Escutcheon Depilation

I'm usually not prone to spontaneous acts of metrosexuality, though I did watch the first 2 twilight movies back to back last night (honestly, I don't even understand how Edward has a team). I don't use hair product, I shop off the rack, and I seek cures for neither my manis nor pedis. However, following an essay involving discussions of my mouth being schlager-plundered and the merits of freebootying with this one begs certain questions.

Have I lost my irrevocably innate ability to exude extra testeronni? Am I slipping out of my unquestionable manliness? Have I not just questioned it?

No, I'm simply slipping out of my fire spurned hairy briefs. Those who know me have heard my rails against the pubic prunings, and have also borne witness to the burnt umber bungle that is my jungle (did that read?) Alas, with the stink and sweat of outdoor travel, and the fire dangers in nearby forests rising, I have decided my summer attire will be worn over a shorn scrotum. Yes, I have shuffled off those coital curls, those phallic follicles, those amber waves of brain. And to be honest, I still don't see the appeal.
To begin, I just have to say that this session went much better than my previous attempt at manscaping. Last time I was terribly drunk and more, and went at myself with a pair of nose hair scissors. If you're squeamish, stop reading now, because there was an injury.
I nicked myself early on, just in the general area above the shaft. It bled very slightly, so I continued. Then there was a another nick, this one more in the undercarriage, the scrote tote. It also bled, but again, lightly. So I downed my glass of whiskey and continued, working my way around the shaft, until... (I'm pausing to see if my sphincter will relax, but it doesn't seem to be helping)... I took a hit. A bad one.

How bad, you're probably not asking but deep down yearning to discover through clenched eyes, teeth and buttocks? Well, I saw the tiny piece of flesh fly away from the snap of the scissors, joining it's brethren of toenails and dandruff below.

That one was a bleeder. I had to masturbate with Neosporin for weeks.
So this experience had nowhere to go but up. I was completely sober, aside from exhaustion and what seems to be a gradually welcoming bout of cabin fever, and was working with electric clippers as well as tiny scissors. I felt safe within the confines of the National Forest, remembering that old Indian tale about bears and wolves and pretty much anyone else steering clear of pubic hair from men who dine on tuna and ramen alone. I got started, and things were going well.
As I was beginning to see the merits of such acts of self imposed emasculation, I hit a snag. Literally. But the scissors fixed that, so I went on until I hit another snag. I had reached the inside of my thigh, and there was no clear delineation of where to stop. Obviously, the thigh itself should be the natural border, but it was difficult to decide exactly where to just end things completely. During the flourishing of spring, the foliage would just naturally blend together, a seemingly flawless floral transition from gathered shrubbery to scattered brush. But now, within the throes of a dark, impending winter, the landscape had lost all sense of balance. Nature had turned to chaos.
And it wasn't just the thighs. It was awkward on all fronts, and backs. My happy trail had become more of a so-so grassy path, and the only saving grace on where to provide the cut off for the upper peninsula was the indentation from my belt. I optioned for a half-hearted fade into the thighs, filling in the gaps with eucalyptus and apple blossoms. That brought us to the perineum. I don't see the need to go into any sort of exquisite detail there.

Beneath my trousers was perhaps not the most elegant example of genital feng-shui, but I managed.
By and large the job was done. I left Eric Stoltz’s beard on the ground and dove into a nearby stream to evict the stragglers. It was very pleasant at the time, and left me with a sense of relief as I crawled into the cab of my truck for another night's well deserved rest.

And now, several days and powderings later, as I look down and scratch the haunting flashbacks of my 4th grade nothings, I am once again filled with doubt and remorse. I remember why I took so much pride in my mane, and wonder why I threw it all away on a cheap, beer induced whim (okay, so I wasn't sober).
I always said that if I were dating someone who preferred the area be cleared, then I would have no qualms about doing so, as it would have a gainful purpose. But in the meantime, I didn't see the point in keeping up such non-appearances. Once random girl from the bar is undoing your belt, she probably won't be deterred by an unkempt ball fro.

So the lesson here is to be sure of purpose when taking definitive action. Absence makes the heart grow fonder. Measure twice, cut once, or don't cut at all. Your dick in your hand is worth feeling your bush.