Shaving fetish booth

Came across the phrase “shaving fetish booth”. This was in relation to some adult entertainment expo somewhere.

I tried, with my considerable knowledge of fetishes and sciences, to imagine what this could be.

I

There’s the booth; most people walk past it, hurriedly, burdened with dildos and leaflets in transparent plastic bags.

The booth is bare, just a metal frame with white cloth walls; no table, no wares, no brochures. Just the mock-room and a white plastic sofa with three people on it.

Three people, all of them bare, nude in the most fundamental way; not a quarter-inch of hair on any of them. What’s worse, though they are supposed to be hot, they themselves are feeling mightily cold.

II

There’s the booth, surrounded by the buzz of a crowd and a shaving machine.

The barber knows his job, which is good, as the man whose chin he is shaving is trembling, a huge smile stretching his bristles into a jowly hellscape for the Gillette’s navigation.

To add to this complication, there is the lighting: there is too much of it, all the spotlights and the constant flash-flash of cameras; and the other assault on the senses, the noise, the aaahs and ooohs and how-many-blades-ya-reckons, the adoration of aficionados.

Through all this, the barber cuts like his tool, calm, unhurried, precise, and titillating.

III

I squat, and look.

“Like I said”, the girl says, “shaved.”

I look up at her face; she seems plenty bored. “Is that all?”

“That’s all.” She hands me a glossy four-by-six photograph, waving a pen. “It’s signed. And if you make the joke about the tattooed cat, I’ll kick you.”

“You haven’t”, I start, uncertain, “considered shaving more?”

“What more? You see any hair down there?”

“Like your head, maybe?”

She looks down at me, and brushes a strand of blond hair off her eyes. “Is that a thing?”

I shrug. “Probably is.”

“What do you call it, then? Bald-fancying?”

I shrug again. My calves are beginning to ache. “I guess, if you were fancying a guy. Probably BBC or something, like, ‘Big Bald Craniums’.”

“I think BBC is taken already. Wouldn’t want to confuse those two.”

“Good point.”

IV

“Shaving fetish, huh?”

“Sure thing, sir. Here’s a straight razor for the extreme S&M enthusiast. Vibrates randomly.”

“Wouldn’t you cut— oh, S&M.”

“I see sir is quick with the uptake. Might I interest sir in this special-made artisanal novelty electric razor sheath, fits most models—”

“Wait, why would you ever want to rub your face with a— um, I see.”

“And the power cord can be put inside these balls. And it comes in the equivalent female form as well, if sir prefers that; it will be inconspicuously labelled a ‘shaving kitty’ in the shipping, and for additional stealth will be hidden between two sheets of paper wrapped around a statuette of a cat, shaving.”

“Very clever. Because of the spouse?”

“Because of the children, sir. Think of the children.”

“In this place, I rather wouldn’t.”

“Sir is most wise. Would sir prefer to increase his wisdom with our instructive books and videos? Each comes with a pair of blank brown covers.”

“What’s this, ‘Pleasurable Burn: An Introduction to Whole-Body Shaving’?”

“Comes with a free extra-large can of shaving cream, and a package of band-aids.”

“And… ‘Shave the Whales’?”

“An amusing collection of over three hundred hilarious anecdotes for the discerning apogonophiliac.”

“A what now?”

“From the Greek word pogon, meaning a beard. With the meaning of, one who does not fancy beards; a shaving enthusiast.”

“Razor pervert?”

“If sir so insists.”

“And… ‘Male Pattern Hotness’? Oh I see, balding people.”

“Something of a borderline thing, I admit, but sir must admit the models are not unattractive.”

“Well, yes… but the lens flares are a bit too much.”

“Genre expectations, sir, genre expectations.”

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