Here's a secret for all you people who have never met a homosexual. (Or, rather, who think you've never met a homosexual.)
Gay relationships are not like straight ones. You can't pick who's the Mommy and who's the Daddy. It doesn't work that way.
(Of course, it shouldn't work that way in a non-sexist straight relationship, either. But that's another issue)
If it makes more sense for Master Right to take charge of something, then he takes charge. He can really put his back into a shovel, so he does the yard. I taught myself a bit of carpentry, so I do most of the handyman jobs around the place.
This works 99% of the time.There are exceptions. Putting together Ikea bookshelves presses both of our alpha-dog primal buttons. ("No, YOU just hold it there, and I'll screw this bit...no, that doen't go there...let ME hold that while you...gimme the screwdriver...can you go faster with that allen key...no, THIS way...I told you that was upside down...") We end up in fisticuffs.
And every so often we have The Housewife Argument. When we first started getting serious, I asked him his plans for the future.
"I want to be a housewife," he said, scratching his balls.
"That ain't gonna happen," I replied, "If anyone is going to be a goddamn housewife around here, it's gonna be me."
The argument escalated until I had him in a head lock, shouting "Say it, MOTHERFUCKER, what are you?" He gave in, agreeing to be the master of the house while I damn well packed his lunch and had a tray of fucking cookies made for when he got home.
I sure as hell showed him who wore the apron in this house. Yes sir-ee.
What brought on these reflections? Well, Master Right just arrived in Munich for good. So our domestic life has picked up from where it left off.
For a while, he might get his wish. Ah, love.