Forget porn. Domesticity is hot. I found my husband this week on his hands and knees actually hoovering the floor. It was like a scene from ‘The Secretary’ but involving a Dyson. Watching him hoover the skirting boards without being prompted was possibly the most erotic thing I’ve ever seen. Before lock down I quite liked it when my husband lifted something really heavy. Or attempted to use a power tool. Now, there is nothing I want more than a man wearing an apron, bravely attacking the washing pile like a mother-fucking super-hero. If he goes as far as cleaning the inside of the oven I can’t promise I won’t pass out in a fit of passion.
The result of this situation has been the development of some sort of Pavlovian conditioning. My husband now associates domestic chores with sexual reward. Personally I’m fine with this. It means he’s doing a lot of housework. And right now I would do worse things if they simply resulted in someone else sorting out the laundry. Lockdown also means that the man is looking really good; He’s running a lot and all of the work calls from the garden have given him an impressive tan. Unfortunately for him I don’t look quite as appealing. My hair is unwashed and my current concept of dressing up involves digging out a different pair of pyjamas to put on. But it’s not as if the poor bloke has options.
The only other woman my husband gets to see is the female delivery driver who occasionally appears with the take-away. This woman is so ridiculously attractive she doesn’t even look real. Imagine if Pixar animated a porn star and you’ve got the idea. As a result the boys are ordering an awful lot of pizza. Usually a surly man on a scooter turns up but when they do win the lady-lottery everybody races to the door to glimpse some properly brushed hair and a set of impossibly long mascara-coated lashes. The woman has been elevated to legendary status in our house. She is like a mythical Unicorn with tits. I’m just grateful to be eating more pizza. On the sofa. In my pyjamas.
I’m pretty sure my Grandmother would be horrified at this domestic situation. Both my house and my personal appearance are currently less than impressive. Lockdown has highlighted that I’m not exactly a natural housewife. I’m fact I’m fucking appalling at it. The endless washing up makes me incomprehensibly angry and the idea of wearing anything other than an over-sized onesie for the benefit of my other-half is completely laughable.
In my defence, my Grandmother was doing this shit in the 50s. Back then women were expected to work as domestic slaves whilst maintaining tiny waists and ensuring that their lipstick didn’t smudge. But day-drinking copious amounts of Gin whilst chain-smoking cigarettes was also perfectly acceptable. Women were even encouraged to abandon their babies in the garden for at least four hours. That’s more time alone than I’ve had in two fucking months. Most importantly, no one expected a woman to do any of this mindless crap without a decent supply of prescription Valium. Right now I really fucking envy that entire generation’s valium haze.
Unfortunately the government haven’t sent out care-packages containing Valium. I really wish they would. Valium might actually be the solution that everybody needs in order to cope with lockdown.
Except for my husband and the rest of the boys in my house. Provided that mythical Unicorns keep on delivering them Pizza I think they’ll just about survive. Poor things.