Chest Waxing

(Editor’s Note: The above video is a little over nine minutes long. Enjoy my pain.)

I am sure many of you women out there do not think we men can handle pain. You may think that all men are a bunch of pussies, who cannot handle paper cuts or pushing a baby out through an orifice that geometrically should not have a baby go through. Well I’m here on behalf of men everywhere to prove that men can handle pain. If I had the plumbing, tools, and feel good medications necessary to give birth, I totally would, but instead you’re going to have to settle for getting my chest hairs ripped out.

My hair ripping dominatrix for my morning appointment was Terry, who specializes in Brazilian waxes. Unfortunately, unlike most dominatrixes there weren’t any “safe words” I could use if the pain became a little too much to bear. I just had to suck it up, like all guys forced to watch the movie Atonement with their lady friends. Although, I did come with a few possible “safe words,” like “peanut butter,” “Stop! Hammer Time!,” and “Perez Hilton is an attention whore.”

The application of wax felt good. The warm sensation was like putting on a pair of boxers straight from the dryer or tenderly embracing someone covered in Icy Hot. Terry used two types of wax on my pudgy body: a strip wax, which was used for large areas, and a hard wax, used for smaller and sensitive areas (ie. nipple). Both may have felt good going on, but the strip wax was pretty much a bitch coming off.

The strip wax was more painful since it was responsible for pulling out the majority of my fur in large clumps. I really didn’t want to know what it is like being Velcro, but thanks to the strip wax I now know. The hard wax was not so bad. It felt like a band aid being ripped off of my body or pasties being ripped off of my nipples.

Some areas were really painful, while with other areas I felt nothing at all. Overall, I thought it was not so bad of an experience. Sure, if you watch the video, I yelp out in pain many times, but I also do that with, Vixen, my real dominatrix, and whenever I yelp out in pain, our “safe words” are not far behind, which are usually, “Peter Cottontail hopping down the bunny trail.” I did not expect it to be a painless procedure and if I did not get it done by a professional, it probably would have been extremely painful.

After the waxing, there was redness, which wasn’t painful, but stuck around for about four days. Despite the redness, it felt nice having a smooth chest and I rubbed my chest quite a bit. As a matter of fact, I rubbed it so much that if I had sandpaper for hands, I would no longer have nipples. The smooth feeling lasted a little bit longer than I expected. Stubble didn’t start to show until two weeks later and my chest hair feels softer than usual.

Would I do it again? Yes, I would and I’ll probably make another appointment to see if it is easier the second time around and to get closer to my metrosexual side. But now with a smooth chest, when women have sex with me, they can close their eyes (or put a bag over my head) and imagine I’m someone else, instead of a furry woodland creature.

(Editor’s Note: I would like to thank TIB friend Cian for setting my appointment for pain and I would also like to thank Terry from Heaven on Earth Spa for making my experience as memorable as possible.)

Item: Chest Waxing
Price: $40 (regular $55)
Purchased at: Heaven on Earth Spa
Rating: 7 out of 10
Pros: Not as painful as I thought. Smooth chest for the ladies. Professional waxers. Lasted longer than shaving. Applying the wax felt good. Safe words. Putting on a pair of boxers straight from the dryer.
Cons: Redness for several days after. Not permanent. Strip wax. Being Velcro. Dominatrix prices. Getting waxed by a non-professional.

Which Body Part Should I Get Waxed?

There are some benefits to being hairier than others.

First off, winter nights don’t seem so cold because hair is wonderful insulation and I can somewhat understand why the Olsen Twins use actual animal fur to cover their meatless, Cryptkeeper-like bodies.

Secondly, having ample hair follicles means having a large field available for harvest if there is ever a need for hair transplants. Sure, some of them might be coarse or pubic-ish, but that’s what smelly, harsh hair-straightening chemicals are for.

Thirdly, if you’re a dude, you can open a few shirt buttons and play Magnum, P.I. whenever you want, if you have access to a Ferrari 308 GTS and can get Higgins, T.C. and Rick to play with you, which shouldn’t be hard, since they’re probably not doing anything anyway.

