Recently I’ve been coping with the aftermath of a breakup—not a separation from my significant other, mind you, but from my waxist. Our split was not for lack of compatibility. She works at an athletic club where my husband and I discontinued our membership for budgetary concerns. I knew I would miss my go-to gal, but I frankly I didn’t realize quite how much. And I suspect my husband, ahem, misses her too.

Every woman who’s found an esthetician she loves will concur that the right chemistry makes the whole waxing shebang a more pleasant experience. The desired amount of conversation is key. And technique and attention to detail can determine the difference between an easy breezy experience, and, well, the blazing fires of a million suns. I’m still cursing the gal who pulled the same strip three times in the same spot (!!!!) and left me looking like I’d run my crotch into a hot iron (TMI, sorry). Suffice to say, my long lost waxist was the complete package. Which is why, although we left the gym in December. It is nearly July and I’m still, well, adjusting. But since I plan to wear a bathing suit at least once this summer, it’s time to get my fanny in gear.

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I’d been regularly visiting my dream waxist for three years, but to be perfectly honest, I came to the table later in life. While I never sun bathed looking exactly cave-woman-esk, anyone born before 1980 will tell you that hairstyles down there have changed somewhat over the last couple decades. And the reason, in my humble opinion, that bare or next-to-no hair has become status quo, is the mainstreaming of porn.

The norms of pornography are something I’ve thought about quite a bit since my fiancé (now husband) spent a year filming XXX for a reality TV show. And in his day-to-day on Gangbangs of New York there was ner a follicle in sight. When my main squeeze landed this job, I’d barely watched any porn. So you can imagine my surprise (when I Googled his co-workers to confirm the intelligence) that pubic hair had gone completely the way of the dodo. Don’t even get me started on anal bleaching or Labiaplasty … but anyways. Had I been living in Little House on The Prairie?

Apparently, yes.

Grooming, sure—I’d done my time with nostril-hair-annihilating Nair and a trusty Bic. But total Brazilian baldness? Nope, not so much.

Now, I’m not someone who likes to feel pressured into anything. Tell me to wear stilettos and I’ll inevitably step out in flats. But I’d be lying if I said the experience didn’t have any impact on my sprucing habits. In the name of being a little less prude and a touch more porn star, with a dash of competitive spirit, I decided to give it a whirl.

First impression: “My ({}) had chemo!!”

My fiancé reminded me that such declarations are not hot.

As it turned out, I discovered that Charlie’s Sheen’s girlfriend did know one thing after all and found myself regularly booking my Playboy wax. But, alas, perhaps you can’t entirely teach an old dog new tricks, for it seems my new habits were rather easily sidelined. Am I slower to wax because I’m married now, you might ask? Or is because hubby no longer hangs with porn stars? Honestly, probably a bit of both. Maybe he needs to book a few shoots in The Valley to get my competitive mojo back. On second thought I kind of prefer it when he films The Real Housewives.

In the meantime, I’ll be halfheartedly scanning the results of searching “LA bikini wax.” Suggestions are welcome, folks.

Emily Southwood is working on a memoir called Prude and blogs at imarriedapornographer.com. She lives in Los Angeles with her husband. Emily is the author of the "I Married a Pornographer" series on BettyConfidential.