On Tuesday I had my first session of laser hair removal on my lower legs, bikini line and labia – “Brazilian” style, leaving my usual trimmed oval on the mons. The traditional shape to leave is a “landing strip” but I prefer curves to rectangles. I shaved my muff into a neatly trimmed oval, leaving plenty of hair-free space below for long, languid licks that explore every soft fold and curve. In the future, if I want, I can vary my look by trimming it down to a heart, a triangle, a diamond, the classic landing strip or by shaving it off and going completely hairless. The only thing I won’t be able to do is grow back my bikini line and the hair on my outer labia – which I have been shaving on an at-least-weekly basis for over a decade.
The laser treatment hurt less than I was expecting. You’re wearing dark glasses to protect you from the radiation, like in a tanning bed I imagine, not that I’ve ever used one. The machine blows a jet of cold air onto your skin at the same time as the laser, which doesn’t so much feel like burning as pricking like a needle as it encounters each follicle. The machine makes a regular “bip, bip, bip” noise which makes it hard to tell whether the pinpricks of pain are in time with the beeping or not.
Consensual, non-sexy pain like this, or like having a smear test or getting a tattoo (which hurt more than the laser, by the way) is always an interesting experience for a masochist. Without an eroticising context, pain is not enjoyable – but I still find the sensations interesting. The breathing exercises I use to endure a hard caning help me stay calm through the pain, but they aren’t enough to get me high on it.
In this case, I found my mental images made a huge difference to the perceived pain level. If I thought about lasers, zapping, burning, it hurt a lot – whereas if I imagined that someone was dragging a sharp felt tip along my skin, or scratching little dots with the nip of a fountain pen, it hurt much less.