According to his mum, when she had come home from work the next day, Megan had been delighted with the pictures and had shared them with all of her girl-friends who would be attending the party, showing off the “yummy boy” they would be enjoying. She had come home with a Thank You card for him from Janice and a tube of cream which he had thought at first was toothpaste but which, she had quickly explained, was hair removal cream. Janice had put his mum in contact with the caterers, the same ones that would be cooking Megan herself at the next party and it had been them who had recommended this particular cream and given the instructions for its use – He was to apply it to his pubic region, under-arms, legs and forearms five days before the party, and, the instructions said, to his chest if he hand any hair there but he did not, then for the two days prior to the party and on the morning itself, he was to use it all over once a day.

The first session he had managed on his own, feeling a little sad as the thin but dark body-hair he had been rather proud of growing seemed to melt away, but for applying it all over he had needed to enlist his mum’s help for parts that he could not reach himself. Although he had been expecting to go straight to the party on the big day and for all the preparation to take place in the garden, the caterers had told him mum to drop him off at their facility that morning for initial prep and that they would take him with them to the customer’s venue, along with their team and the relevant equipment.

So that was where Timothy currently found himself, sitting in the generic waiting room of an unassuming building on a local industrial estate. The room could have been in a doctor’s surgery, a mechanic’s garage or any office that received regular visitors. A TV mounted high in the corner was showing a news channel with the sound turned off and occasionally hilarious auto-generated subtitles, a few magazines not too woefully out of date were piled on a table beneath while two rows of chairs abutted either side, forming an equal-sided L shape. The view through the latticed blind over the window showed only the car-park and some other grey buildings and the only other things in the room were a water-cooler that gurgled occasionally and the reception desk where a young woman in the smart company uniform was sat, making occasional eye-contact with Timothy and giving him the apologetic smile that was universal code for “I know this is awkward but it won’t be too much longer.” Only the company logo on the back wall identified this room as what it was.

Once he had given the receptionist his details then filled in and returned the forms she gave him, there was really nothing else to do but wait to be called, with her assurances that he was all booked in and that someone from the field team, as she referred to them, would be along to collect him shortly.

Wishing he had brought his phone in with him to give him something to and had it returned to his mum later with his clothes rather letting her take it back with her in the car, Timothy thumbed through one of the magazines, finding it to be some kind of trade periodical with some interesting pictures of boys, girls and woman being cooked but otherwise rather dry, mostly filled with self-congratulatory articles about how well the industry was doing, discussions about changes to legislation that meant nothing to anyone outside the trade and adverts for equipment and other resources. Trying not to sigh with boredom, he dropped it back down on the table and rubbed his hands on his thighs.

Per instructions, he was dressed in loose-fitting clothes – a pair of draw-string tan linen trousers his mum had bought him for their holiday to Italy in the Summer, an untucked polo-shirt in pale mint green and sneakers with ankle socks. He was not wearing any underwear. The light cloth felt strange against his completely smooth, hairless skin but it was not an unpleasant sensation. He had read the experiences of other users on a forum for meat-girls and boys and it seemed to be a fairly universal observation that nobody notices the fine, downy hair all over their body until it is gone!

“Timothy Clayton?” A red-haired young woman of maybe twenty or twenty one in the same uniform as the receptionist opened the connecting door to the rest of the building holding a clipboard in one hand and a mug with the company logo on in the other. Timothy stood and gave her a wave of confirmation along with a polite smile. “Great! Sorry to have kept you waiting!” She approached him, juggling her mug, pen and clipboard around to free up her right hand to shake his. “I’m Mollie, I’m going to be in charge of your prep today. If you’d like to follow me?” Timothy shared a final smile with the receptionist and followed the pretty young worker into the main building.

To be continued...