I was lying on my bed, not thinking of anything in particular, when there was a knock on the door.
"Come in," I said suavely, as though I would have normally said "Entree" but for the fact that I was in a hospital ward.
A man who liked Azhagiri looked in on me, intent shining through his gold rimmed glasses.
Well, it wasn't the Kalaignar's firstborn, but the man who wore a hospital uniform was close enough in appearance for Government work.
I looked at him.
He said - "Saar, shaving".
"Ah", I thought. I was going under some scalpels the next day, and figured said scalpels preferred a smooth surface for a better operation.
"Seri, OK."
"Saar, dress", Azhags said.
I took off my T-Shirt, cringing a little. "Full shaving, saar.", Azhags said. "Um, pantuma?" I quavered, self possession shot. He grinned - "Pant, jetti ellaam" (pants, underwear, everything).
Now, I don't know about you, but I haven't been naked and alone with a strange man since I was a a child. And I've never been naked and alone with a strange man with a razor.
I shrugged out of my tracks and undies, highly conscious of the fact that I was hung like a raisin.
He asked me to lie down and you obey the guy with the knife.
He slapped the razor across his palm, with a bzzp bzzp that grated on the ears.
I gave up and closed my eyes.
I wondered. How often do people have their bodies shaved? All over? I'm not talking about pornstars shaving each other’s pubes with elegant little golden razors, using liberal amounts of saliva to disinfect the shaved area - or my grandfather raising his wrinkled arms over his head as the barber scraped off the three or four stragglers that managed to emerge every four months.
I'm sure that there is are more applications of rule 34 here somewhere, but by and large, all I could think of was food preparation. And as Azhagu's razor moved down from my chest to my groin, I was absolutely convinced that there would be something about meat shaving in the urban dictionary. I did not want to go and look. It also struck me that in the technical sense, meat shaving was done to food, which eventually was consumed and turned to shit,
As these cheery thoughts paraded the darkness behind my closed eyes, I could feel the razor going down my torso. Now my penis wanted to withdraw itself into my body, like Ian Fleming’s sumo wrestlers. I was terrified of that misplaced razor swipe, and the apologetic remark “Oops, sorry saar, I thought that was a hair”.
“Scrape-scrape-scrape” went the razor, “Eeeeargh, Eeeeargh, Eeeeargh” went my mind.
And then there were hands on my hotdog, , and the barber at my berries – for what seemed like forever. My eyes clenched shut, so hard that that I could see purple erections sliced off by silver swords in brilliant starbursts of pain.
I don’t know if you’ve read Dr. No. There’s a scene where Bond – who sleeps in the nude, naturally, wakes up to find something crawling up his leg. It’s a centipede and Fleming devotes a page to the creature’s journey from 007’s ankle to his shoulder and then on to the carpet where it meets it’s end at the hands of Bond’s shoe. Bravura set piece. I felt kind of like that. – especially this bit
"God, it was turning down towards his groin. Bond set his teeth. Supposing it liked the warmth there! Supposing it tried to crawl into the crevices! Could he stand it? Supposing it chose that place to bite?..."
I empathized.
And then the razor was on my inner thighs.
“Kaala viriyunga, saar” (Spread your legs, sir)
I’d moved from James Bond to a literotica gay BDSM fantasy.
After what seemed like hours, I heard a voice saying “Finished saar. Neenga dress sanjikalam” (Finished, sir, you can dress now…).
I risked a look down. I was horribly pale skinned, more than naked than ever before. I quickly dressed as Azhags packed up my hair. His teeth and glasses linted with sinister purpose as he lingered. Despreate to be rid of him, I snatched a 100 rupee note from my wallet and thrust it at him. He took it, and said sadly “Ennum moonu patient pannanum saar” (I still have three patients to shave).