Chapter 1: Foreplay
He walked in wearing a Pampered Chef apron over his Levi 550’s for Men carrying a toilet brush and slinging a spray bottle of Clorox from his belt loop. It was all I could do not to swoon like a virginal debutante in heat. Look at him, his domestic, yellow rubber gloves bruised with the scars of doing battle with the toilet my teenage sons have used and abused since 1995.
My loins swelled with the heat of passion as he waved the toilet brush to punctuate his lyrical prose:
“I’ve finished cleaning both bathrooms,” he said pointing the grimy brush toward the hall. “We could use some more PineSol the next time you’re at the store. One more bean burrito consumed by our son and that bottle is history.”
Be still my heart.
Chapter 2: Unloading Passion One Spatula at a Time
He then proceeded to the kitchen where he began unloading the dishwasher. Miraculously he put away plates and cups with the confidence of a man who had actually listened the first 200 hundred times I had told him where everything went. He even knew what to do with the lemon zester, which was uncanny since we hardly ever use the damn thing. Mainly because it comes and goes, disappearing for years at a time due to the fact that I’m the only one in this house who ever puts it back where it belongs.
But not this time. He knew. With all his domestic heart, he knew.
Suddenly, he carefully uncradled a cracked glass from the top shelf of the dishwasher, as if he were tenderly holding a baby bird with a broken wing.
“Well, would you look at this. If those boys don’t start loading the dishwasher properly soon, we’re going to be out of drinking glasses by Easter.”
My breath quickened as I felt my feminine flower bloom with the moisture of love. Who was this man, that until this moment I never knew? And how did he get into my house? Fueled by the smoldering, hot repression of a thousand June Cleavers about to break free of those pearls and pin curls, I knew I had to take him soon…But not until he was done unloading the dishwasher.
Chapter 3: Domestic Heat Rises
“You know I was thinking,” he began, his words dripping with sexual innuendo. He separated the big forks from the little ones in the utensil tray, and I had to fan myself with a dish towel. “Both kids have practice tonight. Why don’t I get Chinese take-out on my way home from picking them up. That way you can relax with a glass of wine before dinner while you watch the news.”
Holy sweet mother of Jesus on a Ritz cracker! That’s it. I’m only human. I grabbed him by the front ruffle of his apron and pulled him down on me. We cascaded onto the kitchen counter in a domestic explosion of kissing and caressing. Lips and hands and arms and legs flailed everywhere, like an erotic tangle of those pesky extension cords that fill our many junk drawers.
And then suddenly he stopped.
“Wait!” he commanded, as if to tease my senses even further. He pointed to a little puddle of milk left on the kitchen counter by one of the kid’s breakfast cereal bowls. I was about to roll over on it. “Let me get that for you,” he said tenderly, reaching for the dishrag. “So you don’t ruin your blouse.”
I couldn’t hold back any longer. My body abruptly shuddered with the same steamy, primal desire that has defined the true sensuality of women since time began. Church bells chimed with lusty glory. Train engines collided head on in a plume of fiery smoke and then got up and danced the Rumba. (Wait, what?) Angels sang, but curiously they sounded a lot like Frankie Goes to Hollywood doing a gospel version of the 80s tune Relax. And I’m not sure, but I think I saw God. By the way, he looks like George Clooney working out shirtless on an Ab Buster.
I suddenly bolted upright in bed, chest heaving as if I’d just run a marathon. I looked around, confused. But then reality slowly started to sink in. Still alone. Still divorced. Still a single mom.
And that damn dishwasher was still taunting me from the kitchen, waiting to be unloaded. Cracked glasses and all.
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This fantasy was inspired by the humorous (but insanely true) essay Confessions of a Domestic Gigolo by Patrick Wensink, as featured in the February 14, 2013, New York Times Adventures in Parenting section.
Gentleman readers, please take note.
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Stacy Dymalski is the host of the hilarious TV talk show “Mother Bloggers” on FirstRun.tv. She’s also an award winning keynote speaker and stand-up comic who gave up the glamorous life of coach travel, smokey comedy clubs, and heckling drunks for the glamourous life of raising kids (who happen to be bigger hecklers than the drunks). This blog is her new stage.
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