The Cabinet of Dr. Very Hairy

Story Submitted by Kate:

Patrick wrote me online and I fell for his bright blue eyes and dark beard (I'm a sucker for well-placed facial hair).  His profile photos were all of him wearing long sleeves and long pants, so I didn't have an inkling about how hairy he turned out to be.

We met in person, and he wore short sleeves.  I could say that his arms were as hairy as a lumberjack's, but they were more reminiscent of the forests in which the lumberjacks toil.  His arms were black with thick, matted hair, the likes of which I had never seen before.

He was a nice enough guy, but he was far too into his job (computer networking).  It was all he talked about, and when I tried to discover his other interests, it simply didn't seem as though he had any.  He told me story after story about how he saved one person's hard drive or had installed six gigabytes of RAM on an old IBM machine.

He was a gentleman, though, and that was enough for me to give a nod to a second date.  For that, he invited me to his apartment to watch a movie.  I arrived there with a bottle of wine, he gave me a hug, and led me into his living room.

The living room was an average size with average, well-used furniture.  One thing in that room, however, was anything but average, and it captured my attention immediately.

It was an ornate wooden cabinet, standing about five feet high, and definitely an antique.  It was stained different shades of brown, and it had numerous ornamental embellishments, like a small, gaudy castle.  It stood out in that room, but it wasn't ugly.  Just an attention-grabber, as was the big silver padlock on its doors.

"That's my cabinet," Patrick said, "It's mine.  Can I get you a drink?"

I pointed to the cabinet and asked, "What's in it?"

He replied, "Oh, you know.  Nothing.  How about that drink?"

We watched a movie on his couch and he passed out within 30 minutes.  After he started snoring, I woke him up gently and told him that I was probably going to leave.

"Okay," he said, blinking, then, "You didn't go into my cabinet, did you?"

"No.  It's locked."

"Yeah.  My cabinet, my lock.  You're awfully curious about what's in there, aren't you?"

I said, "Not really.  It's your business."

"Do you want to know?"

"If it's something you want to show me."

He reached into his pocket, pulled out a keyring, and unlocked the cabinet.  Inside were various hair removal products: sprays, scissors, lotions, and balms, all of which appeared to have been heavily used.

He turned to me and said, "It's for my body hair.  It's the only way for me to control it.  It doesn't stop growing."

"I see."

"You don't understand.  It's like I have pubes all over my body."

"That sucks."

"It is.  I'm itchy all the time, but it's getting better than it used to be."  He grabbed a container of lotion that smelled like a muddy campground and spread it liberally, all over his arms and neck.  He reached under his shirt and rubbed around in there for a bit, too.

I bid him a hasty goodnight and left his apartment, never to return.  When he called me a day or two later, I let him down easy.  We were still friendly for a while, but we eventually grew apart and I haven't heard from him in a long time.