If you’re a long time reader of The Impulsive Buy or have seen me naked, you know that I am somewhat hirsute. For you newer readers, to give you an idea of how hairy I am, here are some posts that show some evidence that I may possibly be a descendant of the Yeti in the Disneyland Matterhorn ride. In the Veet Rasera review I showed off my legs, during the the first anniversary prize drawing post I gave readers a glimpse of my arms, and in the Axe Dry Clix review I scared off TIB readers by showing them my armpit.

So with a little convincing from TIB reader Cian, I decided to review the experience of getting some of my hair ripped out of their follicles via waxing, and you will help choose which body part of mine will feel that pain. I’m going to give you five options and you can vote on which one you like best or the one that will cause me the most pain.

Here are the five body parts you can vote for:

1. Underarms
2. Arms
3. Legs
4. Chest
5. Eyebrows (just sculpting)

(Extreme Editor’s Note: Getting a Manzilian IS NOT an option.)

The body part with the most votes will be declared the winner and I will get that part of my body waxed by a trained professional and then review the experience. Yes, in the review, there will be pictures of the procedure and just like a Rambo IV preview, if there is blood, I will show it to you.

To vote, either leave a comment with this post that contains the body part you want me to get waxed or email me at theimpulsivebuy AT gmail DOT com with your choice in the subject line. Only one choice and vote per person.

I’ll be accepting votes until Friday, January 11th (11:59 p.m. Hawaii Standard Time).

Now go vote like you’re helping to create one of the gazillion lists out there for the best and worst of 2007.

Match.com

Bad news: I didn’t find true love on Match.com.

Good news: I’m still an eligible bachelor…ladies. (Sprays Binaca in mouth and gives a wink)

I do a lot of things over the internet, like check the balances in my bank accounts, Google ex-girlfriends, read up on current events on CNN.com, self-diagnose any psychological symptoms via WebMD, download music through iTunes, and learn how to please a woman through the millions of search results found by typing “how to please a woman” at my favorite search engine. So it only seems natural that I find a date over the internet.

Sure I could do it the old fashioned way and walk up to a complete stranger, introduce myself, tell her she’s beautiful, ask her if she would be interested in a date, she replies “With you?,” I say “yes,” wait during an awkward pause while she thinks of a good excuse, and then says, “I’m sorry, I already have a boyfriend” or “I’m sorry, I’m not into guys,” but getting a date via an internet dating site is so much easier because, if you do your search correctly, women on these sites are most likely single and not a lesbian.

Match.com offers a very simple solution to get you into the dating scene, unlike competitor eHarmony which makes you fill out a SAT-long questionnaire that’s hard to do in one sitting. With Match.com all you need to do is come up with a username that isn’t already taken and then fill out your profile, which consists of normal things like hobbies, likes, dislikes, job description, describing yourself, and describing what you look for in a date.

(Tip: In your profile, do not add any fetishes you may have or put down the number of cats you own, if that number is above three.)

You can sign up at Match.com for free, but that only allows you to “wink” at potential dates which lets them know you’re interested, but you won’t be able to contact them or visa versa. This is somewhat like the digital equivalent of the rule at most strip clubs, “You can see, but you can’t touch.” In order to contact a potential date you have to subscribe to the Match.com service, which you can do for one month, three months, or six months. The longer plan you subscribe to, the cheaper it is per month. I chose six months, which cost me $101.94, because I enjoy buying things in bulk.

Once you’ve become a subscriber, you can now contact potential dates and get rejected electronically, which I admit stings much less than being rejected face-to-face. A wink is a good way to let someone know you’re interested, but contacting them via email is even better and more effective. Don’t worry, the service doesn’t use your actual email, instead they create one specifically for Match.com using your username.

(Tip: If you contact a potential date via email and they don’t reply, please don’t send them another email asking them why they didn’t reply. That is fucking creepy and irritating. Just accept the fact that they’re not interested in you and move on. They were probably out of your league anyway.)

