One of my many (an alphabet of 26?) semi true-life experiences as a nude male housecleaner
F was showing me how to replace pads on a Swiffer. I'd never used one before. I watched as F removed the old, dirty pad and replaced it with a new, clean one. Somewhat gratuitously he said, "I shouldn't have to show you again."
"I got it," I agreed. I felt a tingle down below. I liked it when clients verbally abused me. This was far from that but it seemed, as I say, unnecessarily harsh. We were standing in F's kitchen and my next task was to mop the linoleum floor. I was naked, of course. F was naked from the waist down, a dark, patterned wool sweater covering his top half. I'd already sucked him, made him hard (as hard as he would get anyway) and swallowed his cum. It was a small load. He made a comment, not long after, that maybe he could get hard again and fuck me later. He wondered aloud if he should take a Viagra. I couldn't help wondering why he hadn't taken it before I arrived. F said, medically speaking, he shouldn't take one because it was bad for his heart. But...
If he popped a little blue pill during my visit I didn't see it. But then again I was busy, and most of the time my bare back was turned to him as I bustled around his small condo, polishing, vacuuming, dusting, etc. His wife was arriving on Saturday (this was Thursday) and he wanted the place looking spic and span for her. He also wanted to get in some last-ditch sex with another man.
As I mopped his kitchen floor with the Swiffer F stood just outside the kitchen, his back to the white slatted doors hiding the condo's washing machine and dryer, watching. I wasn't entirely certain if F liked to watch because I was naked and had a slender, (if I do say so myself) youthful-looking body or if, wool-covered arms folded, he was inspecting my work, looking to see if I missed anything or needed correcting. Probably it was a little of both, I decided. Since F and his wife spent half the year, the summer half, in New Jersey and the winter half on the west coast of Florida, I figured he must have, earlier on in life, been a successful businessman. At any rate F seemed to be something of a control freak; someone used to giving out orders and instructions and bossing people around. He was a small man, though, wiry, probably in his early 70's.
This was nothing unusual for me. Most of my clients were older men, if not downright elderly, and somewhat affluent. Some lived alone but most, like F, were married. Meaning they were bisexual. And those who weren't married invariably had been, once upon a time. More than a few, like F, were snowbirds. My little business picked up considerably in the winter months, meaning from late October through April. Make hay while the sun shines, as the saying goes.
After Swiffing the kitchen floor my next task was to clean F's toilet. The condo only had one bathroom and since F himself had been back less than a week, it was pretty much still pristine. F told me not to worry about the tub and shower; just the toilet and sink and tile floor, which I would mop with a replenished Swiffer, I guessed.
Most people would probably claim that there is nothing more disgusting or degrading than having to clean someone else's toilet, but I rather enjoy it. No, I definitely enjoy it. Being submissive (goes without saying) and something of a masochist, I look at cleaning a man's toilet and bathroom as the ultimate in submission and self-abasement. After all, most people do this kind of work reluctantly, out of necessity. I do it voluntarily, eagerly. I even mention it in my ads, in the sex personals, along with the other (non-sexual) services I provide: "I clean toilets!"
Truthfully, the job is not usually as undesirable as it sounds. In all but a few cases my clients have presented me with a virtually spotless toilet and sink. Maybe some dried piss spots on the surrounding tile, or wall, but...It's as if the men I serve are reluctant to admit they're ever careless, lazy or unsanitary. Most of the time, in fact, I feel like I'm going through the motions, down on my bare knees, having squirted the blue cleaner into the pristine white bowl, running a long-handled brush around the perimeter. Doing what it seems like my client already did before my arrival. Still, the mere act of kneeling beside his "throne," and wielding the brush, doing what promised to be the dirtiest of the dirty work that day, is invariably enough to give me a hard-on. Or the makings of one. Go figure...
It even embarrasses me. My sudden erection, that is. Here I am, over two hours into the gig, having bounced around a man's home in the nude all that time, balls dangling, probably having already had (oral) sex with him, and it's only when I kneel down at his toilet that I show my passion. Or hide it, as it were. With my back to the open bathroom door, and my client lurking somewhere behind it, sometimes I'll remain on my knees, dragging the distasteful chore out, padding the minutes, in the hope my erection will wilt, or at least begin to. Otherwise, and I know this from experience, I'll have some explaining to do.
"Now you get hard? Cleaning my toilet?" This spoken in a tone of both disbelief and distaste. As if to say, You didn't get hard when you saw me naked? And when you sucked my cock? But NOW you do? What kind of weirdo are you?
This last invariably goes unspoken, but the promise, the certainty of it is still enough to keep me kneeling on the floor, back to the revealing door, waiting.
Exactly as I was doing this at F's, on that Thursday before his wife arrived, out of the proverbial blue he came up behind me, as far as doorway's white frame, and announced, "I want to fuck you. Let's go."
I was, well, flabbergasted. Wary of him peering over my shoulder and seeing my hard-on, I looked around, while simultaneously leaning forward. F had one too. An erection far thicker and stiffer, and more upright, than the one I'd sucked two hours before. Bad heart or no, I realized, F must've popped that blue pill some time ago.
"Leave that," he said of the brush, the cleaners, his toilet, the bathroom. "Let's go in the bedroom."
I rose, awkwardly, painfully. All that time on the hard tile. I was relieved. Now when F saw my hard-on he'd blame it on his abrupt sexual proposition. Indeed:
