We Need a New Maid

I joked in a post last week about how my husband asked if I was planning on wearing a french maid outfit to do some cleaning. Here is the thing about that, the french maid thing is so my fantasy. Well, not exactly a fantasy as I like the little skirt of the dress and I think it would be a cute role playing scenario. You know sassy french maid spanked by the rich lord of the manor? Except, we don't role play, but I bought the costume on sale online, so I break it out every so often.

Anyway. It was a sunny, gorgeous Saturday afternoon. We had the windows open. We were sitting on opposite couches relaxing. That's when Mr. McKay brought up the french maid thing. I jump at any chance to wear it, so it really didn't bother me that it was the middle of the day. It didn't bother me until I realized we could still hear all the neighborhood kids even with the windows closed. The sexy afternoon of kinky sex and parading around in a french maid outfit was accelerated and turned into some fingering on the couch followed by a blow job. It was quick and dirty, nothing out of the ordinary, but it was still fun.

The thing I took away from it though was my silly husband was honestly trying to get me to clean. He was kind of teasing me, but I feel like when you know someone well enough you can tell when the teasing has a hint of truth behind it. I begrudgingly got out the Pledge and dusted one of the end tables, really just so I could shake my ass in his general direction and he seemed visibly disappointed that I stopped there. But really? My idea of foreplay does not include cleaning the house.

Last night, a mundane weeknight, we had eaten dinner and were relaxing in the living room. I went in the kitchen to get a drink and realized there were some leftovers that needed to get tossed. Then I noticed something had spilled in the back of the fridge. This snowballed until I had the entire contents of the refrigerator strewn around the counters and I was on my hands and knees scrubbing some kind of petrified, sticky substance stuck to the bottom of the refrigerator.

45 minutes later and a request for a blow torch, I am a sticky mess. Somehow having gotten the mystery substance on my arms- I am hunched over, kneeling in yoga pants and a ratty t-shirt. I'm using a Brillo pad, bleach spray, some kind of stuff I found under the sink that smells like paint thinner, and my hands and fingers are throbbing, but I am almost done!

Mr. McKay comes back into the kitchen (he had been visiting occasionally to ferry things out to the dumpster, pop the kitchen window open so I didn't kill us all with the fumes, and just to give his general moral support) I hear him sit down in a chair behind me. A few minutes pass and he says, "I'm just going to sit here and stare at your ass."

As I am furiously scrubbing, my ass is wiggling around, so I am sure it was quite the view. But again, covered in random stickiness, I am not feeling super sexy. I roll my eyes at him and try to think of something witty to say, "Well my hands are throbbing, so no hand job for you." (Not my best retort, but it was late, don't judge me.)

He smiles at me and says, "Nothing's wrong with your mouth, right?"

It was a 50/50 split between laughing or throwing a disgusting Brillo pad at him. But damn if that didn't turn me on. If this were one of my books we would have banged right there on the kitchen floor. It is not a book though, and my kitchen floor is gross. Also, I was in need of a shower, and bleach- not the sexiest smell.

The thing I find funny from all of this is- my husband clearly finds it sexy when I clean. Which is weird, because I am not much of a housekeeper. Neither of us are. He says we are "messy creative types" and I am not lying when I say we have a tendency to lose things after we clean. If it is out I know where it is, lord knows where things disappear to after they have been squirreled away.

I am thinking if I want to get some this weekend I will have to organize a closet or something.

All this time I was thinking I was the one with the sexy housewife fantasy. My friend Claire Colingsgrove has a wonderful blog that caters to this fantasy. You know, cute little apron, some heels, nothing on underneath. The house is sparkling clean. I get spanked and fucked for all my hard work. Only, I don't really want to put in all that hard work...

I think Mr. McKay really does have this housewife fantasy, only he doesn't care so much about the clothes as he seemed to want to jump me in my yoga pants and sloppy t-shirt last night. Maybe he would settle for a writer wife who sells enough books to hire a maid?

We all gotta have goals!