I
used to fool myself into believing I was non-judgmental. I had to face reality
when I realized that if I wasn’t judging other people, there was no way I’d be
so preoccupied with worrying that other people were judging me. But it’s still
one of those things that doesn’t fix itself when you realize you’re the
problem. I DID judge housewives & stay at home moms (don’t even get me
started on homeschoolers), and now that I was one of them I had to judge myself.
I sneaked around my errands feeling like I should be wearing dark glasses, but
you can’t take your car to the shop at 11am on a Tuesday and wait around for it
to be done, incognito. It’s no secret in the midday grocery checkout line that
you have no job. And every person you have to engage with on those and every
other errand, is at work. I felt like
I was flaunting my good fortune in people’s faces, but I couldn’t stop doing
errands. The fact that I was unemployed had to pay off in the time I could now
spend with my husband, since I didn’t have to do all my running around after
work and on weekends. Yes, I could do the inside chores without being seen, and
in fact I needed to, because one of the things we had to cut out of the budget
so I could quit was having someone in to do the cleaning twice a month. Which
we needed. Because I am a fucking slob. But there’s a problem with that plan
too; did you spot it yet? I had to do the cleaning. I am a fucking slob. I’m as
shitty a cook as I am a maid, but even I can see that that’s a recipe for
failure right there.
Inside
chores are especially hard because they are so fucking stupid. You start with
visions of sitting naked on the dryer and reading porn all afternoon while it
rumbles and spins, but it doesn’t turn out that way. Housework is endless.
There is no inside chore that is complete once you’ve done it, because the
reason they exist is that people live inside & make a mess. The first thing
that happens when you finally have all the clean dishes put away is that you
eat or drink something and make a new dirty dish. Do you know that you can
actually work up a sweat, doing laundry? (Not that way – I told you that turned
out to be a myth, like eating bon bons & watching soap operas.) Right, so
once it’s finished, the next thing is to take a shower, and just before you do
that? That’s right, you strip naked and throw your laundry-doing clothes in the
hamper. I once heard someone describe the futility of bed making as equivalent
to tying your shoes after you take them off. Nothing was ever so pointless and
stupid and still necessary as housework. Finally, I found that I could pick a
spot – not a room, just an area – and clean that, without wanting to kill
myself. If I picked a different area every day, the house stayed livable and I
could focus on the outside chores which I had found a way to handle…
I’m
pretty sure it started when I got a gym membership (that’s one of the things
housewives do, while their husbands are at work). There’s a steam room at the
gym, and those are always sexy to me. I brought it up to my husband, because we
have the masturbation photo rule, but you can’t exactly take your camera phone
into the steam room. He came up with a new game, whereby he told me exactly
what I could and could not do – or rather had
to and could not do, in the steam room. Whether or not someone else was in
there at the time was the luck of the draw, I had to find a way. This is a game
that I still love. It started with absolute terror underscoring all my sexual
tension, at the idea that someone else might be in the steam room while I was
tasked with some way of bringing myself to orgasm. Then to my great
astonishment, I found that I was disappointed instead of relieved, when there
wasn’t. I began to schedule my trips into the steam room to increase the
probability of having company, and discovered the pride that comes from having
succeeded, and the liberating DGAF that overwhelms me when I’m right in the
middle of it and really might get caught. It’s the active prioritization of
completing the task my husband assigned me, over giving the slightest shit
about what some other steam bather thinks of me. I could get banned from the
gym or arrested for indecent exposure and in those moments I couldn’t possibly
care less. It would be worth it. Do you see where I’m going with this?
Semi-public masturbation cancels out my fear of judgment! What’s that beer
commercial where they say “Here we go…”?
So
of course part of all the fun of this is relating every minute detail to my
husband, who is adequately enough amused to proceed with assigning me more (and
more difficult) tasks. In the parking lot at the dry cleaners there is no
judgment I fear from some SUV driving manicure-getter, when I’m mentally daring
her to notice what I’m doing down here next to her, in my little Mini Cooper.
The grocery store checkout is a breeze, when you just got off in a bathroom
stall with a “Please excuse our appearance while we remodel” sign on the door.
One of my favorites was having to finish my Target shopping after taking a
picture of myself with my fingers in my pussy, under the security camera in the
mirror of the men’s department. Terrifying. I would have cum so hard after
that, if it had been part of my homework. One time I had a series assigned: I
had to bring myself to orgasm within six minutes of the hour, three hours in a
row, in three different locations. That was a fun day; I got a lot of errands
done.
It
translates, too. When the submissive quality of my nature gets on a roll like
this, I can think of an inside chore as just another assignment, with my
husband’s arrival home as its time limit. My house is never going to look like
June Cleaver’s, but I happily make the bed every fucking day.
(A song for running wicked little errands...)
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