THE SEX DIARIES: After a rejuvenation downstairs, foreplay went on for a deliciously long time. But did I enjoy the new sensations more than him?

Eliot and I had been together for a month and a half and I felt it was time to get a Brazilian wax.

He hadn’t yet turned away from me in disgust, but perhaps it was only a matter of time: he was 27 and probably not used to women in their natural state.

On the other hand, as a woman approaching 50 and a mother of three, my bikini line could be better off overgrown than overexposed. There is a thriving business in cosmetic vaginal rejuvenation for women my age, for good reason.

If he saw me down there naked as a mole rat, Eliot might turn to stone.

But from what I remember of the last time I had a Brazilian – which was in the early 2000s, during the first rush of my life with my husband – the pleasure during sex, both mine and his, was (almost) worth the pain.

I also remembered that it made me feel daring and secretly sexy on my way to the shops.

Fifty-something Annabel Bond (not her real name) treated her 27-year-old lover to a Brazilian cocktail, but would he be impressed?

So I went online to find a local salon and discovered a dizzying array of new choices.

There was the old-fashioned bikini wax (which only removes hair on the sides); the Hollywood wax (which removes hair all over); and the Brazilian wax, which leaves only a “landing strip” at the front.

But now I could also cast my runway in the shape of a postage stamp, a martini glass, a star or a Christmas tree.

I resolutely steered my mouse away from the Amazon Rainforest option — I was already growing that one — and booked a regular Brazilian with Karina. “With a big landing strip,” I told her, hopping up on the table, naked from the waist down.

Just like my midwife, who was working and pulled my leg to my ear and told me how brave I was, our physical intimacy soon turned into sharing about our lives.

“I’m still formally married, but I’m in a new relationship,” I told her.

“I’ll do a good job for you,” Karina said, frowning and smearing hot wax over a vast surface. “But do you regret leaving your husband?”

RRRRIIP!

“No!” I said loudly, screaming in shock as my hair was ripped from its roots.

Even with my legs spread out on the waxing table, sweat on my forehead, and a wax treatment that only unmarried people get, I have not regretted it for a moment.

Karina told me that she also considered leaving her husband, but she couldn’t find the courage. All I could tell her was that divorce isn’t good for everyone, but it was for me. And Eliot was my beautiful prize, after the long years of unhappiness.

There is a dizzying array of new choices available today, including the full Hollywood or ‘landing strip’ Brazilian variety that can be shaped into a star, martini glass or even a Christmas tree

At our next meeting in my brother’s vacant apartment, I made a big deal of the excitement Eliot would experience, dropping hints but not telling him the details. I was still shy around him; it was only the fourth time we had slept together.

I tried to keep my flabby neck and face out of the direct sun, but I was looking forward to the big reveal below. It felt naked and sexy under my clothes.

I expected a round of applause, or his jaw to drop in surprise and gratitude. But his handsome face showed only the usual excitement level, which, to be honest, was still high. I had been right; for him, waxing was the norm.

At the same time, Eliot was not repelled by the sight, for which I am eternally grateful. He took it all in his stride.

No pain no gain. But a professional wax can be worth it, says Annabel

The foreplay lasted a wonderfully long time. He was good with his hands, but I think I enjoyed the new sensations more than he did, which was exactly as it should be, since I was enduring the pain of the waxing.

There is a certain sensuality that comes with not having pubic hair. Even though millions of women wax regularly, for me it felt daring and fresh.

Maybe my marriage would have been a little better if a Brazilian had come over more often, but what mother of three small children would do that in her me-time?

“I wish I was older,” Eliot said afterward. I swallowed the thought that it was because, nakedly, we were a mismatch. I was so glad he was only 27.

“If I were older, I would take you with me,” he added.

“But you’re not, you’re young,” I said.

Suddenly I wasn’t so happy about his age. Eliot meant he was too young for me, in the nicest way possible. But I already knew that.

In the meantime, my smooth and clean nether regions awaited their next assignment – ​​if there was one.

Annabel Bond is a pseudonym. All names have been changed.