I would sit at the table, writing away, as she cleaned around me. I’d offer her something to drink.

“Are you thirsty?” I’d ask.

As she slowly wiped her lips, free of waxy color but not thickness, she would say, “Extremely.”

Then, I would go to the counter, uncork a bottle of red wine—nothing fancy—and pour her a glass. She would give a look of surprise, yet continue to drink. Her lips, turning the color of a murder scene, would smile.

Then, because of all those years breathing in cleaning supplies, she will grow drunk before the last sip of wine is taken.

“I feel a bit lightheaded. May I have a glass of water?”

I pour her liquid from my sink’s faucet and as she lifts it to her mouth, it drips past her lips, soaking the dryness from her shirt, which is white. Did I mention she wasn’t wearing a bra?

“You know,” I’ll say. “There’s not much to clean around here. I don’t want to waste a trip, though. I’m sure you are quite talented with your hands. How about your tongue?

What? Can’t a girl fantasize?

But, there was no woman standing in front of me, ready to clean. Instead, it was Larry, with thick glasses and loose jeans. He asks a question and then stares, harder than an erection, waiting for an answer or response.

“I did a good job vacuuming,” he said.

“Yes.”

“Do you want me to dust anything?”

“Uh…yeah. Everything, I guess.”

“I cleaned your kitchen. It looks good,” he adds.

I picture Larry at his home, a small studio apartment with second hand furniture that resembles the colors of baby food, faded fabrics torn and without form. He likes this place—small enough to gather very little dirt and a perfect place to crash at the end of a long day cleaning everyone else’s homes.

He sits in his favorite mustard chair that comes with its own lever to turn it into a recliner, but it broke. He half-watches TV, instead focusing on the aerosol can of furniture polish beside him on the circular end table with antique lamp.

He sprays it on his hands and then rubs them together. He is hard. He is wooden and he needs to be rubbed. He unzips his pants and removes his cock, which is average in size but oddly wide, like a stretched fist. He is uncircumcised.

He begins to lacquer his cock, slowly at first and then with great fervor. Up and down and up and down and longer strokes and then tighter. His lemon-scented dick grows harder than the wooden floor panels in which the polish is truly meant for.

His cum covers his pants, already stained from bleach and other cleaning supplies. He removes his palm from his swollen, fruit-flavored dick and smells it. Sour. Bitter. Chemically-charged.

Larry doesn’t watch porn. He is turned on by dust bunnies congregating in corners and beneath his bed. He imagines these fleshless forms to be humans haunting his erection, in need of his dick to engulf their weightlessness. He grows hard just thinking of forgotten mold in bathtubs, pee-stained toilets, and streaks on windows and mirrors.

“I’m almost done,” he announces.

Larry lifts me from my Larry cleaning/masturbation fantasy. He is right in front of me and I grow sweaty, worrying he might notice his name on my computer screen. He is just finishing up as I complete another sentence. I walk him to the front door as he balances his vacuum and basket full of supplies.

"I’m parked across the street. That’s my car. Blue Accord with power steering.”

Larry leaves and I am left to ponder his existence. I think about all the homes I’ve cleaned and wonder while I was bending down, scrubbing the hidden curves of a toilet, if the husband or wife was watching me. Fantasizing. Is there a fetish out there for lemon-scented housekeepers? Are men pulling on their dicks with the thought of a woman making a bed with pillows perfectly perpendicular and sheets with no creases? I’m not talking about the French Maid cliché of a woman in a short skirt bending down to reveal curtained panties and feather duster.

When was the last time you masturbated to the smell of your spotless home? Are house cleaners the new porn star?

Originally published January 2010