Desperately Dirty Housewives...A Repost

*The following is a Re-Post-originally posted on The Daily Dandy on Friday, March 6th 2009. It was one of my favorites then and still is now.

I have led a sheltered, sheltered life. Now bear with me here for a moment and you will understand what I'm getting at.

I stopped by the local quick-mart yesterday to pick up some milk on my way home. The gas station/mini mart is located on the main thoroughfare, no more than .5 tenths of a mile from my street, smack dab in the middle of two affluent, suburban communities. I stop in there regularly; to get gas and last minute items and the staff and I are on a friendly, first name basis. We always take a few moments to chat about daily events, and often times they will share a story or two about what goes on in the quick-mart. Yesterday the story was focused on the amount of condoms that are sold in this particular store. The owner asserted that of the four mini marts he owns; this particular location, by far, out sells the others in condom purchases. He added that the purchases are made mostly by women-who appear to be just like me, apparently-and by that he meant your ordinary, every day mom.

Another staff member then proceeded to tell me about these same suburban women; the ones buying the condoms, propositioning him for a little discreet, extra-curricular activity,*wink, wink*. Now they had my attention. We then discussed it a little more. They said well dressed men in business suits also make numerous condom purchases and we all marveled over the frequency of this taking place in an affluent community such as ours. Who'd have thought? Interesting. Wealthy, successful business men and their lonely, neglected wives.

On my way home, armed with this new revelation, my mind went directly to a memory of a similar sort. About 5 years ago, I was waiting at home for a service man to come to turn on my irrigation system. This is a twice yearly appointment, and the homeowner must be present in order for the service tech to have access to the pump located in the basement. The company always give you a 3 hour window for the arrival of the tech. My window was from 9am to 12. I jumped into the shower sometime close to 9, and sure enough, I heard the doorbell just as I was getting out of the shower. I quickly threw on my bathrobe and slippers, wrapped a towel around my head, and rushed to the door.

I told the tech he was welcome to come in and go find the pump in the basement on his own, but that I would just need a few moments to get dressed before I could show him. The tech immediately put up his hand, beating a hasty retreat from the door and said, "I'll do what I need to do out here first. When you're dressed you can come and get me and I'll come in." OK, fine. I get dressed and go find the guy and walk him down to the basement to show him where the pump is. He then says to me, "I hope I didn't offend you by being short with you earlier. It's just that I have learned the hard way never to enter into a home when the lady of the house is dressed in a bathrobe."

Really. Forever the journalist, I pressed him for more information.

"You're kidding me, right?" I said.
"I wouldn't kid about that," he replied.
He proceeded to tell me the stories about how more often than not, the robe and the towel quickly drop to floor. He said he could write a book about the propositions he's received over the years and that despite his warnings, some of the younger guys he works with have actually messed up their relationships over their indulgence in this offer of an"afternoon delight". I was speechless.

Let me go on record here as being fully aware that this could take place anywhere in the US of A, and it is certainly not limited to affluent communities. I just need to wrap my brain around the fact that it actually does happen in real life and not just in Hollywood.
I have lived a sheltered life, for sure, because this stuff never ceases to perplex me. The service guy? The UPS man? The plumber? Not to imply that there is anything wrong with any of those professions. I just don't equate an afternoon quickie with my major kitchen appliance being returned to working order.
I just don't get it. And I'm glad I just don't get it.
Herein lies the point-these women "just aren't getting it" so they're getting it when ever and where ever they can, on the sly. The allure of the forbidden fruit.

This is just one woman's opinion is all, and to each his own, whatever floats your boat and every other seemingly appropriate cliche. I just think there needs to be some sort of connection, chemistry or history before engaging in the act. Call me old-fashioned, call me a prude even, all I'm saying is that I just think there are better ways to float that personal boat, if that's what you're looking for.
It certainly gives new meaning to the job title, service man.