“So, who do you think is going to win the election this year,” a voice called out next to me.
My boss sat in a chair, calmly observing me. I had never discussed politics with an employer before, but this was the first day at my new job and I didn’t want to risk offending him by not offering an opinion.
My boss sat in a chair, calmly observing me. I had never discussed politics with an employer before, but this was the first day at my new job and I didn’t want to risk offending him by not offering an opinion.
“I’m not sure,” I said. “I think Obama has far more redeeming qualities though.”
He gave me a condescending smirk before getting up from his chair. He was shirtless, with a beer gut that likely protected him from seeing his penis within the last decade.
I was on my knees scrubbing his kitchen floor, completely naked. Shortly after returning from a post college trip to Australia, I moved into a dilapidated two-bedroom apartment in Brooklyn that my roommate referred to as, “the last cheap shithole in Williamsburg.” After being rejected from a series of low-paying temp jobs and running dangerously short on cash, I soon found myself scouring the “Adult Gigs” section on Craigslist for any job that didn’t involve a video camera or anal beads.
Eventually, I interviewed for a now defunct agency called Your Nude Maid, which offered erotic cleaning services. They screened the clients beforehand and, for a cut of your salary, gave you the option of showing up with an armed bodyguard. I had never worked as a houseboy before, but figured that having my ass in the air in front of a complete stranger couldn’t possibly be any more degrading than moving back in with my parents.
The interview took place at a run-down building in downtown Manhattan that also shared space with The Sex Herald, a monthly publication whose content was self-explanatory. Interns who were clearly being taken advantage of in the name of college credit sat in their cubicles, frantically typing away their reviews on the latest butt plug. I wondered if they were allowed to test these products at home, or if all their “work” was done on-site.
A strikingly beautiful woman appeared out of an open room, wearing a short black skirt and black boots that rode up to her knees. She was at least six feet tall, with pale skin and her brown hair tightly pulled back in a ponytail. She was also holding the largest dildo I had ever seen in my entire life.
“Company meeting,” she said, continuously smacking the dildo against her palm with a startling lack of emotion.
That would be the cue for most people to run to the nearest exit, but the whole situation was so absurd that I found myself unable to get up from the chair. If nothing else, this was going to make a great happy hour story for later.
“I’m Olga,” she said, extending her hand out. “Are you here for the agency?”
“Uh, yeah,” I stammered, shaking her hand as I looked around for the nearest bottle of Purell. I didn’t want to know where that dildo had been, or when it had last been washed.
She led me into a room that most closely resembled an FBI interrogation chamber. It was barren save for a desk and computer, and two hard folding chairs. The walls were painted white and a small lamp dangled from the ceiling with a fluorescent light that made fully opening your eyes almost impossible. She sat down at the desk and pulled out a pen.
“First question,” she asked. “Are you straight or gay?”
“I don’t think that question is legal,” I said.
“Neither is this agency,” she replied.
Touche.
It turned out, unsurprisingly, that many of the cleaners that the agency hired were also prostitutes. Olga had nothing to do with that part of the deal, but many times the client and the person they hired would work out some sort of arrangement on their own. I made it clear to the agency that my services would strictly start and end at fantasy, and was comfortable with receiving less work as a result. Watching Oz as a small child instilled a crippling fear of being ass-slammed in prison, and I didn’t want to even entertain the option of doing something which would cause that to happen.
The rest of the interview went smoothly and Your Nude Maid offered me a job. To the shock of no one, the people who signed up for this service were total freak shows. I opted to go without a bodyguard the first time, only to realize this was a terrible idea when the guy whose house I cleaned reached out to give me a good-bye hug at the end of the session. This was no mere hug. He charged towards me like a pole vaulter, wearing only multi-colored boxer briefs, leapt onto my midsection, and wrapped his legs around my hips as though he were a koala clinging onto a tree branch. I felt tufts of back hair in my hands and didn’t like it one bit.
“Don’t go!” he yelled.
“What?”
“I’ve never had that kind of connection with anyone else,” he said. Considering that only minutes earlier, I unclogged the sink in his bathroom as he sat on the edge of the shower, with my penis dangling inches away from his mouth, I was willing to take his word.
“This is ridiculous,” I said. “You need to let go.” He clung on tighter.
“My body, my choice!” I yelled, pushing the orangutan off me as he crumpled to the ground.
Central Park Zoo wasn’t hiring at that time, so if I wanted to continue working with animals in their natural habitat, a bodyguard was going to be necessary. My second session with the agency took place at a swanky Midtown location, and I was accompanied by a gigantic black man. His name was Terrell, and he was scary. He was about 6’6,” with tree trunks for legs, wearing a t-shirt that could have sheltered multiple Vietnamese families which read, ‘Guns don’t kill people, I do.” Although he was carrying a gun, I felt confident that Terrell would be able to protect me even without a weapon. If anybody shot him, it would probably just make him mad.
We walked to the apartment and he knocked on the door in appeared to be normal manner for him, but which resulted in the second coming of the Kobe earthquakes. I fell back a couple of steps, now questioning whether to be more afraid of the client or the bodyguard. We waited for a few seconds with no answer.
“Do you get to kick the door down?” I asked.
“No,” he said in a booming baritone.
“Would you consider wearing a gold chain and periodically saying, ‘I pity the fool?’”
“No.”
“Great,” I said. “Let’s get this party started.”
That session went smoothly and surprisingly, the handful I did after that went without incident as well. What caused me to quit was the lack of work from the agency. I naively assumed that my clients would continue to hire me weekly, in the same way that one would hire a traditional housekeeper. This proved to not be the case. The bottom line was that not putting out was killing my chances at more clients, and waiting weeks at a time for a normal gig just wasn’t satisfying. If I was going to be a whore, I wanted to be a well paid one and do it on my terms-- which means that I really didn't want to be a whore at all.
