April 26, 2013 by E.
Last night, I came home to find this note on the counter:
For those of you who aren’t as adept at deciphering the “A. scrawl” as I am, the note details the long list of housework he accomplished that day. Due to a cancelled conference, A. spent yesterday working from home. When he finished all his client-related deliverables, instead of using the rest of the afternoon to eat ice cream on the couch and catch up on Duck Dynasty episodes (which, undoubtedly, is how I would have occupied the time), he essentially scrubbed our entire apartment.
Dishes, done. Even the pot I used to make my breakfast, with caked on oatmeal because I didn’t add quite enough almond milk.
Bathroom, sanitized. Even the tub and toilet, which now smell like Fresh Evergreen and sparkle like rhinestones.
Kitchen floors, clean enough to eat off. (Although let’s be honest, I’d never do this because no amount of scientific research can assure me of the validity of the “five-second rule” – unless I drop something I really want to eat.). But nevertheless, they were spotless.
Laundry, folded. Even my underwear. Yes, I fold my underwear. We’ve already covered the extent of my OCD tendencies. Let’s all agree to accept it and move on.
A. did all of these things, without any help or suggestions from me. He did them not because he had to, and not because he wanted to, but because he loves me. Because he knows me better than almost anyone else and knows how much I appreciate a clean house.
Similarity, I know how much he appreciates a good blow job from his lingerie-clad fiancé.
Which brings me to the second part of the title.
It’s important. A. still remembers the first lacy, white, baby doll style nighty I wore for him two years ago. Considering this is a man who forgets where he puts his house keys, loses hundreds of dollars in cash, and occasionally wears his boxers inside-out, I’m claiming lingerie, for the win.
The right kind of lingerie, at least for me, is soft enough to sleep in, yet naughty enough for sex. It’s tremendously flattering, and perfect for donning after a dinner date where I may have eaten a little too much but am still feeling frisky. It provides a huge confidence boost, kind of like those sky-high pumps in my closet that I never wear unless A. promises we can cab there and back and the restaurant is situated less than 15 steps from the curb. According to A., “no matter what you do, sex with lingerie is better than sex without”, (although pretty much any sex is good sex).
To sum it up, the sexiest man is a man who cares for you. If he’s willing to scrub a dirty toilet to make you happy, he’s probably a keeper. And you should probably give him some lovin’ in return.