My partner, Max, is a rather hirsute individual. His chest, back, and arms are particularly furry, complemented by a lumberjack-style beard and a head of curly hair that I secretly wish he’d grow out. Over the past 13 years we’ve been together, his hair has flourished. In the beginning, he had just a bit of chest hair—so little that I teased him about its peculiar shape, which I can’t quite recall. For the sake of nostalgia, let’s say it looked like Florida.
Fast forward to today, and what was once a state-shaped patch has transformed into a full-on pelt. He jokingly refers to it as his “fur coat.” While it’s not as thick as that might suggest, there’s certainly a significant amount. The same goes for his lower arms. As for his back, it started with a couple of patches in our early 20s, but now it’s almost entirely covered—including his shoulders. It’s slowly but surely taken over. At this rate, by the time he hits 50, he might just qualify as a bear.
However, this furry situation comes with a downside: his hair often misbehaves. Instead of growing upward like a well-mannered hair should, some of them decide to burrow sideways into his skin. This can lead to swelling, bacteria gathering, and eventually, a whitehead. Max can manage the ones on his chest, but the ones on his back? Not so much.
And let me tell you, it drives me insane. I can’t stand to see those little imperfections, so I usually instruct him to hold still while I prepare to pop the offenders.
I took on this role when we were still dating. One day, I spotted an enormous whitehead on his shoulder that looked like it was about to burst—seriously, it was almost sentient. It seemed to mock me, daring me to do something. “You’ve got a massive zit on your back,” I pointed out.
He was mortified, as most people would be. Back then, we were still navigating that phase of embarrassment. This was before pimple-popping videos became a trend, long before the internet unveiled the reality of blemish popping. “I can take care of it for you,” I offered.
With a reluctant nod, he turned around, steeling himself for what was about to go down. I went in with my thumbnails. “Ow,” he protested.
“I barely touched you!” I chastised. “Stay still.” I squeezed, and more gunk than I had ever anticipated erupted from that beast, which seemed to have been incubating in the depths of his man-fur. Another “Ow!” escaped him, but he never squeals—too manly for that. Sometimes his voice does get a tad higher, though.
From that day forward, I became the designated pimple-popper for any whiteheads that dared to show up on his back. In our younger years, with all that new hair growth, there were plenty to deal with. I’d often have him lie down on his stomach while I went to work, tackling those tiny ones that hurt like crazy and the bigger ones that hurt a bit less. It may not have been the most romantic of activities, but for me, there was a strange satisfaction in it.
As the years rolled on, Max’s hair has settled into a manageable amount, and so has the back acne. When a whitehead does appear, I still offer to handle it, as it’s just too distracting for me to ignore.
Now, the tables have turned. My hormones have decided to gift me—yes, me, who breezed through her teenage years with flawless skin—with blackheads. Not just anywhere, but right where my sports bra rubs against my skin. I suspect it’s a combination of hormones and sweat. Now it’s Max’s turn to sneak up on me, saying, “Hold still,” as he digs into my back with his thumbs. I take pride in staying perfectly still and never making a sound, probably because I’ve endured labor three times and can handle a bit of discomfort.
Despite how unsexy this whole popping scenario is, it doesn’t affect how we view each other intimately. In fact, I think it’s made us more comfortable in our own skin. He doesn’t see my back blemishes as gross, and I don’t fret about his. We’ve reached a level of acceptance that fosters intimacy.
“It’s a sign of love,” we often joke, but there’s truth in that jest. It shows our willingness to tackle the messy, unglamorous sides of life for each other. So, as I prepare to crash for the night, I’ll probably pop a pimple on Max’s back, just as he has taken care of a few of mine. And if we’re being honest, many couples engage in this too.
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Summary
This piece humorously explores the unconventional intimacy between a couple as they navigate the quirks of body hair and blemishes. From popping zits to accepting each other’s imperfections, it highlights how these experiences foster a deeper connection.