New Depression

Based loosely on real experiences  

  I can’t explain it but I always get a hard on when I clean a man’s toilet. I may’ve failed to get one while my client and I were necking or while I was sucking his cock or doing 69 with him or most definitely while I was getting laid. But the minute I kneel down beside his “porcelain throne”...up it goes.

Occasionally one of my clients sees this, and laughs; but usually it goes unnoticed. Most, after all, don’t want to look over a nude housecleaner’s shoulder while he wields a long-handled brush scrubbing away toilet rings (or worse). Most, by now, are parked in their recliner or on their couch, their balls recently emptied and at ease now with having a nude stranger in their house or condo or apartment, watching TV. Cleaning the toilet (or toilets if there’s more than one) is invariably one of the last chores on the list. The thinking of most seems to be: I’ll save the worst for last for him. While in fact, unbeknownst to them, it’s just about the best part of my day. And the dirtier the better.

I had one client once who waited until I was down on my knees beside his “throne” to enter the bathroom and declare, “I haven’t taken my morning dump yet. I was saving it for you. Put the seat down.”

I started to get to my feet but he directed me to remain kneeling as he groaningly lowered his wide, flabby ass to the seat. After he dropped his smelly load—he told me to turn on the exhaust fan—he rose and told me to wipe his ass. After I did so he advanced a step forward, turned to his right and advanced another step. Then he bent over, putting his hands on his knees, and told me to clean him further with my tongue. This was extreme. I hesitated. But then I again sank to my knees on the hard tile and obeyed. What choice did I have?

I must confess I enjoyed the taste of his unclean asshole more than the fetid odor filling my nostrils, as the fan labored overhead. It was obvious he had a rich diet. As with a fine wine I could make out—discern—distinct flavor components: red meat; cold metal; stone fruits; chocolate. I so got into it I began tongue-fucking his now immaculate hole. This was going too far, for him, it seemed, and he pulled away, straightened. He pointed at the bathroom counter as I rose to my feet and said, “There’s mouthwash. But make sure you pour it into a cup and don’t drink from the bottle. Now get back to work. Clean my fucking toilet. You’ve still got a kitchen floor to mop.”

“Yessir,” I said, still licking my lips.

For days afterward I carried around the (albeit ever-diminishing) taste of this man’s asshole. I did not mind it for myself; I just worried about it being on my breath, for others. Such as my wife Karen.

“What’s with you and the Listerine all of a sudden?” I remember her asking.

“Nothing. I don’t know.” Then: “One of my clients told me I had bad breath.”

“Oh. Were you kissing him?”

I nodded.

Karen said, “I had that happen once, with one of my tricks. I always gargled after that. But not with,” cute nose wrinkling, “Listerine. With that stuff the cure is worse than the disease.”

Another time a far kinder man walked in on me while I was cleaning his toilet to tell me not to worry about doing the shower. “I cleaned it yesterday,” he said, looking down at my unexpected erection. Afterward he called me over to his sofa. There was still an hour left in my three-hour gig, twenty dollars an hour, complimentary blowjob included, but I’d already done every chore on his verbal list, BJ included. The older man draped his arm around my bare shoulders as I sank into the cushion next to him. He was curious.

“How come you didn’t get hard when I was sucking you, when we were doing 69, but you got hard just now, in the bathroom?”

I tried to laugh it off. “I don’t know. Can’t say.”

“Do you always get hard when you clean a man’s toilet?”

I nodded. “Usually. Yeah. Not my own, at my own house,” I was quick to add, with another nervous laugh. “My wife always gets on me about that. Did you remember to clean the toilet? It’s weird but I HATE cleaning the toilet at home. I hate doing housework!”

The man had pulled away from me slightly. The better to get an up-and-down look. “You’re married?”

“Yes.”

“To a woman?”

“Yes.”

“Does she know you do this kind of work?”

“Yes.”

“Really?” the man asked in disbelief.

I nodded again.

My client maintained his tone: “She knows you come over to other men’s houses and get nude and clean for them and...and have sex with them?”

“Yes.”

“She doesn’t...care?”

I shrugged beneath the weight of the man’s arm. I liked him. He was not a big sadistic ogre like the guy who’d demanded I clean his ass with my tongue. This man was in his early 50’s, slender, had thinning, fair-colored hair, and was kind and gentle. He seemed more concerned about my well-being than his own. I sincerely hoped he would become a regular, and would invite me back. He also had a nice cock: not too long, not too short; not too thick, not too thin. Its head rosy and well-formed. Yum! Delicious!

“She understands. You have to do what you have to do to get by in these times,” I explained. “We were both quote-unquote furloughed at the beginning of the New Depression. Meaning laid off permanently, terminated. It was actually my wife Karen’s idea, me going online and offering nude housecleaning services to other men. She said I had a nice body, a youthful body for my age and...”

“You do,” my client assured me, giving my shoulders a shrug. “Still...it’s a little unorthodox.”

“Yes. But Karen and I have always been upfront about our sexual preferences. Predilections I should say. She knew I was bi when she married me.”

“A modern marriage,” the man observed.

“And I knew in advance she was...sexually promiscuous. Even when we were dating. And afterwards, when I married her. She made it plain and clear: she would need more than one man in her life. In her bed, I mean.”

“And you were OK with this.”

“I was. I had no choice.”

“You must love Karen very much.”

