankfully vajazzling doesn't work like this.

Thankfully vajazzling doesn’t work like this.

Vajazzling is not to be mistake with bedazzling. Vajazzling is like getting a Brazilian wax done and then it decides to go on a successful treasure hunt. While on meth. So it’s like getting a Brazilian wax combined with the shiny things from Black Beards Treasure. Where my black lady beard used to be. Honestly, that’s the best way that I can describe every vajazzled vagina that I have ever seen, and thanks to the internet, I’ve seen a lot of vajazzled vaginas.

Let me tell you, the idea of having a sparkly cooter really enthralled me. I’m completely mesmerized by the idea of having my own hidden shiny things. But I’m also turned off by the fact that I could have some perfectly amazing bling bling happening and I wouldn’t be able to show anyone. Well, I could show people, but I’m not sure how everyone would feel about me running around, crotch first, demanding that they look at my bejewel lady bits.

So Saturday night I settled down with my vajazzling kit that I was gifted and I had five shiny choices that I could press onto my va-jay-jay. There was a star, a heart, a lightning bolt, a top hat, and two foot prints. My immediate thought was to Harry Potter my hoo-ha, because who doesn’t want their downtown to be magical? But I also thought that having a top hat down there would make me feel like one dapper lady. Except…What if this first time turned out poorly because I messed up? I better use the lame heart.

Lame, but still cute and shiny, heart in hand I started stripping down to sticker myself so I could make jokes about my snatch being a lost treasure or telling people my crotch is where the lost fallen stars go to die. I was clean, I was shaved and…

I have skin allergies.

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Thank the vajazzling gods that I remembered my skin allergies that I can only describe as corrosive and vicious. If I put the wrong thing on my skin, I blister, I peel, and then I basically look like my skin is either melting off, or I look like Goldmember as I peel layers and chunks of my skin from my person. I’m not exactly sure what I’m allergic to, so when it comes to new products I always do a skin test. Which means I use that product on a patch of skin that I can clean quickly and no one will notice that it’s melting off because I pissed it off.

In short: I was allergic to the glue on my vajazzling sticker. I carefully placed the jeweled heart on my inner thigh and I waited. At first there was nothing. Then nothing. And still nothing. But then my skin started to tingle.

Maybe the glue from the sticker was just drying?

Nope.

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There was burning. The tingles turned into pins and needles. The pins and needles felt like they had been dipped in lava.

Oh god, there was burning.

Then I was racing into the bathroom to frantically peel this sticker off and scrub my thigh like a washer lady of the olden days was scrubbing skid marks out on a washboard. But then the sticky stuff got on my fingers so I was trying not to scream while I did my best to get all of the glue off without actually touching the glue or spreading it around.

Then when it was all said and done and I had raw fingertips and a heart shaped blister forming, all I could do was be thankful. The literal only thing I could do was thank the vajazzling gods that I remembered my skin allergies and did a skin test first. Otherwise I would have weird welts on my cooter instead of my thigh.

And that, ladies and gentlemen, is how I had fun with vajazzling.

 

The time that I got a sex toy taken away

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Sometimes I think that I have no shame. So many people have told me that I have no shame, that I’ve started to believe it. Not much phases me. Normally I can brush things off easily and move on. Growing up with my dad, it’s a skill that I had to learn. Especially when he would hear a mall alarm go off and he would take off sprinting while everyone stared and you either had to run with him or pretend you didn’t notice him. Anyway. I’m pretty sure that I have next to no shame. Especially after the time a security guard at Heathrow Airport pulled a sex toy out of my bag.

You see, on night in Wales I was packing to fly home for winter break. My teammates and friends were coming over to my place to help me carry my bags to my bus and see me off. My backpack was stuffed with my hoodie, a couple of books that I needed for a research paper, and my bags were more or less packed. I was excited to be going home. My room was even clean so that I would come back to a tidy room!

There was also a sex toy out on my desk and my door was opening and my friends and teammates were about to walk in.

In a panic I grabbed my sex toy and jammed it into my backpack.

I didn’t remember the toy in my backpack until I was going through airport security the next day. I had just pulled my laptop out and put it in a bin with my phone and send my backpack through the scanner ahead of my boots that were in a bin of their own. Usual airport stuff right?

Then I was asked to step aside so my bag could be searched. I’ve had my bags go through random searches more than a few times so I knew the drill. I stepped off to the side and stood by quietly while the security officer went through my bag.

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Compartment, by compartment my Swiss Army bag was opened and sifted through. My knick knacks and thingamajigs were pulled out and examined. My hoodie was tugged free and set aside. My comfy socks were tossed on top of my hoodie. Item by item, the security officer looked at my things while I patiently waited because there was nothing else for me to do. For the record: Swiss Army backpacks are basically Mary Poppins bags on steroids. Those things will hold everything plus a clunky Buick.

Until he pulled a bright purple vibrator from my bag.

