Grooming
The Style Experience: The Boyzilian
In our December Dubious Achievements 2011 Issue, we went where few men have dared gone: for a Boyzilian. If you're looking for something to get for Christmas, may we suggest this experience? Here's the gory details as we take one for the brotherhood:
“You're s***ting me, right?” She wasn’t. “Seriously, girls appreciate the effort.” Like when men wrap their presents with pink ribbons instead of old newspaper. Like when we open the doors, hold the umbrella, feed the Rottweiler. And, according to a gal pal, like when we go for a Boyzilian.
It’s David Beckham’s fault. The man who likes swinging balls from the by-line paved the way for grass-cutters everywhere with his Armani ad five years back. The one where he’s lying prostrate on a bed, with the battle of the bulge clearly won in his favour. The one with nary a bristle spotted on a bronzed canvas. Since then men have deemed it hygienic, comfortable, and—damn it—necessary to get a good ‘ol fashioned wax on your nether regions. Don’t, and you’ll spend your whole life with a monstrous jungle no woman would want to trek through. It’s David’s world and these are the rules.
I turn up at STRIP, Ministry of Waxing, who have offered to shuck me like a ripe oyster. For free. Apparently thirty percent of their waxes are done on men, so my presence isn’t abnormal. Everyone’s cordial, helpful, and at pains to tell me that this might “hurt a little”—and by “hurt a little”, they mean it’ll be like amputation, but with less blood and a nicer nurse. There are no sounds of screaming down the hallway. Not yet at least.
“It opened the door to a whole new sexual side of me,” reads a message on the wall of my room, as said by advocate Eva Longoria. A petite, friendly girl—let’s call her Delilah—greeted me and after some pleasantries asked me to get naked, cover myself with a towel, and lie on the bed. They move fast here.
It’s a full-body wax and first up are my armpits, which will be reclaimed like a Normandy beachhead before the army moves south. Delilah’s weapon of choice is warm hard wax, which she carefully places over the skin area with a spatula, like peanut butter on bread, waits for a few seconds, and then rips out with the sensitivity of a Guantanamo Bay warden. Hard wax also comes in two flavours, chocolate and strawberry. “It smells nice and it’s yummy, right?” Delilah explains as she spreads the strawberry flavour over my underarm. Thanks, I’ll take your word for it.
She pats the wax down. “Ready?” I inhale. Let me take a deep ... She pulls the wax and for a split second I feel ... fine. A burn, a slight ache from the uprooting of my weed garden, but no tears, shrieks or desperate calls for a psychiatrist. After about ten spread-pat-rip repetitions, my one underarm is done. I take a quick glance. It looks sunburnt ... Feels sore ... Smells delicious... But overall a bearable experience. Here I come, He-Man, conqueror of overgrowth, master of deforestation.
Now for the Boyzilian.
She removes the towel and Singapore has been located. She trims the bush with a scissors like Mum does with her nose hair. Same strawberry wax, she starts from the outer areas. Again nothing excruciating. I make the mistake of thinking I am Robin, the Follicle Boy Wonder. She spreads the wax over my willow tree from tip to trunk. “Okay, tahan ah...”
It’s not so bad, actual...
Oh. My. F***ing. Zeus.
She tore through it. Destroyed my manhood with one swift upward motion. It’s the Fall of Jericho. Like someone had tied your jewels to a horse, kicked the animal in the nuts, then kicked yours for good measure. I let out a combination of a screech, a yelp, and a laugh. It’s a scryaugh. And there are still miles of unkempt cannabis for her to smoke. I turn to Eva for strength. A whole new sexual side, a whole new sexual...
Rip! Stars! Stripes! Unicorns! Bloody hell, my banana’s splitting! To her credit, Delilah is talking me through it like a doctor does with a child’s first encounter with a syringe. “It’ll be over soon.” Thwwick! “Halfway there!” Thwwick! “You know ha, some men say, if I pengsan, don’t wake me up." Thwwwwick! By this time, I’ve prayed to God, Buddha, Eva, Elvis, and Steve Jobs. I’ve grown a new-found respect for Beckham’s golden balls.
Waxing the dick is a test of endurance. But after ten minutes of scryaughing, the worst is definitely over. Smoothing out the sacs? Like a paper cut. Removing hair on your butt crack? Pffth. And getting rid of all the fuzz on your legs? Okay that stings, but still child’s play in comparison to the earlier emasculation. The whole process takes about an hour-plus. Delilah smiles at her handiwork and tells me to change and get the f*** out of her room because another man’s coming.
I stare at the mirror, this naked, re-evolutionary specimen of a man. It looks like an elephant is growing out of my stomach. And if no planes want to land on this runway, I’ll be shivering in my air-con room alone, wondering if I should skin my Alsatian for a coat. But oddly the new sensation’s pretty cool. No strays are occupying this Wall Street.
“So how was it? Feels good right?” Gal Pal asks excitedly over the phone after.
It remains to be seen. Can’t get over the pristine aesthetics. Apparently when the hair grows back, it’ll itch real soon. And then I might have to visit Delilah again. I’ll bring a branch to bite on next time.
The hard wax Boyzilian starts at RM149. For an outlet directory, go to strip-my.com or e-mail info@strip-my.com. Words by Jon Chew.
December 20th, 2011