Happy Labor Day, mes chers.  I love Labor Day, I truly do.  What better way to celebrate the Laborers than by taking the day off?  It is a lovely concept, if only in theory.  I mean, after all, the second best part of Labor Day is being able to buy everything at 30% off in its honor; somebody need to sell me my discounted chapeau.

I applaud the United States for formally recognizing that its foundation was built with the blood sweat and tears of the working class (for today only, we will not belabor the point that we glaze over how much of that working class had its blood, sweat and tears forced from them.) Since I adore veering off in a different direction, I am going to focus on another labor – the kind women do.  Oh, I won’t speak of childbirth  – what would I know about that?  Good heavens, could you imagine me in labor?  After the first shot of pain while wearing that horrible little paper gown and somebody yelling at me for not pushing, I would grab Moufette and my handbag, head to the closest bar and reschedule the whole horrid affair for someone else to do.

No, I am talking about the work we do to get what we need to maintain our lifestyle – on our backs (depending on what you are looking to gain, it may be on your knees or the Winged-Back Chair his horrid mother bequeathed to you.)  I don’t think men fully appreciate how much work this is for a woman.  Of course they don’t; after centuries of women counting the cracks in the ceiling, men still think we’ve gotten something out of it.  And we have – ‘something’ generally comes from Tiffany’s.

I know what you are thinking, that there are names from women who profit from sex; let’s call them entrepreneurs, shall we?  Do you think that the fishmonger looks forward to nothing more than sinking his or her arms up to the elbow inside a trout?  Does the sanitation person spring from bed so that he or she may dispose of your excess?  Does the store manager delight in being able to explain that the glass vase would not be in shards on the floor if you had explained to your little brat it was not a baseball prior to his launching it at the candle display?  No, they may enjoy it sometimes; maybe even much of the time but there are days they do it simple to earn the gold that comes with it.  In this case, I am just like that fishmonger.  I have thought of England so many times they bestowed an honorary doctorate of English history upon me.

Because of this, I shall impart a few tips to those of your starting out.  I suggest you start small (please do not read that to mean your choice of partner; although, if you have to work with lesser parts, it is best to start here and work your way up.)  Begin by freezing your face in a placid smile.  His eyes will be shut most of the time so it is unlikely that he will notice your unwavering expression.  Next, you will want to have a few topics on reserve to think on when his performance proves to be nothing to write home about.  This is an excellent time to consider the fabric scheme for the living room redecorating you are currently earning.  Following these steps, you should build a repertoire of noises to utter when asked to.  Don’t make the mistake of believing harmonious is preferred.  For reasons I have yet to understand, I have found the closer you can imitate an alley cat’s tail being stepped on by a short, rotund man wearing lifts the more pleased your partner is. Learn reverse psychology early.  When your partner asks for directions – where, with what force, etc. – whatever you say, their lust-corrupted mind will distort and they will do the opposite of what has been instructed.  In this way, they are not much different from how the execute most of their normal household chores.  The last part to consider is that post coital, your partner will need assurance that they have performed far superior to anyone you have ever been with and that you are fully satisfied with what has transpired.  This is the easiest of your tasks as he has already convinced himself of this.  Since I loathe being unsatisfied on any front, I generally make a game of this (of course I still do it, that Chanel gown isn’t going to buy itself.)  I amuse myself by repeating advertising slogans to see if he notices (he doesn’t.)  As to the amount of time I allow for such praises, I use the 1:1 ration – every minute it took him during the act is the amount I allow to stroke his ego.  I am generally out of there before my toast pops up.

Notice my pronoun choice here.  At no time do I cite “her.”  Perhaps that’s your answer right there.

My point is, darlings, on this and all days, do not judge someone by their chosen vocation but by how well they’ve mastered it.

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