My jaw dropped.

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It was then I learned that I still had some shame left in me as this poor man gingerly held up a thing that was essentially a big, purple dick and asked me what it was. I heard someone gasp behind me. This man was making no secret that he had found something in my bags. He asked me again what the grape coloured, one-eyed monster was that he was holding between his thumb and forefinger. He knew what it was. The way he was holding it away from himself made it obvious. He was holding it like it was a snapping turtle that was about to attach itself to his nose and never let go. I honestly thought the airport was about to turn into that scene from Monsters Inc when that one monster had a sock on its back.

I didn’t want to make a scene so I told him it was a vibrator.

He told me I couldn’t keep it.

I didn’t fight him on it.

I quietly thanked him for his time while giving thanks that no one could see me blushing even though I wanted to crawl under a rock and hide. Then I packed everything back into my backpack while staring longingly at what was my favourite toy. It had taken me so long to find a toy that I loved like I loved that one. It was also damn expensive so I was sad to see it go.

After that day I learned to double check my bags before heading off to the airport. Now I know to never travel with anything that I wouldn’t want airport security to publicly confiscate. I also generally try to remember not to have sex toys sitting out when friends come over to avoid frantically hiding them.

I decided to thread my lady parts

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Looks easy, right? RIGHT?!

I’ve been getting my eyebrows threaded every few weeks for the last 5 or 6 years. Otherwise I tend to grow a uni-brow and wind up with two large caterpillars living on my face. The ladies in the salons where I get my eyebrows threaded make it seem really easy. I go in, sit down, and less than 10 minutes later, I have finely arched brows curving gracefully across my forehead. It’s fairly painless, it’s quick, doesn’t require an appointment usually, and I’m always amazed at how cleaning up my eyebrows a bit totally changes how my face changes.

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Yeah, my eyebrows can kind of like this…

 

The whole process seems really easy! You just zip the thread across where the hairs are and they get flicked off like they never existed there. It’s magical and I’ve never really gotten how it worked, but running some twisted thread across my skin seems like a really easy thing, right?

Right.

This is exactly what I thought a few years ago when I saw a tutorial for threading your own eyebrows. Easy peasy, lemon squeezy! I watched the tutorial a few times, grabbed a spool of purple thread, and practiced the hand motions while watching the video a few more times. Then I practiced a few more times without the video to make sure that I knew what I was doing. I totally knew what I was doing.

Then seconds later I zipped off the very end of my right eyebrow. Not a lot. Just like half a centimeter off the very end where the pointy part of my eyebrow was supposed to be. Just, ZIP!  It was gone and I was stunned. Where the fuck did the end of my eyebrow go? How did it go so quickly? What the fuck just happened?

I zipped off the end of my eyebrow is what happened.

I decided to leave threading my eyebrows to the pros after that. The lesson that I learned that day was that it would be really easy for me to accidentally zip both of my eyebrows off and wind up having to draw on my fine and graceful arches. If you’ve ever met me, like I’ve met me, you’ll know that my artistic skills are highly suspect, so drawing my eyebrows on was a bit ole NOPE.

Then I forgot about this weird skill that I have, but have never used until last week when I saw a random threading tutorial pop-up. This one girl decided to practice threading on her weirdly hairy legs and it seemed to work. She wound up with some weirdly silky limbs that I admired.

This got thinking about threading other parts of my body. I briefly considered my armpits, and while I was admiring my slightly fuzzy underarms I realized that I probably didn’t have the dexterity or flexibility to thread my own pits. Arms? I do have hairy arms. Again, not possible since you need to use both hands for threading. Legs? I’d just shaved. Lady parts?

I mean…

I hadn’t gotten waxed or shaved down there for a couple weeks so things were getting out of control. My lady garden was a lady national forest. I had to shave or get waxed soon anyway, so why not?

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This is what happens when I fall behind on my beauty routine.

Threading is easy, fairly painless, and always leaves the skin under my eyebrows feeling super silky and looking pretty.

It couldn’t hurt to try. In the worst case scenario, I would have to shave my downtown because threading would take too long. That was the only downside I could think of.

So set myself up in the bathroom to chickscape my lady parts. Leg up on the counter, thread in hand, I was ready. I zipped the thread back and forth in the air to practice things to make sure I knew what I was doing, and then I was ready.

I reached down and…

It as like I was trying to yank my soul out through my pubes.

It was like a paper cut. Except instead of on my finger, it was across my unsuspecting cooter.

It was like getting an accidental shock to my bajingo.

It was cruel and unusual is what it was and I immediately regretted it. Why did I think this was a good idea? All I could do was stand awkwardly in my bathroom, with one leg up on the counter, and stare in shock at what I had just done to myself. One lonely, experimental line was zipped across my hoohah, and I didn’t know if I should laugh or try and forget that I’d ever had this idea.

This painful, ridiculous, bad idea.