Arguably, the only good thing about not getting laid for an extended period of time is that I feel no pressure to shave anything. I sit back and let my body hair grow thick and fast, uninhibited by social conventions, and unchecked by the razors which I let rust in the bottom of my tub. If it weren’t for the sexual frustration and lack of human contact, this would be my favorite time of the year. I am femme, female, fantastic, a feline, a lion. My bush is my mane. I am woman, hear me roar.
So, when Dave left me, naturally I was excited. My armpit hair hadn’t been long enough for me to pull or braid in months. My pussy constantly had five o’clock shadow and I felt the little follicles of hair bursting to break free of my skin. It was exhilarating. I was free, free at last, thank God almighty, my hair was free at last. The second Dave drove away in his mom’s old car, my hair burst out of its pores, covering my skin in a dense forest with a furor that I had not experienced before. It was soft and thick, and fun to run my fingers through, even though truthfully, I was unprepared for the onslaught of pubes I was now facing.
Approximately two weeks after Dave left, my bush was way overgrown. Have you ever seen weeds on the side of a highway? No one cares to trim the weeds on the side of the highway, or even get rid of the debris which gets tangled in them. That’s what my vagina looked like. I went to bed wearing one of my old tee shirts from Girl Scout camp, as I always do, but when I woke up, I knew something was wrong. There was a tingling sensation down in my nether regions, and heard a weird scratching noise that wouldn’t stop. It felt like my pubes were being pulled in all different directions and I was in pain! I couldn’t figure out what my hair could be caught on, and every time I tried to move my leg, I felt something clawing at me, drawing blood. What the fuck was in my bed? Was I on drugs? Were monsters real?
I lifted up my comforter, and low and behold, an entire family of raccoons was making a home in the fur of my lady bits. My bush had grown so out of control that when these animals wandered in through the crack in my back door and saw me sleeping, they decided to make themselves comfortable. They refused to leave. I did everything I could. I stood up and swung around and danced wildly, but they just clung tighter and tighter to my pubic hair. I called animal control, and they tested the raccoons for rabies but “refused to see the problem” and didn’t want to forcibly remove them because “so many animals have been displaced in the past year.” Apparently they’re concerned about “keeping raccoons off the streets,” fucking liberals. They thanked me for providing such a hospitable environment and then left. I tried to shave, but the raccoons just ate the metal razor blades and batted my hands away. I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t want to kill them, because I didn’t want the ghosts of the raccoons to inhabit my vagina, haunting my insides. I figured that would be even worse than having live raccoons living peacefully. I decided that the best thing for me to do would be to keep the raccoons from becoming hostile. I gained their trust by brushing them, bathing them, feeding them, and only walking slowly and with caution so that they were barely jostled. I also try keep their environment as dark and damp as possible. I have now befriended the raccoons. They’re named John, Susan, Eric, and Stacey. It’s easy to function in everyday life as long as I wear loose clothing everywhere I go, after all raccoons sleep during the day. I’ve become very fond of maternity dresses and maxi skirts. It’s actually been a good source of exercise, like weight lifting for your crotch. The raccoons are nice to me as long as I feed them. They also help keep my enemies at bay. When people are mean to me, I lift up my skirt and let the raccoons hiss. It’s their way of saying “thank you for letting us live under your clothing.” I’ve never had children, and this has brought out a whole new, nurturing side of me. I didn’t even fix the crack in my door where they crawled through incase more raccoons wanted to join their friends. I’m a mother, now, to a family of raccoons living in the hair that grows on my vagina.