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Manual Labour

I ask the question without shame; do we really keep men around just for nailing and screwing?

You may think me forward for suggesting such a thing, but here I sit in a gorgeous condo and not a stitch of it has been constructed by my well manicured hands. The tiling, the painting, the hanging of pictures, the putting together of furniture (oh how I hate the term assembly required), all of these projects have been crafted by boys. Their large calloused paws have touched every inch of my inner walls and felt the plush pile of my carpet. Talk about job satisfaction.

When I make a large purchase I admit it creates a great amount of gleeful anticipation, for with each new purchase comes a surplus of delivery boys. I make sure to be freshly combed and polished for their arrival because you simply never know who’s going to be on the other side of the door holding your bed. 

Upon arrival it’s nice to welcome the hired hands to a delectable nutritious snack. After all, I wouldn’t want them getting exhausted right in the middle of their task and leaving me unsatisfied. Fluids and snacks are a must if you want to keep the boys coming back for more, and I make sure to have plenty of both at the ready. I’ll share a little secret with you; I’ve been known to present a very desirable appetizer platter. It actually should come with a warning: may induce cravings. There’s something about sucking the sweet juices out of a ripe passion fruit that does something to awaken the inner devil in even the meekest of boys. I make sure to have plenty of passion on the platter. 

To satisfy my own cravings I work them hard. The poor boys (for I do like them to come in pairs) don’t know what’s hit them until it’s too late. By the time they realize what they’ve gotten themselves into they’re too sweaty and exhausted to put up a fight—thank god. Their tight white t-shirts, transparent with sweat, cling to their well defined pecs. I do so enjoy how the shirts wrap tautly around their wide shoulders and nips in at their slim waists. There’s something visually and aromatically delightful about sweaty boys wearing tight T’s that makes me anxious to find them something else to nail for me. What can I say; I'm addicted to their pheromones.

Considering the above description there’s really no reason to ask why I haven’t learned to fire a nail gun or stroke a paint brush. I’ve become addicted to the thrill of the kill. Boys are simply too delicious, and watching them work with their hands is too damn exciting; plus Jimmy Choo doesn’t make a work boot and MAC hasn’t created a shade of lipstick called Nailer yet. 

I ask you this, with an ample cup size and a coy batting of the eyelashes is there any need to be self-sufficient? I’m surrounded by very capable women, (and I think myself one of them), who choose to use their powers of seduction, rather than their muscles, to get the job done. But is relying on one's assets a cop-out or are women merely saying no to ‘womanual labour’ to make boys feel important? Every household chore ranging from nailing, screwing, caulking, or hammering can be satisfied with a flash of cleavage. So why not just put on a push-up bra, a low cut top and sit back and relax? The boys are at your service.

My oh my, everything pertaining to manual labour sounds so suggestive; it could make a girl hot with desire. Hmmm, I wonder if I need to call someone in to check my central heating?

But still, I can’t help but wonder, should a woman become better friends with her own dexterous nature and learn to screw herself? With some harmless trial and error I bet every capable woman could learn to fill a hole or drill to satisfaction. But would the pleasure be the same? And what about the pheromones?

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