Let me tell you about a fantastic offering I have had hidden away on my website:
1950s Housewife Experience (HWE) . For the man who, after a hard day’s labor, wants nothing more than to come home to a home-cooked meal, a beautiful lady in her best back seam stockings and pearls, and perhaps a well-shaken martini.
I am happy to host this little getaway, for the man who prefers to play away from home. Give me at least four hours of your time, and I will take you on a most luxurious and dare I say deeply domestic journey.
We begin, obviously, with a welcome kiss at the door. I will take your hat and jacket, while you settle yourself on my couch with a drink in hand. Relax as I remove your shoes and administer a foot rub as I ask about your day. Dinner is smelling delightful, and we soon find ourselves at the table, witty banter, flirtatious looks, and a glass of wine as we enjoy a meal perfectly prepared.
After dinner, of course, comes dessert! We can undress each other, peeling layer after layer down, until I am down to my stockings and garter. Would you enjoy a sudsy couple’s shower so I can scrub and rub away the day’s labor? Or perhaps you would prefer to stretch out on my queen sized bed for a relaxing and arousing massage with hot oils? I can feed you strawberries and cream while you lay back in my arms, or perhaps I can become your dessert plate as you lick chocolate and honey from my supple breast and soft skin.
From there, satin sheets and fast-beating hearts do their duty and call us to more carnal desires… a lady never reveals all of her secrets…
What more could a busy man ask for than engaging conversation, a truly lovely dinner companion, and the luxury of being pampered like the king you are?
This offering isn’t for everyone, surely, but I do adore building a specific and intimate encounter that only you and I will share together. I am happy to converse at length about this particular offering, to tailor it just so to your exacting standards.
Those of you who follow me on the boards have probably come across my most recent ad, in which I showcase my newly coined offering The HouseWife Experience (HWE). Without becoming overly loquacious, which is my wont when I get truly excited, I have tried to evoke a very specific fantasy I’ve had the pleasure to meter out a few times before. It is the very discerning man that would request such a time-intensive play-acting scene, but it is a particular favorite of mine for a number of reasons.
First an foremost, it is ALWAYS a treat to be able to dress up in my flowing dresses, back seam stockings, garter, girdle, heels, and the rest to be admired for more than the span of the walk from the door to the bedroom. I can spend upwards of two hours on my “look”, given adequate motivation, and darn it if it isn’t a little discouraging when in the first ten minutes my lipstick is smeared and my hair pins have been tousled out of my hair. (Please don’t twist my meaning, sometimes that last image is exactly what I am wanting and going for. There IS a proper time and place for everything, even smeared lipstick!)
I think more generally, however, I just enjoy cooking for someone. I grew up in a household where home-cooked meals, while more common than most, was more of a statement of intent and love than just a vehicle to feed the lot of us. My father did all the cooking, and ever the showman he took great pride in not only concocting delicious dishes, but he painstakingly developed the ability to make everything look amazing as well. Asparagus spears laid out ramrod straight with artful drizzles of hollandaise sauce. Rack of lamb with hand-made crowns tufted in gold foil around the bones. Perfectly steamed carrots, bright orange, punctured with dots of clove and lemon zest. Presentation is part of the meal, I was raised to believe, and a truly appetizing plate not only smells and tastes delicious, it looks the part, too. It’s no fun to stir up a pot of soup for one, or to spend 30 minutes whipping red potatoes with cream, butter, chives and chicken broth just for little ol’ me. So I spend most nights with perfectly nourishing but boring food. Given the slightest provocation, however, and I can create pineapple upsidedown tarts with raspberries, swirled white chocolate mocha brownies, or lemon chicken linguine with pesto and broccoli. I cook with butter and salt, garlic and cream. I love mixing colors and textures in a pleasing fashion, but it only counts if it’s for someone else.
This idea started, like so many do, out of curious necessity I had a client who had just moved to this city, and was quite literally living (and eating) out of boxes. He confessed to me that though he knew how to use a stove and oven, he never learned how to cook for himself. His idea of a “home cooked meal” was popping something frozen in the broiler for two hours, not caring about the burnt edges or watery middle of those mass produced frozen monstrosities they sell in grocery stores. I offered to come over and make him something “simple”. He said his favorite meal his mother used to make him was meat loaf, so I came over with some ground pork, lamb and beef, some home made bread crumbs and about a pound of yukon gold potatoes and got to work.
I don’t need to tell you that his house lacked something fierce for spices, and I didn’t even think to bring my own. I made do with flaked black pepper, table salt, ketchup and brown sugar. With no chicken broth in sight, I suctioned off some of the resulting “loaf” drippings and used them to blend the potatoes into stiff peaks. Ketchup mixed with a slightly obscene amount of brown sugar created a sticky sweet glaze for the meat loaf. In two hours his house smelled like meat and sugar, not an unhappy aroma. He remarked on how famished he was, and how his house had never smelled so good.
That first dinner was a wake up call for me. Though the meal itself was quite plain by my standards, the client was satisfied down to his bones! In a way I’ve never fully appreciated until then, he became more comfortable in his skin, and more genuine in his desires. During the washing up he quipped that perhaps I should take off my pretty dress, in case I got soap on it. I stripped down and he stared in awe at my girdle attached to garter straps and stockings. He had no idea that I was vintage to my skin! I gave a show of sudsing up the plates and utensils, buffing and rubbing and honestly making an absolutely obscene spectacle of myself. After that it was just a matter of time before he whisked me away to the bedroom.
In the resulting shower, as I scrubbed his back clean of sweat and lust, he remarked on how I should come over again and do “that wife stuff” for him. I obliged, and for almost a year we had a weekly night where I would arrive close after he returned from work around 6pm, dinner at 7:15pm sharp, and after a snuggle and a movie (with wine and chocolate, naturally) I would “perform my marital duties” with a vigor that would make a real June Cleaver blush! A kiss goodnight at midnight and I would be off, and he would think on the next meal he would have with me.
Over that year I perfected my domestic skills. Laundry, ironing, the dreaded vaccuming and dusting. I learned how to hem slacks, sew buttons onto popped shirts, starch collars and tie ties. I learned how to polish shoes to a high shine, and found out just why copper bottomed pots are so superior to their counterparts. I learned how to be a perfect wife.
But just for a night. That’s where the fantasy lies, in that perfection. I would make a horrible “real” wife, you see. But I do so love playing the part, that I always look forward to those nights when the work load is tiring and the laundry is piling up, and my client needs his “little wifey” to materialize. June Cleaver, eat your heart out.