Meet the husband who thinks housework is erotic

When I turn around and bend over to throw some of Reservoir Mum’s desperately needed items of clothing into the drier I accidentally back up against the washing machine – which is spin-cycling to full affect – and the resultant pulse of pleasure not only commits me to the bent-over position for a further few minutes but also hurls my mind into the future towards Friday’s Date Night.

There’s the usual set-up; our spare mattress ‘Springy’ in the centre of the lounge room, the dull light, the scatter of takeaway containers and the empty bottle of wine, our Plasma playing some sweet romantic comedy as a build up to something a little more risqué and probably Russian. And centre stage to all this, for the final principal act, are the main players and their complete focus on each other – RM, the washing machine, and me… as a kind of double adapter.

I’m so totally hypnotised by the limb-entwining panorama of love, lust and white goods, and suffering such a rush from being able to pleasure two people at once – or one person and one household item – that I am reduced to the quivering embodiment of disappointment when the washing machine clicks off, shudders to silence, and releases my erogenous zones from its surprisingly skilled clutches.

If it wasn’t for four years of regular Friday Date Night shenanigans – the several hours of time we have blocked out for full focus on each other, no matter what other erotic encounters had been chanced upon during the week – I might be stuck here, unable to move, but my body has now been trained to a point of rabid expectation. Even though there is still twenty-four hours to go, it is already readying itself for the ultimate physical union with RM. My pupils have dilated, my breathing has become faster and shallower and my underarms are emitting pheromones so powerful they would cause a break-out of animals from the local Zoo, if I were to leave the house.

But while my body is transforming into an RM snare-trap, my mind and temperament are doing another thing altogether. Every housework related task is a Dragon I must slay to clear the path to the ‘Springy’ where she’ll be waiting, smiling, writhing away like a well-rubbed cat, fire smouldering behind her piercing glare to enhance her erotic control as her body communicates the unsaid, throw away your mop, your broom, and your battle-axe, dragon-slayer, and find a bucket of warm water to bathe my feet in.


It is this teeth-clenched doting dedication and wanton dragon-slaying intent for her that throws me into the housework for an hour and a half before I hear the front door open and the kids charging the hall, but by then our home is a crystal clean palace and the path to Date Night has been cleared.

Once the boys are snacked up and outside on the trampoline double-bouncing each other with the usual spinal-injuring, cranium-cracking intensity RM says, ‘The house looks clean,’ as she dips some cold roast chicken into a tub of Capsicum, Cashew and Basil dip and I have her in my arms before she can even bite down on it.

‘You looking forward to tomorrow night?’ I say, swaying our hips back and forth and then round in circles until she replies, ‘What? Camping inside with the boys?’

‘Oh… pissfuck,’ I say, as my pupils constrict, and my breathing stops, as my pheromones take their leave to make me reek of nothing but pure sweat.

Saturday morning, following last week’s date night, in that unreliable altered state of consciousness that exists twenty-four hours post orgasm, I promised the boys we’d camp in the lounge room, roast marshmallows on the gas stovetop, watch a movie and tell funny stories.

‘It was your idea,’ RM smiles, as she reaches around and shakes my glutes like they’re a pair of massive Maracas.

In the pit of me, right at my emotional centre, I have just slipped in the shower. I have two maybe three frantic attempts left to regain my balance before I crash to the recess and knock myself out. ‘I only scheduled it for Friday because we have your work Christmas Party on Saturday night. And Sunday night’s the start of my working week, I’ll be writing… how are we going to manage this?’

RM breathes in and says, ‘Quickie?’ while raising her eyebrows and pressing her lips together, completely transparent in her expectation of my response.


‘You know I hate quickies,’ I say, as I slip for the second time and get a sick feeling that my descent is inevitable. ‘You build the tension all week, planning, foreplaying, teasing, texting and then ffffft… it’s like a one hundred meter sprinter training for four years and then losing everything in ten seconds. I want a two and a half hour marathon.’

When RM winks and says, ‘Well, a marathoner runs alone, you know,’ my final attempt at regaining my footing results in a leg flying towards the sky and both arms reaching back to break my fall and as I almost resign myself to crashing to the tiled floor – a broken, wet pile of dissapointment – I admit to the erotic daydream I had while I was being frotted by the washing machine and go all puppy-eyed as I explain that there is just no conceivable way I could fly solo after imagining myself in a threesome.

She nods and smiles and then laughs a little before saying, ‘Well looks like we’re back to a sprint then.’

When we turn simultaneously to see that the kids are still totally immersed in trying to maim each other on the trampoline I somehow regain my emotional footing and think of how excited they were about inside-camping and so I recommit to them by way of self-sacrifice.

‘You smell like chicken,’ I whisper to RM, walking backwards towards the laundry. ‘And I like it…’

The clothes drier has made the air warm and the scented fabric softener has provided a flowery romantic edge. As I back up against the washing machine I draw RM inside by getting all George Clooney with my eyes.

‘Let’s go,’ I say, closing the door behind her. ‘I’ve got one more load to put on.’

Have you and your partner ever stolen some intimate time during regular household duties?