The pie, the orgasm and the women

The pie, the orgasm and the women A couple of days after New Years’, talking to my boyfriend on the phone, I had the revelation of a lifetime. I knew this New Year would be a spiritual one, I just didn’t know it would happen so fast. He was just telling me about his dinner - just some leftovers from lunch. A lunch his mum had cooked. Like she always does for the family. Plus the pie. What pie I asked. Don’t know, he says, slightly jaded, it was good though. Maybe cherries. Maybe plums. Don’t know. My God, I thought. I have been living on my own for three years now, had just enjoyed a cold meal (after a hot dinner I cooked an hour ago, I got hungry again. I had two dinners, so what, I’m still young enough not to get a tummy because of it). And I knew what I ate. I knew the exact ingredients. They (read the pronoun as ‘men’. I refuse to call a 26-year-old a ‘boy’, although in Italy that might just be the case) get it so easy. No wonder they refuse to leave mummy or if they do leave the house, they leave for another mummy with or without a ceremony in church who has an extra: dinner plus blow jobs. Home for them is like a free hotel. You get your dinners cooked, your laundry washed and your shirts ironed. And in this age of technology, they don’t even have the excuse they can fix or change the light bulb. Trust me they can’t. I can. They can set up an internet connection. Does that count? Who or what can top that hotel-like paradise? Oh wait, I already answered that a few lines ago… Since I wasn’t planning to end up like Mum2, Improved Version 1.2, I contemplated the prospect of ending up alone and with a cat. I wasn’t scared, just wondered if I could get a fluffy cat, at least those don’t smell and don’t need a litter box. But maybe even more upsetting were two other thoughts. First, women don’t seem to bother. I talked to my flat mate about it, right after the upsetting pie conversation and she just shrugged her shoulders in ‘this is life for us, we are not gonna let those poor little things starve without our cooking’. That reaction took me back first to the Midlle Ages and then to the New Years’ party. Then, I had expressed my view on not wanting kids to an appalled audience. You woman, they seemed to say. You have uterus so please give up your existence and career and life for our species and a lower pension. Because you are born with the right tools for it. I saw that so often on Animal Planet: the hyenas tearing up the ever so slightly different. The people at the party listened to my anti-feeling-the-need for a kid speech with horror. They were frightened just as the priests were during the Inquisition of women with cats (too bad those poor souls didn’t have a fluffy back then). Then fear grew into the angry mob, or the hyena pack if you prefer the Animal Planet metaphor. Started tearing me apart, before during and after the party. I express my views with too much passion. I am too precise, too keen on the details (do’h… of course I am, I can even remember what ingredients I have for dinner). Etc… So this is it. I will enjoy sex with men. Sex is good for my skin. Playing the maid outside the bedroom noooo. Do men even start to guess how unsexy they are, at least for me whilst doing the baby thing ‘please be my mummy and take care of me because I’m helpless’? I mean, for me a sexy man is a man who can give a good massage and a good orgasm. Who can cook. And change that darn light bulb. While you’re at it, do my sink too, it’s stuck. Wait, I can do the bulb. I care about that fairness and equality crap. You take care of the sink. And since I do care, I did go to shop for breakfast a few days ago. It happened to be the busiest morning in that supermarket and when I got home after 30 minutes of queue and arguing with little old ladies, please have the decency to have the bed made, the room tidied and the cutlery ready for breakfast. If I moved my royal ass and waited so much in a queue the least you can do is get everything ready when I do come back. Second… nothing ain’t gonna change if women don’t change. I have learned some things from all the feminist literature I’ve been reading. For one, there will always be women like me, expressing what they think and feel. Wanting for brothels to be legalized all over the world. Be clear and precise. Wanting orgasms and tidy rooms. Women who feel it’s sexy to have an independent man who they can rely on. And also one who is not a jerk and knows how to be sensitive too. And maybe women like me, if they’re lucky, come across the right man, who is both skilled in cooking and in being open and fair. Most of us don’t meet him ever, that’s why I built in the cat mechanism. And then, you get the women who feel the need to continue this wonderful species. Good for them. Who want to stay at home and create a family. But ladies, please don’t become mothers. Don’t build your self esteem on how much men need your laundry. That’s just sad. And embarrassing for the rest of us.