Last week I told the story of how I was straight-shamed by a gay bully at Trader Joe’s . You should read that before you go any further because it paints a nice portrait of Chelsea, my new neighborhood in Manhattan that is mouth-wateringly gay. I’ve been exploring Chelsea each week with a growing sense of courage, and last night I decided to dive face-first into the frothy, spermy waters of a Chelsea lifestyle. I got a facial.

Before your mind is lost to the gutter, I will clarify–my forehead did not serve as target practice for some stately bear’s protein pudding. Many years ago, we men invented a myth that our seed does wonders for one’s skin. But I’ve pitched that fairytale too many times to take the bait myself. Have I considered taking one on the chin as a way of becoming “one of the guys” down at Gym? Surely. But last night, I was on a mission to open pores, not backdoors.

I left my apartment and quickly found what I was looking for: a dingy, unmarked 2nd-floor salon whose existence was marked by a sad neon sign full of unlit letters, like the lost teeth of a female car mechanic. “Wa ing, E ebr w Threa ing, Faci ls” it stammered, as though ashamed of its unprofitability. But who am I to judge? I’ve never had a facial before. To my knowledge, you want the shittiest place on the block because, when even the sanitation board is too afraid to check in, you know they’ll dig a little deeper. I rang the buzzer and was reminded of Teddy KGB’s poker lair in Rounders. An old Russian man wearing a messenger cap slid open an eye-hole door. “Password,” he demanded. I lifted my shirt to expose my breasts, an homage to Reality Kings’ Cumfiesta series. The door swung open and up I went.

Upstairs, women of all races were either waiting for their turn or sitting in chairs, enduring different facial treatments. I had never seen an eyebrow threading before, and it spooked me. Before last night, I had thought that eyebrow threading was a process where women have eyebrows sewn into their skin with thread that looks like hair. Many women cannot grow eyebrow hair with the type of volume and thickness they desire, so artificial supplements are called upon. Personally, I’m a big fan of some thick, unruly forehead caterpillars. If she looks like Eugene Levy, consider me boned up.

But as it turns out, eyebrow threading is a far less surgical process. It’s simply a fancy process of eyebrow plucking. Basically, the beautician holds one end of the string in her mouth and the other in her hand and flosses the subject’s face. She does this by jerking her neck backward and plucking stray eyebrow hairs with the precision of a drone-bombing technician. It looks, for all the world, like a mother bird regurgitating a meal into the face of her offspring.

As Donnie would say… whoa, that’s weird.

As I waited, I perused the menu of treatments to learn more about what I was becoming. It made no sense to me. There were waxes, pluckings, treatments, facials, grinds, exfoliations, and even facial bleaching. Now, I’m all for a nicely gentrified 2-hole. But to a redhead, the concept of bleaching one’s face seemed impossibly counterproductive. I’ve spent my entire life trying to tone down my whiteness, with little success. In 7th grade, I bought a pair of Fubu shoes; the next day, a group of black kids told me I looked like Ralph Nader’s son. In 9th grade, I started talking like Snoop Dogg and incorporating “izzle” into my lexicon whenever possible; that same year, the seniors shoved a twizzler up my ass and yelled “fo’ shizzle my twizzle” when they passed. Suffice it to say my romantic prospects fizzled, my dizzle. The point is, the idea that people pay money to appear like they’ve been floating face-down under a dock all week made no sense. But I wasn’t there to question; I was there to learn.

Finally, it was my turn. My beautician, Vani, motioned me to her chair. It felt not unlike a barber summoning me to his station for a manly chop, if my barber were an Indian woman and if my manly chop made me worry my areolas were too large. I flopped into the chair and attempted to telescope my spine as I was much too large for the setup. Vani started asking me questions.

“Is this your first facial?” she asked.

“Yes,” I whispered.

“What brought you in?”

“A desire for acceptance within the gay community.”

“Oh. I meant… did you find us on Google?”

“Saw the sign.”

“Great.”

We were off to a rocky start. I’d shown my hand, but luckily Vani was already prepping her materials. She massaged some sort of oil into my face and chided me for not shaving beforehand. Her fingers felt like little puppy paws crawling happily over my nose and eyes. I was in heaven, until she brought out the metal tools. And that’s when everything went to shit. She started pinching my nose and cheeks with what I can only describe as the Devil’s fingernails. Tears streamed from my eyes as I tried to control my breathing. Vani, as it turns out, is a heartless witch doctor.

“Oh look, you’re crying!” she scoffed.

“I’m NOT CRYING! IT’S AN INVOLUNTARY REACTION,” I managed with a quivering voice.

The squeezing went on for 5 minutes but it felt like an hour. She kept showing me shit that was coming out of my face. I hate to be gross but I had no idea I had a miniature colony of oil drillers living in my cheeks. Vani is clearly one of those people who gets off to popping the pimples of pupils. For my part, I find it disgusting.

After that, it was on to some sort of cucumber cream. That was the best part. It cooled my face like a snowmobile ride. There were so many scents and sensations that I found myself transported to a secret garden filled with butterflies, rabbits, and centaurs playing lyres. We chewed on dandelion stems and whispered to the trees while hooved beasts clomped about, proffering eucalyptus towels and Brokeback Mountain commemorative blu-rays. I looked down and my penis had sprouted tiny wings and was hovering over a hummingbird feeder. It was heaven.

Sadly, Vani brought me back to reality with a few wet slaps about the face. “Time’s up, come back for the diamond facial next time.” Clearly, my choice of the micro-facial had made her think I’m poor. I don’t know what the diamond facial entails, but it sounds elite. I gathered my belongings, paid in cash because everything about this place is off the record, and stepped back into my new world.

Except now, my face was a blank slate of nubile skin ready to take on whatever Chelsea could throw, or squirt, my way.