He gave me a condescending smirk before getting up from his chair. He was shirtless, with a beer gut that likely protected him from seeing his penis within the last decade.
I was on my knees scrubbing his kitchen floor, completely naked. Shortly after returning from a post college trip to Australia, I moved into a dilapidated two-bedroom apartment in Brooklyn that my roommate referred to as, “the last cheap shithole in Williamsburg.” After being rejected from a series of low-paying temp jobs and running dangerously short on cash, I soon found myself scouring the “Adult Gigs” section on Craigslist for any job that didn’t involve a video camera or anal beads.
Eventually, I interviewed for a now defunct agency called Your Nude Maid, which offered erotic cleaning services. They screened the clients beforehand and, for a cut of your salary, gave you the option of showing up with an armed bodyguard. I had never worked as a houseboy before, but figured that having my ass in the air in front of a complete stranger couldn’t possibly be any more degrading than moving back in with my parents.
The interview took place at a run-down building in downtown Manhattan that also shared space with The Sex Herald, a monthly publication whose content was self-explanatory. Interns who were clearly being taken advantage of in the name of college credit sat in their cubicles, frantically typing away their reviews on the latest butt plug. I wondered if they were allowed to test these products at home, or if all their “work” was done on-site.
A strikingly beautiful woman appeared out of an open room, wearing a short black skirt and black boots that rode up to her knees. She was at least six feet tall, with pale skin and her brown hair tightly pulled back in a ponytail. She was also holding the largest dildo I had ever seen in my entire life.
“Company meeting,” she said, continuously smacking the dildo against her palm with a startling lack of emotion.
That would be the cue for most people to run to the nearest exit, but the whole situation was so absurd that I found myself unable to get up from the chair. If nothing else, this was going to make a great happy hour story for later.
“I’m Olga,” she said, extending her hand out. “Are you here for the agency?”
“Uh, yeah,” I stammered, shaking her hand as I looked around for the nearest bottle of Purell. I didn’t want to know where that dildo had been, or when it had last been washed.
She led me into a room that most closely resembled an FBI interrogation chamber. It was barren save for a desk and computer, and two hard folding chairs. The walls were painted white and a small lamp dangled from the ceiling with a fluorescent light that made fully opening your eyes almost impossible. She sat down at the desk and pulled out a pen.
“First question,” she asked. “Are you straight or gay?”
“I don’t think that question is legal,” I said.
“Neither is this agency,” she replied.
Touche.
It turned out, unsurprisingly, that many of the cleaners that the agency hired were also prostitutes. Olga had nothing to do with that part of the deal, but many times the client and the person they hired would work out some sort of arrangement on their own. I made it clear to the agency that my services would strictly start and end at fantasy, and was comfortable with receiving less work as a result. Watching Oz as a small child instilled a crippling fear of being ass-slammed in prison, and I didn’t want to even entertain the option of doing something which would cause that to happen.
The rest of the interview went smoothly and Your Nude Maid offered me a job. To the shock of no one, the people who signed up for this service were total freak shows. I opted to go without a bodyguard the first time, only to realize this was a terrible idea when the guy whose house I cleaned reached out to give me a good-bye hug at the end of the session. This was no mere hug. He charged towards me like a pole vaulter, wearing only multi-colored boxer briefs, leapt onto my midsection, and wrapped his legs around my hips as though he were a koala clinging onto a tree branch. I felt tufts of back hair in my hands and didn’t like it one bit.
“Don’t go!” he yelled.
“What?”
“I’ve never had that kind of connection with anyone else,” he said. Considering that only minutes earlier, I unclogged the sink in his bathroom as he sat on the edge of the shower, with my penis dangling inches away from his mouth, I was willing to take his word.
“This is ridiculous,” I said. “You need to let go.” He clung on tighter.
“My body, my choice!” I yelled, pushing the orangutan off me as he crumpled to the ground.
Central Park Zoo wasn’t hiring at that time, so if I wanted to continue working with animals in their natural habitat, a bodyguard was going to be necessary. My second session with the agency took place at a swanky Midtown location, and I was accompanied by a gigantic black man. His name was Terrell, and he was scary. He was about 6’6,” with tree trunks for legs, wearing a t-shirt that could have sheltered multiple Vietnamese families which read, ‘Guns don’t kill people, I do.” Although he was carrying a gun, I felt confident that Terrell would be able to protect me even without a weapon. If anybody shot him, it would probably just make him mad.
We walked to the apartment and he knocked on the door in appeared to be normal manner for him, but which resulted in the second coming of the Kobe earthquakes. I fell back a couple of steps, now questioning whether to be more afraid of the client or the bodyguard. We waited for a few seconds with no answer.
“Do you get to kick the door down?” I asked.
“No,” he said in a booming baritone.
“Would you consider wearing a gold chain and periodically saying, ‘I pity the fool?’”
“No.”
“Great,” I said. “Let’s get this party started.”
That session went smoothly and surprisingly, the handful I did after that went without incident as well. What caused me to quit was the lack of work from the agency. I naively assumed that my clients would continue to hire me weekly, in the same way that one would hire a traditional housekeeper. This proved to not be the case. The bottom line was that not putting out was killing my chances at more clients, and waiting weeks at a time for a normal gig just wasn’t satisfying. If I was going to be a whore, I wanted to be a well paid one and do it on my terms-- which means that I really didn't want to be a whore at all.
"my body my choice" - LOVE IT!
ReplyDeleteDelightfully hilarious. Thank you good storytelling.
ReplyDelete