Where’s The Beauty Treatment For Men’s Balls?
By Samantha Rea
I once took a beauty salon to court for burning my genital bits during a routine Brazilian, so I didn’t jump at the prospect of trying a “vajacial” — a new beauty treatment pretty much promising to aim a blowtorch at my vajay, then cover my charred minge with what essentially amounts to cake mix (and I don’t mean boy-batter).
I was, however, curious about the treatment. So I turned to my sister, who recently wrote an entire poem about treating her muff right. I sent her a message via our Sisters group chat on Whats App:
Me: P, in light of your poem about your vajajay, do you want a free vajacial? It’s a facial for your vajay. Then I will write about it. Yeah?
B: I’m quite disgusted
P: I haven’t shaved in at least a month
Me: Dunno if that matters. Want to do it?
P: Noooooooo way lol Sorry
In the absence of anyone willing to have a vajacial on my behalf, I agree instead to chat with the woman who formulated the treatment, Lisa Palmer. I conduct the interview on the telephone, fearing that if we meet in person, she might successfully pressure me into letting her slap the contents of her kitchen onto my labia.
I like Lisa, who tells me early ingredients included raw onion, but “the problem is using it down there — it stings and it bloody stinks.” After 10 months of trial and error on her own vajay, Lisa found the formula for prime punani: honey, coconut oil, egg white, and vitamin E cream, applied after “steaming” the genital area for 15–20 minutes.
But won’t this BURN me? I ask Lisa, as I suffer flashbacks to my molten mound. “If you’re steaming your face, you could burn your face,” she points out. “You’ve just got to be careful.” She seems to think this will reassure me. “Gwyneth Paltrow does it,” she says, adding, “and it cleanses your uterus.” Wait, how dirty is my uterus?
I ask Lisa what changes she was hoping to see from the treatment. She says, “to tighten it up down there — once you’ve had children, everyone gets a saggy vagina. I’m 41 and I’ve got a vagina of a 25-year-old, so I’ve been told!”
Lisa says she puts the vajacial mix on her genital area, outside the vagina. “That area stretches a lot,” she says. “If you wax as well, over time, that causes your skin to sag. Putting a mask on makes it tighter and a bit more pretty, ’cause it’s not the most pretty thing, is it?”
I then posit to Lisa that men’s balls are no oil painting either — what about their saggy, wrinkly bits? Lisa agrees: “I hate men’s balls! They’re disgusting, aren’t they? They’re just saggy old cart horse things! Obviously we need them for children, but why couldn’t they make them prettier or covered in chocolate?”
I love Lisa. I want her to be my new best friend, even though I’d never sleep over in case she tried to put a Bunsen burner on my bits.
I ask Lisa if men ever ask her to do something with their balls. She tells me that since she went on This Morning, 20 men have contacted her, “but the thing is, I don’t want to be touching men’s todgers, really.” Were they genuine requests? “I’d say probably eight of them were dirty buggers.” I ask Lisa if this is what puts her off of extending the service to men.
“Something does need to be done about men’s bits, they’re not attractive,” she responds. “But as for me touching their didgery doos, no thank you.” I decide that if there’s ever a re-make of Abigail’s Party, Lisa and only Lisa can fill Alison Steadman’s shoes.
I’ve Googled “vagina beauty treatments,” and the search results, which talk about feeling “tight and wanted again,” offer all sorts of suggestions: I can grow an herb garden in my lady allotment, by using “the middle finger to gently push the herb into the vagina”; get a portable steaming seat that comes with a bit of basil, allowing me to “do my own vaginal-steam at home as often as I want!” (unless I am “over 200 lbs.”); dye my vaginal hair pink to perk up the grey; or get a stick to shove inside myself, to “internally cleanse, heal, and tighten the vagina.” Meanwhile, handy online advice includes, “You can make Kegels fun by squeezing a few reps in during sex.” (Do fuck off.)
But for all the pruning and preening my vagina is apparently desperately in need of, there’s virtually nothing out there for men’s ball sacks.
I ask Lisa why she thinks women are making such an effort when men aren’t. “It does annoy me, really,” she responds. “We make all the effort, us ladies, and I think they should kind of try. That’s why I run my Cubs and Cougars dating site — I get a lot of older women who want boy toys. They’re fun and I suppose they’ve got pert balls as well!”
I ask Lisa if she’d do the treatment on a man for the article. She says: “I suppose if I could stick the Marigolds on,” but then ultimately declines. Lisa is lovely and I can’t say I blame her. But if tidal waves of women are lopping off their labia, I want at least one man to have a balls facial — aka, a bajacial.
My editor has eaten concoctions from the Cereal Killer cookbook, but when it comes to a bajacial, he’s not playing ball. I email an ex’s mate who had a semi-circumcision for aesthetic reasons, but he doesn’t respond. I ask men’s lifestyle blogger Justin Livingston if he fancies blogging about his balls. He doesn’t.
Someone I once dated is in London for the weekend, so I ask if I can borrow his ballsack for research purposes. He’s happy to oblige and doesn’t mind photos, provided he remains anonymous. I’ll call him Boop, and for the record, he’s shaved his balls. Room service brings up a spatula, a pair of plastic gloves, and a tray of ingredients. Only, instead of egg white, they bring egg yolk, but suspecting this is bollocks anyway, I don’t bother sending it back. I also deviate slightly by using yoghurt instead of vitamin E cream, because I could swear that yoghurt’s on the list, but can’t quite be bothered to check.
I don’t have a steamer, and while I’ve thought about heating Boop’s balls with the hairdryer, I decide to stick to the script and make him steam them in the bathroom. There are two showers, so I turn them both onto the hottest setting and shut the window he’s been smoking spliffs out of. He stands in the bathroom for a bit, steaming his balls, then comes back to the bedroom where I mix the ingredients, with no concept of quantity. I apply the mixture to the open pores of his scrotal sack with a spatula. Lisa recommends using a make-up brush, but my MAC toolkit is not for testicles. The mixture is cold at first, but he likes it (and other Morrisey lyrics). We leave it on for about 10 minutes, then after he’s washed it off, I ask how his balls feel. He says they feel nice, but he isn’t sure if they really feel nice or if he just thinks they do.
Boop quite enjoyed the experience, which suggests there’s nothing inherently sinister about coating your crotch with raw eggs. I’d say the real issue here is the shitload of propaganda telling women to spend time and money fixing their fun flaps, while saggy-bollocked men live their lives blissfully cake-mix-free.
We either need to challenge the propaganda . . . or find ourselves a Boop and grab a spatula. Nobody said gender equality comes easy.