Hot Secrets by Gianna Day

Hot Wax
    By Gianna Day
     
    I’ ve known Melanie for years, but our relationship always existed in the context of aesthetician and client. She’ s my waxer . There’s nothing romantic or stimulating, to me, about hot wax. It hurts, but I suffer through it as a ritual of some weird sort of vanity. And when I’m freshly waxed, it turns my husband on.
    The actual act of being waxed is vulnerable and embarrassing. That’ s why I always go back to Melanie. She put s me at ease, let s me know that there i s nothing to be embarrassed about when I’m stretched out on the table before her, wearing nothing but a tank top, one leg slightly kicked out to give her access. And when she tell s me to turn over, when I stick m y ass up in the air so she can wax my rear, she ask s me about my kids and make s polite conversation. She i s an expert at making me relax when every nerve in my body screams otherwise.
    I think Melanie and I understand one another. I have a husband, she has an ex-husband. We both have two boys and we talk easily about the craziness of motherhood and life in general. She’s younger than me by a few years, in her mid- twenties. She’s slight with light brown hair, freckles and kind eyes. I’ve always thought of her as shockingly pretty; our conv ersation often leaves me aghast that her dirt - bag ex ever stepped out on her.
    “How are you?” I ask.
    “Great,” she answers. “Come on in.”
    We long ago dispensed with the practice of Melanie leaving the room for a moment so that I can undress. She’s going to see it all, anyway. I kick off a pair of flip-flops, unbutton my jeans and slide them down and off with my g-string.
    “You’re so Type A,” she says, laughing as I fold the clothes neatly and place them on a wicker bench.
    “I know, I can’t help it.” Left in nothing but a bra and black V-neck, I hop up onto the table and stretch out. It’s so comfortable and life has been so chaotic that I enjoy the simple moment’s rest, even if pain is around the corner.
    “It’s good to be Type A,” she says as she lines up her tools of the trade. “No one else has to clean up after you.”
    “That’s true.”
    “We women have enough to deal with without one more person to clean up after,” she sighs. A lock of hair hangs down by her cheek as she sets to work.
    I don’t wince anymore, at least not like I did the first few times. And Melanie is a pro. After each strip, she places her hand on the place she’s waxed. This is what professional aestheticians do. The pressure helps with the shock of pain. She waxes my unruly nest into a petite little triangle. She’s fast, and I’m grateful.
    “Okay, go ahead and flip over,” she says.
    This is my least favorite part, but again, she’s fast. She waxes with efficiency and limits the pain. My ass is done in no time.
    “Turn back over.”
    I return to my back so she can have one last look, trim any wayward hairs she may have missed. She puts a hand on my thigh.
    “Pull this leg out just a bit.” I comply and cock my leg out to the side. “Just one more little spot.” She smears a tiny bit of wax at the very top of my slit, presses a waxing strip down, and rips it off. Maybe I wince more than usual. For some reason, this moment catches me off guard. She places her hand there, pressure to take away the pain. And her hand lingers.
    “Any big plans this summer?” she asks.
    “Not really.” Her hand is still there, cupping me as we make conversation. Normally, I stare at the ceiling. Now, my eyes find hers. She must not realize how long her hand has been pressing on me. I look away, to her delicate collarbone and the pulse in her neck. Her hand remains. I meet her eyes again, so clear and blue and honest.
    “Melanie?”
    “It’s okay.”
    She starts to pull her hand away, and for a second I think I’ve imagined something that wasn’t there, but then she places her hand just a bit higher, resting it below my navel, and she stretches out her