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One of the most unique relationships you'll have in your life is with a sexual partner -- a spouse, a hump puppet, a cardboard cutout of Kate Upton, a room-temperature melon. This person (or people, I don't judge) will exist in a state you allow no other person to exist in, even outside of all the crotch-slathering goodness you enjoy. Simply by virtue of the nudie-time fun you have together (or if I want to be sweet and sappy and suggest it's true love), you will put up with and tolerate the most heinous of activities, intentional or otherwise, that you would never accept from anyone else, including family members and close friends, let alone creepy strangers or handsome Cracked columnists.
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I remember with great clarity the first time I took a shower and was shocked to discover that my testicles had somehow gotten themselves into a noose and I was choking the life out of them while I bathed. There was a brief moment of utter bafflement as I stared down, unable to see anything besides my resplendent dong and pubic thicket, and pondered if I was having some kind of schizoid episode. Was my scrot afflicted with some kind of virus? Did I have a dick ghost? Was gravity no longer operating around my junk? It was a tense few seconds. Then I realized I had a long hair lassoing my business and I was inadvertently pulling it tighter and everything fell into place.
Getting someone's hair caught up in your tender zones is a workplace hazard in the business of sensual kanoodling. You put your face here, your hands there, a pillow here, and eventually things end up in exotic locations. It's not a big deal for the most part. And although every subsequent time you pull a foreign hair out from your crack you're always just a little surprised to see it, it's like the surprise you feel when you see there's still one beer left in the fridge.
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It's like Christmas had a baby with kung fu movies and you can drink it.
All this being said, I defy you to present any other situation you will ever find yourself in that would not lead you to squeamish, awful discomfort upon finding someone else's hair anywhere near your genitals. If you hit the shower at the Y and get even the barest hint of an idea that someone else might be thinking of letting their hair get near you, you'll clench up tighter than a clam being attacked by an octopus.
If you ever discovered one of your friends' hairs in your ass, you'd be rightly mortified. I'm going to assume women would handle this situation differently from men; perhaps they'd even share the story and laugh about it afterward, while most dudes would engage in some serious panic scrubbing while they desperately tried to piece together how such an unfortunate thing could have occurred. Of course women are also more likely (in my experience) to end up finding an errant pube on the soap or the toilet seat, as opposed to a long head hair choking the life from their junk, so maybe that's the trade off, but at least it's still arguably familiar. If you just run afoul of a strange hair, forget about it. I found a stray hair on my jeans after being on a bus once and I rubbed my entire body against a brick wall to get it off rather than touch it because in my mind everyone I don't know likely has crabs that have herpes. Is that normal? Probably not.
According to most polls on the subject, flying, spiders, and snakes are three of the most common fears in the world. Things like ghosts, public speaking, dogs, and other predictable phobias pad out the lists. I've long had a fear of people using my toothbrush. If I think anyone has used it, I will just throw it out and get a new one. If it touches the floor, it gets thrown out, too. Why? Because it's for cleaning my mouth. I don't want the decayed food particulate of anyone else's head holes coating the bristles and potentially finding their way into my mouth. I feel like it's basically on par with taking a hobo's face in your hands, forcing him to smile, and then thoroughly licking his teeth and gums. I understand it's not really like that at all -- why should it even be a hobo? That's just how I feel.
Chances are, no matter how less insane and neurotic you are, there's definitely a double standard in life when it comes to your personal grooming products. If your special someone uses your toothbrush, you may not immediately microwave it within a bowl full of bleach and then throw it in the garbage afterward anyway, but your reaction will absolutely be different than if you have guests over for a party and you discover some random drunk in your house brushing his teeth with it.
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"At first I was just brushing my teeth, but before I knew it, it was all up in my ass."
When a loved one uses your toothbrush, you sigh, maybe not even audibly, and you stare at it, and then you rinse it for a lot longer than you normally would, and then you try to focus on something else until you're sure it's going to be as sanitary as it ever was. Likewise if they use your deodorant: There's that brief moment of feeling like you've been violated -- one that's extra special for the ladies when they find that errant pit hair I mentioned earlier mashed into their Lady Speed Stick -- and then you shrug it off.
The only time I'd ever allow a stranger to partake of my toothbrush and deodorant willingly would be in some kind of apocalyptic scenario in which I was forced to bond with another human being, Riggs and Murtaugh style, and even then, he can just have my toothbrush, I'll use a twig and some baking soda. The deodorant I am willing to wash off in between uses. Again, this may be extreme neuroses on my part, but let's be reasonable -- isn't sharing a toothbrush a bit like waiting for someone to wash their ass with a washcloth and then rinse it clean and hand it to you for you to do the same? There's no reason for that. We're not animals.