My wife, Jenny, quickly found employment after we moved to Canada but I, well, folk here are taking time to realize they have a winner in me. You know how dimwitted HR personnel can be. They haven’t noticed the lapis philosophurum under the scraggly beard and the bald graying head. Sorry I break into Latin often. Hard not to be so enlightened. My mother used to say I never needed a table lamp ta do my homework as a kid. But enough about me now.
Distinguished looks, intellect, verve, dash, pep, zip, zeal, zing, pluck and anything else that rhymes with pluck, actually Canadian employers saw all these in me. Human Resources departments all over Canada started hiring extra personnel just to be able to figure out how they could fit me in. They’d need extra counselors to counsel sulking execs who’d get passed over. They’d have to remove all sharp objects, ropes, table cloths, curtains, etc, so none of the secretaries could kill themselves over me.
Fresh graduates who’d topped their batch at Harvard and Yale were hired to work on nothing but my designation… What would the gold-plated plaque on my door read? Employee Emeritus? Buck Stopper? Ass Kicker? Mucho Honcho Dude? Pretty chartered accountants in short skirts made power point presentations projecting profit and loss graphs on whiteboards that were real narrow but reached up from the floor to the ceiling. How else could they project the windfall profits after I was hired?
I soon had to employ a bouncer to hold prospective employers in single file, outside our roach-ridden tenement block, while they filled out the necessary forms to be able to register to employ me. I even had an ex-Mukhabarat prison guard who just loved pulling out teeth and fingernails of CEOs who tried to jump the queue. If you come across any Canadian CEOs with testicles that have cigarette burns, the bastard was in my waiting line.
In paras 1, 2, 3 and 4, I was kidding. This is my blog and I’ll kid whenever I want ta. I might kid in the following paragraphs too.
I am a Stay-at-Home Dad, a kind of guy commonly known as an SAHD. I won’t pretend that I was always cool with being one from the word go. From bread winner to homemaker was huge, not that I’m a very ambitious career-minded kind of chap. Deep down, an Indian male is patriarchal, or at least I definitely used to be. Until something wonderful happened to us.
It took a couple of months for me and our 1yr old tot, Andy, to transition from always thinking ‘What would Jenny/Mommy have done’ in every situation, to doing what was right for me and the little guy. And then, he was at an age when he took frequent napped through the day, so I had a lot of free time to myself. When Andy grew older, I’d have to think of interesting activities to fill his time, but for now he was fine being cuddled and rocked and fed and taken to the park on the stroller and coming home and watching Blue’s Clues.
One thing. Jenny has noted that Andy comes to me instead of her when he needs something or has a nightmare or is upset. She has taken it in her stride and shows no resentment whatsoever about that. Jenny is an essentially strong and content woman and doesn’t let things like this get to her.
Earlier, as I watched Jenny get smartly dressed every morning and reel out all the things I had to do for the day, I would bristle at the thought of all those smartly dressed buttheads who would be ogling her at work, even deliberately brush past her, chat her up at the water fountain and go sit next to her at the lunch table. And that moronic lech of a boss of hers is a piece of work, he is. Jenny once told me all about how, when she had just been recruited, he’d call her in at the slightest pretext and run his eyes hungrily over her.
But while the above really burnt me up and still makes me feel like marching into her office one day and blasting every male with a twelve bore, it did great things to our sex life, I can tell you. Jenny was the one who started it.
One night after Andy was with the birds, she snuggled up to me on the sofa and whispered,” Wait, let me get into something more comfortable.” When she reappeared, she was in her office pantsuit and pumps with really high heels. Her hair was bunched up in a bun, held together with a single heart shaped pin, her shirt top open, just wide enough to reveal her Valley of Elah. My eyes were like saucers.
Jenny walked over to the computer table and sat her perfect buttocks on the edge. Then, leaning back, she thrust her chest forward, supporting herself by the palms of her hands behind her on the table top. All of a sudden she threw her head back and the pin on her bun went soaring into outer space. Her mane, shaken free, went flying wildly all over. Turning her face toward me in a lazy roll, her eyelids just slits, she said in a husky whisper, “ Won’t you sit down, Dave? You must be stressed out. Let me give your shoulder blades a massage…” her tongue did a slow sweep over her freshly glossed lips.
I was startled for a moment but I quickly realized she was role playing. Dave was that creepy boss of hers. Jenny reached out and yanked me onto the chair and sat astride my lap facing me. Holding on to the arms of the poor chair, Jenny brought her long legs up, wrapped them round my neck and began rubbing her crotch against mine.
That night, Jenny treated me to the best sex I’d ever had in my whole goddamn life.
After that it became only natural that we try out all sorts of variations. Till the writing of this post, I’ve been Chip the accounts assistant, Mike the sales supervisor, Burt the intern, Terry the cafeteria chef, Buster the elevator maintenance guy, Dan the security chief and Jonesy the Fed-Ex guy. There are no execs. They are all pricks, Jenny says.
There is a costume store nearby that rents to all those Hollywood film companies when they come here to shoot. Some days, Jenny rings from the office and orders a persona in advance, so I can be ready with it by the time she arrives. Did I tell you, ever since our role play began she insists on being on top when we make love and I don’t have to do nothing except supply her with an eager, sturdy and sustainable hard-on. A piece of cake, like.
Our 1yr old tot, Andy, of course has no clue, but he is thrilled that his SAH Daddy no longer looks grumpy and sullen when we are at the park. Even the other Moms, park regulars all, have begun to notice my sudden sunny disposition. Earlier I used to want to take each one of them to bed in my mind but now I’ve been inducted into their group as another ‘Mom’ and I find nothing cringe-worthy about their gossip. I feel less like a man and you know what? It doesn’t bother me none. I no longer rile at having a wife who feeds and clothes us and provides a roof over our heads. I don’t try to question my contribution toward the family’s welfare anymore.
I’m not alone, by the way. Western societies have a healthy proportion of SAH Dads that is increasing rapidly, while in the east, it is yet to really catch on, weighted down as it is, by tradition. Clerics in some Islamic societies even brand it as ‘un-Islamic’, for the woman to go to work while her husband stays home. I keep my middle finger free for anyone who thinks that the SAHD concept is wrong.
Some of us SAHDs stay at home by choice. Maybe they work from home. Y’know, freelance writers, programmers and such like. Those are the ones that are the happy ones. The others, who had no other choice as they couldn’t get a job, they find it difficult to adapt, fill themselves with resentment and eventually tear their families apart. I was in the second grouping but before I had had the time to implode, something happened to Jenny and me that transformed us. Sex.
And it’s still as good as the first time. Jenny ran out of office colleagues. We are doing famous personalities this week. I just got a call from her. She wants me to be Tiger Woods on a quiet day. Bet I’ll be exhausted but I’m looking forward to it. Got to search through YouTube for T.Woods sex tapes, when Andy is taking his noon nap. I look forward to the upcoming afternoon research. Being an SAHD is not just fun and games, y’know.
I’ve come a long way, haven’t I?
© 2013 Achyut Dutt.