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.
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.
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.
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.”
“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.”
“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.”