The following day, my "nature sounds" alarm clock announced the ungodly hour of eight a.m. with a cock's crow. In a haze, I stumbled to the shower. Suddenly nude housecleaning didn't look so fun now that it was morning and I was hung over. However, upon opening my purse to retrieve my lipstick, I realized I had two fresh fifty-dollar bills. This made my scientific endeavor seem a lot more worthwhile. Today, my nude housecleaning would be like a mafia hit. I would get in and out as quickly as possible — no wine, no deep conversation, no yukkin' it up. When I arrived at my destination, I was shocked to discover that my client lived in the very hotel where I'd had my first same-sex experience. (Long story: I got turned on while sleeping next to a bald lesbian named Pam.) Because the security guard seemed to be dozing off — much like me — I made my way to the third floor, where Tony greeted me at his door. While Tony wasn't physically offensive, he was definitely not my type. I like my men breakable and spindly, with skin that looks like it's spent several years fading in a cave. Tony was tan and muscular. He walked with the pigeon-toed gait of someone who went to the gym twice a day. Sure enough, I spied muscle-building protein formula on top of his fridge and was immediately turned off. This, coupled with the fact that my libido doesn't work until after five p.m., meant that I was in for a mundane two hours. I've got to clean as quickly as possible and then get the hell home to my bed, I thought, stripping my clothes off and laying them on a chair.  Apparently my arrival had interrupted Tony's cartoon watching, as he immediately reclined on his chair and recommenced watching Pokemon. He told me he liked my photos and found me fetching, so I wasn't too taken aback by the fact that he was riveted to the television, not my naked body. "I usually have a clothed cleaning girl do this," he explained. "But I saw your ad and thought this might be fun for a change." He instructed me to start with his bathroom, mainly the bathtub. Apparently, all men passionately detest bathtub cleaning. (Since my tryst with the nude-housecleaning profession, I have conferred with other males on this subject, and they have professed that this is 100% true.) I repeated the various steps I had performed only a few hours earlier at Ryan's, letting those crazy bubbles initiate their war on germs while I sponged little black hairs away from the general vicinity. Pikachu giggled like a schoolgirl in the distance as I sprayed Windex onto the mirror, revealing a reflection of myself wherein I looked old and tragic. There truly isn't much to report from this session, save the various steps I followed to sterilize Tony's apartment. At one point, I cleaned Tony's bedroom mirror with a glass cleaner whose label declared it was for the bathroom, whereupon he tried to stop me. I had to explain that just because a cleaning product declared it was for the bathroom, didn't mean you couldn't use it in the bedroom, and vice versa. As long as you don't mix bleach and ammonia, it should be smooth sailing. Vacuuming followed bathroom sterilization, which was followed by dusting. I'm sorry if I've given the collective readership of this report a softie, but I was bored out of my mind too. After almost an hour, I announced that I was finished and reached for my panties. "Hmm, we've still got fifteen minutes," Tony declared, checking his watch. "You don't do anything besides cleaning, do you?" I wasn't sure if this question meant, "Do you do anything sexual besides cleaning?" or "Do you do other things in general besides cleaning?" I was about to say, "Well, I like to walk my dog, paint and eat a lot of Mexican food" when I noticed the lascivious expression on Tony's face.
I think he wanted a blowjob. But I will never know, because he didn't ask, and I certainly wasn't going to suggest it. When requesting sexual favors from your nude housecleaner — or from anyone at all — it's important to be as specific as possible. "How about a back massage?" I proposed. Removing my yellow gloves, I rubbed my hands together and worked my fingers down into his flesh, as he lay upon his beloved couch. "You do that really well," he sighed, a smile crossing his lips. Maybe he wouldn't notice the shitty job I did cleaning his floor. After a fifteen-minute rubdown, Tony stood up and handed me a fifty-dollar bill with a totally dissatisfied look. "You said no funny business," he smiled, shrugging. Truth is, I was happy to get dressed and flee from his apartment. After only two sessions, nude housecleaning had lost its novelty. CONCLUSION: Summarize your findings. Don't forget to attempt to identify possible variables that could result in different findings for others trying to recreate your test results. Whether you're naked, clothed or half-dressed, cleaning is actual work. The two main bonuses to cleaning naked: you won't soil your clothes, and you'll make thirty dollars more per hour than a regular maid. If you're being sued for unpaid medical bills (like me) or if your landlord is simply up your ass for back rent, nude housecleaning is a great way to make cold, hard cash. It's also vastly less taxing than twirling around a mirrored pole in six-inch stilettos. This is the perfect form of sex work if you aren't a good dancer or if you have extreme exhibitionist tendencies, in which case this type of employment might also save you the hassle of getting arrested. But I am hardly an expert. The big variable in this experiment was the employer. My session with Ryan felt more like fun than work, and my session with Tony dragged on. This could have also been the result of another variable: the time of day. Like Garfield, I hate mornings and should not have been naked, cleaning, or even out of bed on a Saturday before noon. As I walked from Tony's to the subway, the cold air froze my face and my teeth actually chattered. It was too cold to be naked anywhere, indoors or out. Even Thoreau recognized that clothes were necessary for warmth sometimes. Ducking into Hot 'n' Crusty for a cup of hot tea, I had the distinct feeling that I never wanted to get naked or clean another apartment again. For the next week, I thought, the only sponge I want to see wears square underwear and works at The Krusty Crab. Photographs by Jason Thompson. Read more I Did It For Science here. n° 4 Comments
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