Sex With Beards or Without? – Sexography
I remember when I tried to Tinder in Vermont. I flew across the country to visit my sister in Burlington, and I thought: what the hell. I had a hotel room all to myself for an entire week, and I didn’t want it to go to waste.
I hopped on Tinder, thinking I’d meet a fine man de jour to have a week of fun with. When I opened the app, I was in for a surprise. I was confronted by a whole lot of hair.
Beards, beards and more beards. Every guy had a big, fluffy mound of fur sprouting from his cheeks and chin. These guys just had so much facial hair. Brown, blond, red, black… gray.
These weren’t the ironic beards of the men of Los Angeles, the city I call home. Those beards are nurtured on the faces of boys whose parents paid their way through liberal arts college, where they’d furiously penned postmodern poetry until they came to their senses and switched majors to Bus Admin so they could someday run Daddy’s company — still with that damn beard.
I don’t want rug burn on my nethers when a guy goes down on me.
No, Vermont beards were working-class beards — mountain beards, hunter beards, the beards of men who got their hands dirty. These beards were meant to keep a man’s face warm in the winter, not just to accessorize with the latest plastic-rim glasses and pomaded ’do. No, Vermont beards were the beards of men who camped for fun and logged for work.
Nothing against that. My own weird prejudice against beards has nothing to do with what a guy does for a living. My hang-up is that I don’t like beards because they interfere with sex.
I don’t want rug burn on my nethers when a guy goes down on me. I don’t want my lips stabbed by coarse hairs while I kiss a guy, let alone for the same fate to befall my pussy lips when he gives me head. And please don’t make me drag my fingers through his ’stache while I’m trying to come.
Even worse than a big, full beard is the prickly stubble of a days-old five o’clock shadow.
I’m an equal opportunist when it comes to facial hair.
I hate it all.