A long-ass time ago, I asked my friends for some story prompts. Okay, it was two years ago… someone gave me these three words to write a story about:
- recommendation
- crude
- peel
And I started one!! I promise! I knew who this lady was immediately and maybe she scared me because I got halfway through this shorty like gangbusters and then I stopped. I don’t even remember why!
I didn’t finish it until today. Here it is!!!!
“I don’t want to be crude, but can I make a recommendation?”
Her voice was like honey and as smooth as the finished product of my skin when she was done with it. I shifted a bit, uncomfortable with this question, knowing what part of my body she was currently working on.
“Of course,” I murmured, trying hard not to break the calmness, “You know I trust you.”
“Well,” now she sounded uncomfortable, the honey cooling and crystallizing into a crisp, business-like tone. “We’re offering a new service to our most exclusive clients, the ones who want to be on the cutting edge of anti-aging technology…”
She trailed off and waited for me to interject.
I didn’t.
I knew I would do it. Whatever it was.
“…and well,” her voice turned more bitter, like the top of an overdone crème brûlée, “based on what I’m looking at, it would be a great improvement…”
The bitterness wasn’t directed at me, though. I could feel that.
She knew I’d do whatever it was. I always did.
“…it *is* pretty invasive though.” She had settled into her patter, smooth and creamy beneath the crispy burnt surface. “I mean, we’ll be actually peeling away layers of skin, and when I say peel…”
I perked up a bit, actually listening instead of letting her words lull me into a daze.
“When I say ‘peel’,” she started again, “I mean we will slice and peel away. Not use a chemical peel or lasers to burn it away.”
These words felt sharp, and my whole body jerked, stilling her hands, which were improving other parts of my already perfect body.
Then I stilled again, and my breathing slowed.
She continued. She knew the rhythm.
“In doing this, we will shave years off of the place you wish he would pay more attention to,” her voice turned conspiratorial, “I think this might be the one that does it.”
I hoped so. I’d tried every other thing they’d offered to me.
I started with a Brazilian bikini wax.
The appreciation I received came in the form of a 23-year-old.
After five years of regular waxing, I added vaginal steam baths to my self-care day.
He showed me how much he loved the results by taking a 27-year-old to a hotel room right down the road.
Six years later, after hundreds of public outings and thousands of forced smiles, he suggested I try a Yoni retreat – four days of self-care in a gorgeous tropical location.
My reward for doing all that difficult inner and outer work was a hot pink thong tangled in our sheets.
Not mine. Mine were expensive.
“You’re exactly who we created this treatment for,” she said.
The words rolled off her tongue like warm honey. I wondered how many times she’d practiced that sentence.
“What…what does it do?” I asked.
She didn’t answer right away. Instead, I heard the soft chime of metal against metal as she reached toward a tray I’d somehow forgotten was there.
“I’ve been doing this a long time,” she said. “Long enough to know there are some places a woman carries every year she’s ever lived.”
Her voice had found its way back to honey, “It doesn’t seem fair, does it?”
I surprised myself by answering honestly.
“No.”
“It isn’t.” Her words came so quickly they sounded practiced.
A bottle clicked open, “We can soften a forehead.”
Something cool touched my skin, “We can tighten a neck.”
Another click, “We can erase years from almost anywhere.”
She paused.
“Almost.”
The room smelled faintly of vanilla… Or lavender. The sort of scent expensive places choose because it reminds everyone of comfort without reminding anyone of anything specific.
“There are some places,” she continued, “that tell the truth no matter what we’ve done everywhere else.”
I didn’t ask what she meant. I already knew.
“I’ve watched women spend decades trying to outrun time.”, A small smile crossed her face. “They always think they’re one treatment away.”, The smile faded almost immediately.
“Does it work?” I asked.
She was quiet. Long enough that I wished I hadn’t spoken.
Finally, she nodded, “It works.”
Relief washed through me before she finished.
“…for a while.”
Something inside me sank. Not because of what she’d said, but because “for a while” had always been enough.
A Brazilian.
For a while.
Steam baths.
For a while.
The retreat.
For a while.
Each appointment arrived wrapped in the same promise.
Maybe this one.
Maybe this one would make him look at me the way he used to.
Maybe this one would make me enough.
She lifted the blade from the tray. It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t sinister.
It was immaculate…. as polished as my weekly manicure.
As polished as the smile I’d learned to wear whenever someone asked how we were doing.
She looked at me for a long moment. There was something in her expression I hadn’t heard in her voice before.
Not excitement. Not pride. Recognition.
“So,” she asked softly, “Shall we begin?”
I closed my eyes. Not because I was ready.
Because I couldn’t remember when I’d stopped asking whether I wanted any of this at all.
