It’s part of the initiation ritual for the new atheist religion he’s founding.
My appointment’s next Tuesday.
No, it’s part of his jokey self-improvement series for Vanity Fair, in which our curmudgeonly litterateur goes to the spa, the dentist, and the salon in a semi-successful bid to turn an aging British man into an aging American one. Fade in…
You ladies will know what I mean by the stirrup position, which I was now unceremoniously instructed to assume. That’s to say, I braced one leg up while Ms. Padilha braced the other. And she does this for a living. To be Dr. Lituchy and to spend every day up to your elbows in other people’s oral cavities would be tough enough. But this … And wait: surely you can’t be serious about putting … Oh Jesus. I was overwhelmed by a sudden access of lava-like agony, accompanied by the vertiginous sensation that there was no there there. Stunned into silence, I listened slack-jawed as she told of her plans to expand into the London market, and to fly to Dubai to demonstrate her technique. To call this a “growth industry” might be a slight mistake: the J Sisters will not rest until every blade has been torn from every crevice. Tomorrow, the world. But today, your humble servant. And my only question was: “Where’s the rest of me?” We did not take a “before” picture, so with your indulgence I shall not share the “after” one. The total effect, I may tell you, is somewhat bizarre. The furry pelt that is my chest stretches southward over the protuberant savanna that is my stomach, and then turns into a desert region. Below the waist, a waste. I suppose I could have had the whole torso denuded, but then I would have looked even more like a porpoise than I already do.
And the schwanz? “Smooth Operator.”
A fine idea for a blog series, actually. One wonders, how much beautification would it take to turn a beta male into an alpha…?