My aversion for male body hair began right around birth, I suppose. According to my mom, I’d cringe when hairy epaulets (even clothed) touched my tender baby flesh. And rightly so; it’s gross!

Since then, my taste hasn’t morphed to a tolerable acceptance of hirsutism; quite the contrary, it’s grown to a fever pitch. I have no shame in saying, “I’m Tracy Ames and I hate male body hair!”

Thanks to our Native American blood, the men in our family are relatively hairless. I was quite happy in my hairless home until I begun dating and realized this phobia of mine had to be addressed. I prayed on my little girlie knees for a hairless, cocksure paramour to stumble into my life.

Alas, he did not….



Craig and I grew up together—we were bathtub buddies! He was gorgeous: blond hair, icy blue eyes, and a killer smile. His only flaw was his hairy legs. I asked him to shave countless times; I warned him not to fall asleep but he did. You guessed it: I shaved his legs while he slept. He got the hint.



Though Greg has Viking blood he isn’t hairy and what little fuzzy appears is quickly shaven because of his triathlons. Chest hair is a no-no! I can’t abide even the slightest trail of hair. I dated a guy with chest hair and, while it wasn’t the sole reason*, I’m fairly certain his chest hair was a contributing factor to the failure of our relationship. I like cuddling, but I couldn’t cuddle with him—not even with the best of intentions. I equate lying on his chest to a trial by ordeal whereby I subjected myself to the unpleasant knowledge that the only barrier between me and his man-fur was a seafoam green J. Crew tee shirt.




“What about pubic hair, Tracy?”

Pubic hair is a touchy subject. No one wants a man with the genital smoothness of a Ken doll. Peach fuzzy is the way to go because the absence of visible genitals is a tad disconcerting but thickets of human bush is freakin’ gag worthy. I know: change your mind and you’ll change yourself. Rubbish! Trying to psych myself out hasn’t worked. To me, armpit hair is a receptacle for musky odors and pubic hair is a catchall for wayward pieces of fecal matter and man-stank!



It doesn’t matter how hot the guy is—if there’s body hair, he goes to the end of the line. This is especially troubling since I go for the rough-and-tumble, masculine type (think Gerard Butler 300 NOT Mel Gibson Braveheart). Maybe one day I'll get to the bottom of my phobia. :)

* He ended up being a feckless asshole who slapped his mom.


  
See! No hair!! But I have a sneaking suspicion there’s hair beneath Mel's tunic