You can search for potential dates and also narrow your searches down to be more specific. So if I wanted to find a 5’2″ Asian woman with a college degree, makes $50,000 a year, and is a sexual Scorpio, I could. The service allows you to save three searches, which I found wasn’t enough for me. I created a search for all the women of Asian persuasion, a search for those who are within five miles from me, and one for those who could become my Sugar Momma, making more than $100,000 a year.

(Tip: The more specific your searches are, the smaller the pool of potential dates gets. Stop being so fucking picky. Go out on some dates and have fun.)

With your profile, you have the option of putting up a picture or two or a dozen or more, depending on how vain you are. While searching for potential dates, about 70 percent of profiles didn’t have a picture. The profiles without a photo are given a plain generic image with the words, “Ask me for my photo” over it, all of which could be considered the digital equivalent of putting a brown paper bag over their faces. I did put up a picture with my profile, because in the particular picture I put up, I look fucking hott. The blurriness of the photo definitely makes me look better, like beer goggles would.

(Tip: Putting up your picture greatly increases the attention you’ll receive. Unfortunately, it also increases the attention you receive from people you don’t want attention from. However, Match.com does offer to block specific users from contacting you. Also, if you’re not interested in someone, you can have Match.com send the other person a nice “No, thanks” for you.)

Within the first few days I received over a dozen winks, which was a total ego boost, although most of them were from women either from the Philippines, Romania, or Indiana. I believe those were spam since their usernames were made out of random letters and numbers, like they slammed their head against their keyboard. These same “women” also had profiles that went something like this:

I the romantic girl, like to have fun, but I have no harmful habits. At me quiet character and before that that to make I all over again I think. I the good friend who always will help a difficult minute. Certainly I have lacks as well as any person, but concerning them I not a complex To me such person will be necessary which to love me and to understand, which will live in the big city and which will not have children I will need to move the man a bark with me on life and to not give in insult.

As the months in my subscription went by, I got fewer and fewer of these blatant spam winks.

(Tip: Do not put in your profile, “I’m shy at first, but I’ll open up as we get to know each other.” So many people use that line that it’s become a cliche. Use “I’ll show you mine, if you show me yours…personality, that is.”)

During my six-month subscription, I dated four women. I could tell you about each of them, but I’m a gentleman and we gentlemen don’t talk about our dates…also, some of them read this blog (Hi, Tricia, Terri and Jen!) I enjoyed the dates I went on and all of the women were really nice and a pleasure to talk to. However, none of them turned out to be long-term material because I just didn’t feel that strong of an attraction to any of them and I’m kind of a picky mutherfucker.

Dates were fun, but sadly, perhaps the most entertaining part of the whole Match.com experience was deleting women from my searches, which made me feel like the anti-Cupid, pointing my arrow-shaped mouse cursor at their delete button and breaking their hearts without them even realizing it.

If she had the word “gypsy” in her username, I deleted her. If her username had the words “happy” or “smile” in it, but she’s not smiling in her profile picture, I deleted her. If she typed “a lot” as “alot,” I deleted her. If she looked like she could kick my ass, I deleted her. If her entire profile was done with the CAPS LOCK button on, I deleted her. If she looked like someone who has way too many stuffed animals in her car, I deleted her.

(Tip: Deleting profiles can be more fun if you follow every deletion by saying out loud, “You ain’t good enough for me” or “You ain’t gettin’ none of this.”)

Despite not finding true love, I had an overall positive Match.com experience and renewed my subscription for another six months, which was ten dollars cheaper than the first six months. I think it was successful because I went on more dates in the last six month than the six months before joining Match.com.

There were a few downsides. Being in a smaller market here on this rock in the middle of the Pacific Ocean, new profiles don’t show up as often as I would like and there are many profiles that have been inactive for three weeks or more, making the pool of women even smaller. Also, many profiles didn’t have pictures, making some dates nervously exciting like a blind date or a Craigslist meetup.

(Tip: When meeting a blind date or someone on Craigslist, meet in a very public area or carry a weapon with you.)

If you’re not a bar or nightclub person this would make a great option to meet new people and perhaps find love. It’s cheaper than most other popular online dating services and you don’t have to fill out a long questionnaire. Just because it didn’t work for me, doesn’t mean it won’t work for you.

