After being told that my balls looked like an old Rastafarian, I decided to take the plunge and buy this gel—mostly because previous shaving attempts hadn't gone well, and I’d nearly wrecked my back trying to reach those hard-to-get-to spots.

I’m a bit of a romantic, so I decided to do it on my wife’s birthday—sort of as an extra gift. I ordered it in advance. Since I work in the North Sea, I considered myself a tough guy and figured the previous reviews were written by some pathetic office drones...

Oh, my fellow sufferers, how wrong I was. I waited until my better half had gone to bed, hinted at a special surprise, and headed to the bathroom. At first, everything was fine. I applied the gel to the target areas and waited. And I didn't have to wait long. At first, I felt a warmth that, within seconds, turned into an intense burning sensation—a feeling I can only compare to having a pair of barbed-wire underpants yanked up tight while someone tries to launch you toward the ceiling. I hadn't been particularly religious before that evening, but in that moment, I would have believed in any god if he’d just save me from the horrific burning around my arsehole and the total devastation of my sausage and two eggs. Trying not to bite clean through my lower lip, I attempted to wash the gel off in the sink, but all I managed to do was shove a clump of hair down the drain.

Through a veil of tears, I stumbled out of the bathroom and headed for the kitchen. I couldn't walk anymore, so I crawled the last few meters to the fridge. I pulled out the bottom drawer, found a tub of ice cream, ripped off the lid, and shoved it underneath me. The relief was fantastic but short-lived, as the ice cream melted quickly and the hellish burning returned. The tub was rather small, so I couldn't really treat my asshole.

I started rummaging through the freezer, hoping to find *something*—my eyes were so full of tears that I could barely see. I grabbed a bag—which I later discovered contained frozen bean sprouts—and tore it open, trying to be as quiet as possible. I grabbed a handful of sprouts and tried, unsuccessfully, to wedge them between my buttocks. It didn't help; the gel had apparently made its way into my rectum, and it felt like a jet engine was running in there. I hope I never again find myself wishing for a gay snowman to appear in the kitchen—do you realize how low I was willing to stoop to ease the pain? The only solution my pain-crazed brain could come up with was to carefully insert a sprout where no plant had ever sprouted before. Unfortunately, hearing strange groans coming from the kitchen, my wife decided to get up and see what was going on. She was met with a stunning sight: me lying on the floor with my ass stuck out—dripping with strawberry ice cream—shoving beans up my rear while muttering, «Oh, that feels so good.»

She was undoubtedly shocked and screamed in horror. I hadn't heard her come in, so I was startled too; my gut spasmed, and the sprout shot out at high speed in her direction. Yes, I realize that a bean sprout—which someone farts in the direction of at midnight—isn't exactly the surprise she was hoping for; plus, the next day, the kids had to be given a long explanation about what happened to the ice cream… all in all, thanks to Veet, you can lose not just your body hair, but your dignity and self-respect, too.