Many of you have asked me to weigh-in on pubic hair and I’m going to maintain my default position. Men vary in their preferences; contrary to feminist outcry, many seem to like, as Amy Poehler calls it, a muff the size of a slice of New York pizza, whereas a more vocal segment prefers us a bit more bald down there. I really don’t have time to speculate on the societal implications of female grooming because I think the simple fact is, when it comes to go time, men stop caring altogether. If they are going to have sex and are at the gate, they are not minding the topiary.
This may be a good thing. It’s an unfortunate coincidence that the less groomed we are, the greater our chances of meeting someone. Conversely, too many women tell tales of being fresh from the waxing table, overeager to showcase the undercarriage to someone undeserving of its debut. #baddecisions
But I digress. This post isn’t about those kind of Brazilians. I’m talking about the Brazilian kind of Brazilians, the ones from that country with samba, sand, cachaça and Carnival. Football. Thongs!
You know – the country that enjoys an unparalleled reputation for being sexy and carefree, where the natives are gorgeous and in our minds, nearly nude most of the time.
Want to attract a man? Say you’re Brazilian.
In the meantime, accept that you will lose out to a Brazilian at some point in your romantic life, even if it’s just for five minutes, when you’re trying to make out with someone on the couch and Gisele Bündchen comes on TV wearing angel’s wings and a bra encrusted in conflict diamonds. Or maybe it’s her new (slightly cockeyed) understudy, Alessandra Ambrosio. It doesn’t even have to be another woman, for God’s sake. Remember the football. Brozilians, with names that start with R and end in O, can steal a man away even faster. Regardless, we can watch their gaze drift, their fantasies form and kiss their attention goodbye.
Not cool, Brazil.
And in real life, even if you meet a man who is dating a violently psychotic Brazilian whose Latin temper gets the best of him, these men will still brag, black-eyed, to their mates that first and foremost, she’s Brazilian. Fade in, fade out: cue aforementioned day dreaming sequence.
This post is not about sour grapes though. I’ve been to Brazil and I loved it. I was struck not by the abundance of beautiful female bodies, but by the surplus of female body confidence. Because by my admittedly caipirinha-handicapped count, even on the beaches of Leblon, I saw more ‘real’ women than busty beach volleyball player wannabes. The best part? Those women packed their brown bellies and dimples into thongs and paraded down those shores as proudly as the women who gave their nation its sterling reputation.
It’s also worth noting that in Brazil, a beach snack is a slab of squeaky, greasy cheese, served ON A STICK out of a makeshift oven. There is no greater display of confidence than wiping fat drippings off your cleavage in the baking hot sun.
I think we all have something to love about Brazil, be it squeaky cheese or women who believe in being healthy, strong, happy in their skin and a little hot in their Latin temperament (though I think we could do with less throwing).