So again, ladies, I just want to let you know that I’m still available.

Item: Match.com
Price: $101.94 for six month subscription
Purchased at: Match.com
Rating: 4 out of 5
Pros: Great way to meet people. Easy to get started. No long questionnaire to fill out, like eHarmony. Cheaper than most other popular online dating services. The internet. Deleting profiles.
Cons: Didn’t find love. Most profiles didn’t have a photo. Free account only allows you to wink at others, but not send emails. Only able to save three searches. Some wink spam.

Driving a Convertible

Just like anger turns Bruce Banner into the Incredible Hulk and alcohol turns Mel Gibson into a ragin’ racist, I recently found out that driving a convertible turns me into an asshole.

Although thankfully it didn’t turn me into a super prick asshole, like Simon Cowell is with tone deaf American Idol hopefuls.

I didn’t choose the convertible, it chose me, thanks to the free upgrade courtesy of Budget Rent a Car. It was the first time I’ve ever driven a convertible, and it wasn’t just any old convertible, it was a RED Ford Mustang.

I don’t know about you, but I think a red Ford Mustang convertible is a total chick magnet, although not so much when I’m driving it and definitely doesn’t even come close to attracting the women as effectively as either Brad Pitt or George Clooney in a loincloth, or if they’re a lesbian, Angelina Jolie in a loincloth.

The only other memory I have with a convertible was the time when I was with an ex-girlfriend in high school and we threw a couple of live crabs onto the back seat of a tourist’s convertible who conveniently left their top down while shopping. I guess even being around a convertible will turn me into a prick.

Anyway, once I placed myself into the driver’s seat of the convertible, I instantly had the urge to be an asshole. As I revved the engine, it sounded like it had the enough power under the hood to easily make up for my physical inadequacies and insecurities, like most assholes have.

I thought about using that power to burn rubber in the rental car parking lot, which would’ve caused a cloud of smoke and an aromatic “fuck you” in the scent of burnt rubber, but I couldn’t do it because my car had an automatic transmission, which makes it kind of hard to burn rubber. Although, even if it did have a manual transmission, just like my penis when I’m in bed with a woman, I wouldn’t know how to use it.

Since I couldn’t burn rubber, the next asshole-ish thing I wanted to do was pick up chicks and finally be able to use the pick up lines, “Hey baby, I just put the top down on my ride, but now I’d like to put your top down” or “Hey cutie, how’d you like to ride something red, smooth, and fast, but I’m not talking about my car.”

Unfortunately, after driving around for a little bit, it seemed like all the chicks were at work, which reminded me the reason why I needed a rental car in the first place, because had to travel to another rock in the middle of the Pacific Ocean for my job. My destination was only a few miles away from the airport, but because in the convertible I’m an asshole, it felt good to take a little detour so that I could be stylin’ AND profilin’.

As I drove with the top down, my sunglasses on, and a smug look on my face, I wanted to play some slammin’ music that would make everyone look in my direction and see how much of a badass I was, but unfortunately I only had my Slow Jamz CD with me.

Even my hair was being a prick and wasn’t taking shit from no one. My stiff gelled hair did not waver as the wind tried to blow them down like the big bad wolf facing the pig’s house made of bricks. The wind huffed and puffed but could not bring my Viagra hard hair down since I use enough gel in my hair to make it meet U.S. Consumer Products Safety Commission standards for bike helmets.

Sure driving a convertible turns me into an asshole, but there are some positive things about driving one, like not needing to use the air conditioner, being able to let the sun’s rays tickle my skin, and possibly being able to drive around Miss (insert beauty pageant name) in a parade.

Item: Driving a Convertible
Price: FREE
Purchased at: Budget
Rating: 3 out of 5
Pros: Total chick magnet. Free upgrade to convertible. No need for air conditioner when top is down. My hard gelled hair. Stylin’ and profilin’.
Cons: Turned me into a smug asshole. Having only a Slow Jamz CD. Possible sunburn. Rain when driving a convertible with the top down. The smell of burnt rubber. My pick up lines when driving a convertible.