The Veet Disaster

Last night I text my husband who was sitting a few feet away from me the following message.

Fancy going to bed and listening to a podcast?

The instant reply was ‘yum yum

Podcast is our code for sex.

We have sex without listening to podcasts, but we never listen to a podcast without sex. Every Thursday he downloads the latest science phone-in, Dr Karl and the Naked Scientist which I thought would give me a few minutes to run upstairs and do a bit of hurried downstairs gardening. The podcast thing goes back to our days of being fuckbuddies and as soon as we have finished fucking, most likely as he is not the biggest conversationalist, he would put on a podcast as we fell asleep. Yes, I thought it was odd at first, but now, I actually enjoy listening to Dr Karl now and associate it with sex.

Anyhow, earlier this week, Mr C had tried to go down on me but I had stopped him, my warped psychology thinking that I have to be bare (decking rather than lady garden) and remembered that I wasn’t after having a lazy week with the Gillette. This time, I was going to be prepared.

Dashing upstairs and locking myself in the bathroom, I reckoned I had ten minutes before he would make it to the bedroom and saw the Veet on the side. This is the third time I’ve used Veet. The first being a massive success, the second causing a little stinging but surely this time would be fine. I could cope with a little sting.

Stripping off quickly, I smeared the Veet all over. I’m aware it’s supposed to be for your bikini line but the first success had been used everywhere and wanted a Hollywood.

Where was the spatula?

I couldn’t find in the bathroom drawers and had to streak to the bedroom smelling of chemical to look in the en-suite. Nope, no sign. Panic set in as I turned to Twitter. Some fabulous suggestions, my favourite being credit card had to be discarded. My bag was in the car, I couldn’t find a flannel, or a window de-icer, but managed to detach a plastic pirate flag from my son’s toy Black Pearl from Pirate’s of The Caribbean.

This additional fluster and tweeting may have caused the Veet to be left on longer and I was already stinging. Standing in the bath, I scrapped the cream off and doused myself in cold water, trying to eradicate the pain. Leaving no trace of Veet, I headed for the en-suite for a shower and explained what had happened to Mr C who was now lying in bed laughing.

The stinging never subsided and when I opted for Mint and Teatree shower gel, I didn’t think of the repercussions. Almost limping to bed, I could brave the discomfort, all I wanted was sex. Every single touch hurt and my skin felt sunburnt. I had to decline oral due to Mr C’s stubble. So frustrated, I thought I would have to turn down sex altogether, especially when I realised Mr C’s downstairs hair situation.

A few days earlier I had gone to the bathroom to find his pubes all over the mat and our Persian cat Dude, who sleeps on the mat. Mr C would now be stubbly and oh my, that would hurt!

Anyway, we slowly managed to have sex, even though I was oww’ing and ouching rather than groaning with pleasure.

The Veet has now been binned.

About cuntychoppalops

Blunder cunt - An old school definition meaning one who takes a long time to accomplish an objective due to an easily distracted mind.
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6 Responses to The Veet Disaster

  1. Ally says:

    “How very dare you!” Corrupting your son’s pirate flag? That, surely, is a new low!

    On another note, may I suggest baby powder; does wonders for the stubble effect and ouch factor!

  2. mumra says:

    Ouch!

    I once got chilli fingers down there equalling similar situation.

    You’re right though has to be decking.

  3. woodynyou says:

    What the hell is veet? Hairy is better anyway!

  4. You need a little something down there, otherwise it looks like an oven ready turkey.

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