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Which works for me just fine. I don’t need anybody riding me. I keep my head down, do my work, and go back home to study for my course, usually with my friend, Charleigh.
I try to act like the bright smile on her face is a normal thing, rather than throwing me off. “Hello, Gwen. How are you today?” I ask perkily. Unless she asks me a direct question about my work, this is normally the extent of what I say to her.
She’s tall and wears extremely high-heeled red-patent leather Mary Janes so I’m always looking up at her. Everyone is. I think she likes it like that. Her hair—I’m not sure if it’s a wig or real—is most often a mass of stylized curls gathered at the crown of her head, the rest tumbling down her back. She wears skin-tight corsets, sometimes by themselves and sometimes over blouses with puffy sleeves and ruffled collars. Her skirts often barely cover her behind, but occasionally also hit below her knees.
Another employee, the bartender, tells me her style is calledsteampunk. I’ve never heard of that before. Sort of old fashioned and modern at the same time seems to be the gist.
Where I’m from, people don’t dress like that.
I suppose my personal style is best described as Target. As in the store. Maybe GAP if they’re having a good sale. But that’s not what I wear when I work as a cleaner. No, I wear a light blue button-up thing they give us maids that looks like one of those dresses nurses used to wear. It’s fitted, showing off my figure, but ugly at the same time. Not that I care. And with it, I wear my Converse Chucks, the only name-brand thing I own.
I’m not here for a fashion show. Much as I might enjoy watching and listening, I’m on the sidelines. It doesn’t matter how I look, because no one notices me anyway. Which is the way it’s supposed to be. I’m a spoke in the invisible wheel that keeps the club running, so people like Gwen can be beautiful, and the man I saw entering earlier today can remain sexy and mysterious.
There. I said it. He’s sexy.
Where I’m from,sexydoesn’t figure into our lives. It doesn’t even cross anyone’s mind. People are too occupied with beingholy,as holy as they can be, and whenever possible, holier than everyone else. It’s like a contest. A contest I am never going to win.
Gwen looks me up and down, as if to ensure I am sufficiently frumpy, and nods. “Please start with Room 21. The current occupants just finished and we have someone else coming in soon.”
“Sounds good, Gwen,” I say and grab my tote of cleaning products. And gloves. Lots of gloves.
Gwen likes to warn me about using too many gloves. About wasting them. They cost money, she says, as if I am stupid enough to believe they grow on trees. So, every shift, I stash as many as I can in the bottom of my tote. I’m not cleaning up anybody’s slime without them. I don’t care what she says. As if the job wasn’t already degrading enough.
I pass several rooms, some with doors open and some with doors closed. Today is quiet. The calm before the storm. Things don’t really pick up until after dinnertime. The weekend is when most people come.Allthe rooms are booked then, and there are three or four cleaners like me on duty.
The cleanliness of the club is one of its most important offerings, Gwen always says. Dirt is the first thing to drive people away in a place like this. I would have thought sexually transmitted diseases were the deal breaker, but I guess the condom rule takes care of that. From the number of discarded ones I see in the trashcans, it seems like people are pretty on top of safe sex. They could open a darn sperm bank with all the discarded cum. Just gather up the clear, knotted little balloons full of milky white stuff and get rich.
I reach Room 21 and thankfully, the door is open. Even if Gwen tells me a room has been vacated, should the door is closed when I arrive to clean it, I have a mini panic attack that there just might be someone still in there, doing whatever they do. Walking in on someone is one of my biggest nightmares. It’s one thing to clean up after members, but another to see them… going at it.
It’s not like I am a prude. I’ve had some… experiences myself. Not a lot, but enough. There was that one boy at church camp. It was the first time for us both, but we were so scared of pregnancy, not to mention the wrath of God, he pulled back out the moment he was barely inside me. But that counts. At least I think it does.
There was also the time that one guy tried to force me, outside in the parking lot after one of the church socials. I try not to think about that.
I get to work on Room 21 imagining, in spite of myself and my guilty conscience, what had gone on before I arrived to clean. Who had undressed first? Did they take everything off? Did they kiss? Or was it impersonal?
And most importantly, at least to me, is whether the woman enjoyed it as much as the man.
Room 21 is one of the basic rooms, and by basic, I mean it doesn’t have any weird stuff in it. Some of the other rooms have swings, thrones, and a weird cross thing. This room has floaty white curtains billowing from the ceiling, white shag carpet, a bed in the middle made up with soft cotton sheets and a real silk coverlet, and a couple overstuffed chairs in the corners.
The club spares no expense, aside from Gwen bugging me to sparingly use disposable gloves. I know all this makes membership expensive—how could it not?—but when I ask how much, Gwen smiles down at me and tells me it’s none of my business.
Personally, I do think it’s my business, but I keep that to myself.
I pull the linens off the bed and remake it, dumping the used sheets down the hidden laundry chute. I clean all the surfaces, empty the trash, restock the condoms in the nightstand, and generally put the place back together. It is immaculate. Beyond perfect. Like no one had ever been there. As a last step, I mist the room with our signature essential oil room fragrance. I take a good look around.
It’s almost like being in heaven, that’s how beautiful it is. I’m quite pleased with my work.
According to my Timex, it’s a few minutes before the hour, which is when people usually arrive for their rooms. I poke my head out the door to make sure Gwen’s nowhere in the vicinity, and re-close it with a softclick.
I know I shouldn’t do this. But I’m going to. I want to experience the luxury of the club,just once. I work so hard to keep it nice. Can’t I enjoy it for just a moment?
The smell of the room, a members’ room, is the scent of all that is beautiful and perfect in the world, and I imagine for a moment if I could stay there forever, I know I’d be blissfully happy. I float around the bed, fingering the yards of gossamer creating its otherworldly effect, and run my hand over the bedspread.
It’s perfection. I have to say am a champion bed-maker. The silk coverlet is taut but not too taut, without a wrinkle in sight. The lucky people who use it next might not notice, but I’ve been assured—thank you, Gwen—that if it’snotperfect, that’s the first thing anyone sees.
The focal point of every room in the club is where the, um,funtakes place, and in this room it’s a bed that looks made for a fairy princess.
Against my better judgment and every other bit of rationality I have, I sit down on the edge of the bed, as if I am a woman waiting for someone—someone who knows how to make me feel sexy, beautiful, and worthy of such lush surroundings. The silk is pure bliss under my fingers, and the bed’s firmness indicates it’s one of those designer mattresses that costs thousands of dollars.
