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After my shift at Black Sheets, where I swiped a pair of gloves, I arrived at Harry's house right on time. We shook hands, he invited me in, and I was discretely looking the situation over, but everything appeared on the level.

He seemed uncomfortable, and I told him not to be.

On the living room carpet, he had already spread out some newspapers. "I figured I'd be on the floor, on all fours," he said, "and you can sit on this chair."

I nodded, and put on the gloves while he went into the bathroom. He came back with a Bic disposable razor, a can of shaving cream, and a towel.

"Ready when you are," I said.

He took off his shoes and socks, then his pants and underwear, and assumed the position, naked from the waist down.

His ass gaped open at me, but what really startled me was the hair — man, that man's butt was almost as hairy as my face, and I have a short beard. It was hairy like Esau. Hairy like an Angora sweater. Hairy everywhere. With a comb, I could've parted it.

As promised, he'd obviously showered; everything was clean. So I sat behind his behind, lathered him up, and gently sheared him.

This being San Francisco, I wouldn't have been surprised if he'd gotten off on it, but apparently it wasn't a turn-on. And wow, he needed the service I was providing. It isn't often you know you're truly making someone's life better. Harry probably wakes up every day with yesterday's shit stuck to the hair in his crack, but tomorrow he won't.

At one point, everything I was looking at sorta tightened up for a few seconds, contracted just a bit. I didn't ask, but I think the guy was holding back a fart, and I appreciated the effort.

Didn't want to shave all of both cheeks, because I figured that would leave his entire bottom itchy and scratchy for a few weeks whenever he sat down. Instead I left a bald circle extending several inches around his sphincter; beyond this, the almost ape-like hairiness remained untrimmed. 

I gently toweled him dry, and said, "I'll let you tell me whether it's a close enough shave."

Still on his hands and knees, he tentatively fingered the inches around his anus, shook his head yes, and quietly stood up and got dressed. "Smooth as a baby's butt" is the cliché I was waiting to hear.

Thought of asking if he had some aftershave to slap on, but he still seemed ill at ease, so I didn't make any jokes, only discarded the gloves and washed my hands in the bathroom.

At the front door, Harry thanked me, gave me three tens and said to keep the change. Thirty bucks for about 15 minutes work made me a happy man, so I decided to make him a happy customer. "I hope you're not embarrassed," I said. "I've done this before, you know."

"You have?" His face brightened.

Of course I haven't. "Of course I have," I said. "It's not that unusual." That's what every weirdo wants to hear, I suppose — that he's not so weird after all.

"I just," he stammered. "I really appreciate this."

"Happy to be a help," I said. "Call me if the stubble starts to itch."

From Pathetic Life #22
Monday, March 18, 1996

This is an entry retyped from an on-paper zine I wrote many years ago, called Pathetic Life. The opinions stated were my opinions then, but might not be my opinions now. Also, I said and did some disgusting things, so parental guidance is advised.

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