Close Shaves: I Loved Boys Who Shaved Their Balls

When I was a teenager, I loved boys who shaved their balls. It was difficult not to, actually, since all the boys I knew shaved. Some would shave designs or their girlfriends' names into their pubic hair. Others would experiment with Clairol, turning the hair green, blue or even fire-engine red. Still others would shave themselves completely bald.

In my high school during the early 90s, the best compliment your boyfriend could give you wasn't a promise ring: the day my boyfriend shaved my initials into his patch was the day I knew he really loved me. In a way, it was a guarantee?any other woman who might be in that vicinity would be forced to stop and ponder what the big K.M. stood for. Beyond that, it was just fun, and a better alternative to a tattoo since the hair would grow back. Another couple I was friendly with would experiment with colors, spending hours on a Sunday afternoon constructing tiger stripes or polka dots on each other. It all seemed a perfectly normal teenage existence; never struck me as the least bit odd. Until I moved away from Shirley, Long Island.

"You mean you dated more than one?" my friend Elisabeth asked. I nodded. "Shorn? You mean, like bald?"

Mandy wanted details. "What is it? Some kind of Long Island thing?"

My college friends were convinced it is a geographic phenomenon. Granted, it's Long Island, but I disagreed. Still, the more research I did, the less sure I became. I wouldn't call the research exhaustive, since pubic hair styles isn't a run-of-the-mill conversation topic, but the evidence was fairly conclusive. Be it woman, man, close friend or cocktail party acquaintance, all thought that while women waxing their hair away to nothing but a landing strip is acceptable across America, men doing the same is deemed weird.

My friends say that their fascination stems not from the fact that the men shaved, but that it was the norm. One in particular says that if she was dating a guy and looked down to find a shorn scrotum, she would freak. I still fail to see what the big deal was. At Vassar, where the men are more apt to shave their legs than the women are, I didn't have much to compare my high school dating experiences with. It wasn't until I graduated and moved to New York City that I really started second-guessing my past experiences with shorn men. None of my present-day friends has seen one and none wants to.

I wondered what it all meant. Were my friends from home perverted? If it was true that no one else did this, then something must have been wrong with our group. Plus, not only had I taken part in it, but I liked it. I feared that I was a sexual deviant. I questioned my relationships and my past. Did I do something I should be ashamed of? It didn't seem fun anymore. It seemed dirty.

Until this epiphany?that my suburban Long Island town was not like others?I assumed everyone experimented in the same way. It seemed natural, healthy even. It was a fun way to demystify our bodies in the midst of being lambasted by the media and our health classes about unsafe sex equaling death, AIDS, teen pregnancies and STDs. My boyfriend and I weren't even having sex. We were just trying to learn about each others' bodies.

I can remember the first time I shaved: the sticky, alien feel of the skin. The glance in the mirror followed by the oh-my-God-I-look-like-a-plucked-chicken moment. Suddenly I was more aware of that area than I ever was before. It was like a secret. Just like passing my boyfriend in the hall knowing my initials stood out like little white scars against the black curls under his jeans.

I don't think I dated perverts. And I am still convinced that we weren't the only teenagers experimenting in this way. It doesn't matter to me, though, if it was a geographic phenomenon or a reluctance by others to own up to the act; I would never trade the thrill when my boyfriend surprised me with heart-shaped pubic hair on Valentine's Day for anything. It remains one of the most creative gifts I have ever received.