It’s
easy to feel a little lost when you suddenly realize you’ve finished eating one
of the major slices of the pie chart that is your life. It was only natural for
me to panic over that big, empty quadrant of pie plate. I didn’t really want
another infuriating job though. That would be like trying to replace apple,
which I sort of like, with pumpkin, which I think is gross, when what I really
wanted was more like chocolate cake. (My home life is blueberry, in case you’re
wondering. It’s dark and sweet and messy and a little tart and overall really,
really sticky and delicious.) So here I was, casting around for some decadent,
dense, dark chocolate mocha fudge cake with Kahlua drizzlings, and I didn’t
even notice that the place on the plate where my job had been was getting less
and less empty.
I
was spending my hours moving between small tasks that I had found a way of
making my own. I went to the gym and did despicable things to myself in the steam
room and the shower and ogled beautiful women in the locker room. I ran errands
with my fingers in my pussy at every opportunity. I folded laundry wearing ben
wa balls. I went to the grocery store with toys in my ass and made casual
conversation with the checkout girls. I sent dirty pictures to my husband at
work and I practiced deep throating his cock in the evening. I discovered in my
love of exhibitionism that I could go naked into the back yard and listen to my
neighbors and people walking by on the other side of the fence, while I fucked
myself in the ass or wet my panties not ten feet away from them. My husband was
rewarding me with cigarettes I earned by doing nastier and more obvious
activities for my imaginary outside audience. He also put me into challenging
situations like removing my panties and covering my pussy with lube, while
riding with a car service, or taking my favorite pink toy out to dinner. In the
mean time I was casually revising the last ten years of poetry, and not feeling
pressured to keep from slacking off about it, because all the anal sex and blow
jobs and erotic assignments – oh, and don’t forget the laundry – were keeping
me well occupied.
Mentally, I was still looking for a
big chocolate cake, but in reality, I had something far better. Do you see it?
It’s a red velvet cupcake over here, a dark chocolate brownie over there, a
gooey caramel in the corner, flanked by two mocha truffles, and a scoop of
raspberry sorbet. What’s more decadent than that? There is always laundry in the
life of a housewife, but those bon bons turn out to be less of a myth than they
are a metaphor.
(Sometimes your own expectations need to fuck off along with everyone else's.)
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