Just Because I Shaved My Legs This Morning Doesn't Mean That I'm A Whorey Slut And The New Scanner

I had some strange ideas as a child which were partially born out of an incredible sense of seriousness that I had. Everything meant something to me, which is a fairly schizophrenic way to live. Everything was a marker pointing to something else, and I worked my little mind furiously to make the proper connections.

Some of my strange ideas meant that I had issues with women. I didn’t really like women, and I developed some negative ideas about the female sex as a result. I don’t remember my parents or anyone else of influence ever mentioning anything pertaining to my line of thinking, but it was there and strong when I was four, five, and six years old. What caused me to think back on this time today was the act of shaving my legs. It’s a beautiful day out today, and it is probably one of the last truly nice days left this year, so I wanted to wear my capri pants. I am terrible at keeping up with the leg-shaving, so until this morning it had been since the beginning of August that I had last taken the time to do it. It took quite a good while to shave off all the hair, even if only to my knees, because my leg hair is quite thick and long naturally.

I’ve always been reticent to shave, and I’ll only do it when absolutely necessitated by circumstance. If I shave, I’m prickly by the end of the day again which makes the whole process seem futile, and I know I could get waxed regularly, but that can be expensive, so that’s the way it is. I once fell in with a group of granola, back-to-nature types, which saved me a full two years of daisy razors and bristle. I let the leg locks flow.

At any rate, it feels kind of kinky to shave – pants, even those of the rougher cotton variety, feel like luxuriant silk upon my freshly shaven gams, and this is what sends my mind back to when I was approximately five years of age. I was at the church my family went to every Sunday. I was small for my age and always thinking, or at least I believe I must have been, because I remember my first seven years better than any that have followed. I remember an occasion there when it must have been summer, because most of the women there weren’t wearing nylons, and they all wore skirts or dresses that came to just below the knee. That was the style at the time.

I had just been released from Sunday school. I was the only girl in the class, and I’d had nothing in my file folder revamped as a choo-choo train on the wall, because I hadn’t memorized my Bible verse from the previous week. They used cheap gifts to entice us into memorizing religious text, which now seems kind of creepy to me. I was the only girl, which my teacher seemed to feel the need to point out a lot. She told me once that I “must be so lonely”. I wasn’t, and I didn’t know what my being a girl had to do with my being lonely or not. Anyway, I had begged her for the stiff, glossy, colour picture with a Bible verse, because I was entranced by them. I kept a whole collection at home in a binder. She eventually succumbed to my pleading and gave me the handout despite my lack of memory work. Some sort of victory had been had, and so I raced down the stairs to the main floor to find one of my parents to show my picture to. It was a badge of pride to get that picture every week.

When you’re that small these things become the distinguishing features: a particular pair of socks, a style and colour of shoe, the hang of a skirt or pair of pants around the knees or ankles.

The men mostly stayed outside with the good weather and smoked in small circles after church, because everyone smoked back then. This left the foyer filled with these women without stockings in mid-length skirts. As I wove between them, waist high, my bare arms in their soft five-year-old skin kept brushing and rubbing up against legs. The legs themselves all looked relatively the same to me – white, clean, calves tensed in high-heeled shoes. Really, what I was looking for was my mother’s shoes. She often wore a pair of black patent leather heels with a single strap that ran up the centre of her foot from the covered toe and encircled her ankle. When you’re that small, these things become the distinguishing features: a particular pair of socks, a style and colour of shoe, the hang of a skirt or pair of pants around the knees or ankles.

I couldn’t find the right set of legs, and feeling confirmed as I was in my parents’ close proximity, I lost interest in finding them right away and took more interest in weaving in and around the many pairs of women’s legs. A few of them were as smooth as my skin where they rubbed my upper arms, but more than most prickled and, yes, even seemed to scrape my young skin. I thought them ugly, these women with sandpaper legs, and I knew that it was their fault.

I had seen my mother shaving her legs, and I had felt the bristly aftermath a few hours later. I knew that it was done for other people, too. Who would do such a thing if not only for looks? I knew, too, that they did it for men. Television told me so. And this is where my young mind took a turn for the worse. My feeling on the matter was that these women were whores, sluts, beneath contempt. Married or single, they were all whores for men, and I promised myself then that I would never do such a thing for love or men or anything.

I don’t know where I picked up this distaste for most women due to my sense of them being whores and sluts. That I had such a notion simply does not make much sense, because I was only five years old. I didn’t even have a clear concept of what sexual interaction was at that time, or at least I shouldn’t have. I can only assume that my strange hatred of women had been taught to me somehow, either by family or television or other cultural images that came at me from magazines and billboards and movies. Of course, over time, I grew up, I matured, and I stopped seeing the world in such stark contrast. By the time I was seven, women were no longer whores, and I had come to accept that I would indeed grow up to be a female no matter how much I had once believed I would grow up to be a man who wore a suit. (Sometimes I think I was born crazy and have been on a slow road to sanity ever since).

So, this morning when I was shaving my legs, I was thinking about this and feeling ever so grateful that I didn’t carry such ideas into my adult life. Otherwise, I would be quite the whore right now. I would have had to yell to the Fiery One from the bathroom oh, Fiery One, I am getting sluttier by the second in here! Do you know what a whore I am becoming?, and then I would have run around in the parks, trying to scrape the arms of small children with my leg stubble. It would have been awful. And the police would have had to come up with weird new laws just to deal with me. There would be strictly enforced leg-waxings funded by the state to keep me from using my stubble as a weapon against the weak. The Fiery One would leave me, unable to deal with my obsession with my own sluttiness. Life would have been a nightmare.


The Fiery One brought home a scanner as a surprise present for us yesterday after I arrived home from work! I am thrilled to the gills with this new-fangled technology which is now sitting to the left of me on the floor. We are all out of tables, so I may have to haul over one of our many extraneous kitchen chairs to do the job.

I figured that since most new photographers take pictures of their feet at some point, I would throw this repulsive sock in the scanner. It’s a beaut, ain’t it? Honestly, the state of this sock is no cause for alarm. We use it as a shoe shine rag, which is how it became so, um, well-used looking. Now it also doubles as a red flag for what you, my dear readers, have in store for you in the future. My apologies.


Fly-eating robots are on the horizon.

Here are some diarylanders that I have been reading of late: stormyclaude, bluewicked, and stereogirl.

Bhikku is also a good read.

Elan Morganlinks, pastComment