“I fear I’ve always had this bizarre addiction…”
I’ll never forget one of my most embarrassing moments—my college roommate walking in on my boyfriend and me. She barged through the door to discover me straddling him on the bed, fire in my eyes, hands splayed across his naked flesh . . . squeezing blackheads on his back. Perhaps it was a testament to his adoration for me that he would willingly participate in this degrading ritual, but I couldn’t help it. I left his face alone, but as for his back—I simply had to squeeze them.
It’s true—I adore the satisfaction of picking and squeezing, and apparently it’s even more satisfying when it’s on another person’s body. Over the years, very few have allowed me to indulge this disturbing compulsion, and I’ve had to settle for routinely applying pore strips to my own face, slowly pulling the strip off to reveal the satisfying results.
The biggest test of my will was when both of my daughters had baby acne. Never once did I give in to the urge to squeeze those tiny whiteheads, and I rewarded myself with daily armfuls of chocolate. That cradle cap nearly did me in though; I could hardly stop myself from picking their tiny little scalps, though I did salve my own itch by regularly combing through their hair with a little olive oil, sloughing off that maddening crust.
I fear I’ve always had this bizarre addiction—when my brother came down with chicken pox in kindergarten, I coaxed him into playing a “game” that involved me looking for bugs in his hair; in reality, I was picking the chicken pox scabs off his head. I know, I know, I’m a monster.
Perhaps my most horrifying offense was when my preschool-aged daughter had an unexplainable blackhead on her nose. I told her I needed to wipe some food off it, and swiftly extracted that shit before she knew what hit her. I don’t think it even hurt—I’m that good.
In just a few short years, the first of my daughters will enter the realm of puberty, and I have no idea how I am going to keep my hands off her early-adolescent, blemish-riddled skin. Will I stealthily creep into her room in the middle of the night, armed with an array of covert pore strips? Surely after the first unauthorized “let me just get that eyelash” sneak zit attack, she’ll be onto me, and will never let me within three feet of her during her waking hours. Maybe I should start praying for clear skin now. Or see a therapist.
Perhaps the answer lies in me finding a new profession—I’ve always dreamed of being an aesthetician. Then people will actually pay me to squeeze shit off their faces! I can’t imagine experiencing a greater thrill than going to work every morning knowing I had hours of pore-clearing to look forward to!
Fortunately for us all, my husband has perfectly clear skin—not a clogged pore in sight. There’s also no way in hell he’d allow himself to be my “client.” Is this a woman thing? You know, the term “nit-picking” didn’t originally mean being a soul-crushingly critical bitch to one’s partner; female primates literally picked nits off their partner’s fur. Maybe it’s encoded in our DNA—surely I’m not the only wacko who enjoys such a practice?
So ‘fess up: what’s your secret weird, gross, or guilty pleasure?
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