Can we spare a moment for some brisk Realtalk that’s liable to send a certain contingent reaching for their smelling salts? Facials are hot. The giving of them, if you’re a man (or a man not named John Scalzi). The receiving of them, if you’re a woman (or a man named John Scalzi).
Check that, if you’re a certain kind of woman.
Depraved though facials may be, there’s no denying the act’s electrifying sexual charge. A facial is the Pollock splattered symbol of incontestable ownership by the man of his woman. It isn’t the Christian thing to do, but damn me if the devil’s bedroom blueprint isn’t a schematic leading straight to the jizz-soaked id.
The catch-22 is that the woman who will eagerly welcome into her face and upturned eyes the beatific brandishing of your white hot boner brew is not the woman you’d trust to leave alone for more than a week without a champion series labia lock set to impregnable.
It is the reality of woman: she who most excites your manly humors is she who least assures your manly honor.
My advice: If you love a woman, and you love the idea of giving her a facial, try it out. If she allows it, but only after expressing an initial and thereafter rolling reluctance, (i.e., she puts up some resistance and isn’t parting at the lips to try it again), she’s your long time gal instead of your good time gal.