“I—”

“Either that,” my client said, laughing softly, “or you love the idea of her fucking other men.”

“Then one day,” I plowed on, “she was traveling on business back when we both had jobs...and she let herself get picked up by this guy at a hotel bar and they went up to her room and he fucked her and...”

“Yeah? Was she dressed...provocatively?”

I ignored the self-evident question. “Before he left he tossed a hundred dollar bill on the bed.”

“Oh. Wow.”

“But instead of being outraged by this my wife Karen was...turned on. A seed had been planted.”

“In more ways than one, I imagine,” the man knowingly smiled.

“And then when the shit hit the fan with the economy and all...”

“Terrible. Just terrible.”

“And we were, like, defaulting on our mortgage payments and car payments and...”

“In deep shit. Like so many others.”

I nodded agreement. “Karen got this idea...What if she went online now that the prostitution laws have been relaxed...”

“Just like with you.”

“Sort of.”

“Not that you’re a prostitute. I mean...you’re providing essential services.”

“I hope so,” I said.

“You are,” he rationalized. “Both household and...sexual.”

“I’m glad you feel that way,” I smiled.

“I do. So...,” the man deduced. “...wife Karen does her thing with other men while you...”

“Kind of do the same.”

“Exactly.”

I could’ve used a drink at this point but that would have to wait. Wait until after I collected my sixty dollars and hit the bar at the Cherry’s chain restaurant I’d passed on the way here. It wasn’t ideal, but...Oh. That was another thing. My travel distance. Since it was over fifteen miles, and in the next county, the man owed me an extra ten. Seventy total. We’d discussed this beforehand, over the phone. I would budget out twentyfive for a burger—I was starving—and a midday happy hour couple of margaritas plus tip. The rest would go in our collective “honey jar” at home. Seeing how nobody trusted the banks anymore...

With his free hand the man had reached across and given my penis a tug. It was not hard but it was not entirely flaccid either. “I see that discussing your wife’s infidelities gets a little rise out of you as well.”

“A little,” I blushed. At least I think I did.

“But what if I wanted you really hard? In my mouth? What would I have to do, send you back in my bathroom to clean it again?”

“That...might work,” I said uncertainly.

“What if I sat on the toilet and took a pee? And then you got to your feet with your hard cock and I sucked you while I...while I was sitting on the toilet?”

“We could do that. Sir. It’s your show. You’re the boss.”

“Or better yet,” the man went on, with rising emotion. “After I pee, once you’re hard, we come out here on the couch and do 69 again. Only this time you taste my pissy cock. And I suck your hard one till you cum. Cum in my mouth.”

Even my own heart was racing faster now. “Whatever you want. I...”

My client was looking down at me, my flesh-and-blood lap.

“Look,” he said, “you’re getting hard just thinking about it. Let’s go in the bathroom...”

Karen asked casually: “How’d it go?” 

“Fine.” She held out an open palm and I dug into my pocket and filled it, lightly, with $45–a five and two twenties. Karen did not seem impressed. 

“Where’s the rest?” “I had lunch.” 

“You could’ve eaten at home.” I thought of her spread legs, her pussy. Fresh white cum oozing out, perhaps.

“I was starving. Three hours’ work. I didn’t have breakfast.” 

“Christ! We need to economize here!”

 “Sorry. Sorry,” I repeated as Karen reached on her bare tiptoes for the ceramic jar—a tureen actually, a wedding gift—on top of the kitchen counter. 

“I should’ve...I realize it now. I should’ve stopped at a McDonalds or something. My bad.” I winced at myself. I hated it when people tritely said, “My bad.” 

“You’re the small earner here,” Karen reminded me, while stuffing my meager day’s income into the jar, beneath the loaded .45. “Remember that.” 

"That’s why you’re the boss,” I in turn reminded Karen, hoping to get on her good side. 

“I should slap your face.” As much as I wanted to hug my wife at this moment I lowered my arms to my sides. They hung straight down.

 “Go ahead,” I said. “No,” coming down off her cute toes.

 “You’d like that too much.” After a pause, after the heavy tureen was back in place, Karen modulated her tone.

 “Look,” she said.

 “I have a heavy hitter coming over. Big spender. I want the house looking...spiffy. Immaculate. I need to go shower and change and...put my face on. I need you to clean the place from stem to stern. Then make yourself scarce.” 

As Karen brushed past me, our only physical contact since my arrival, I secretly rolled my eyes. I’d just come from a cleaning gig. Two hours plus. I’d sucked a client’s cock then sucked it again, when it tasted like fresh, warm piss. He’d sucked my cock as well. I’d cum. He’d swallowed. He told me my cum was sweet. I’d forced a smile. 

Today’s client had informed me, as I got dressed, that while he couldn’t afford me every week, maybe I could come over and “clean” for him once a month. I smiled and said fine. I would put him in my “tickler.” At the three week mark his name would pop up and I’d email him. Great, he agreed. Whatever.

 As I was about to leave my future semi-regular said: “Maybe next time I’ll piss in your mouth.” I swallowed, nervously. “Um...OK.” 

“In the shower.” 

“OK. Um...How come you didn’t have me clean it today?” 

“Because I was hoping—” Karen had turned back at the hallway entrance, her loose breasts momentarily, partially, like a pair of juggler’s balls, escaping from her kimono. 

“And remember. Don’t forget to clean the toilet.”