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That Time I Tried Topless House Cleaning
Story by Tara Burns · Illustration by Katie Parrish · 9.9.15
Story by Tara Burns Illustration by Katie Parrish
That Time I Tried Topless House Cleaning
Your favorite Narratively stories, read aloud.
After years getting paid to bare my breasts at more clubs than I can count, when my funds hit an all-time low I pioneered a cleaner brand of sex work.
Topless Housecleaning + Lapdance Gentlemen, do you need a good, clean tease after a hard day’s work? I’ll clean your house and give you a (1) lapdance $100/hr – have your own cleaning supplies – no blocked numbers.
When I arrive at the house of the first viable person to respond to my Craigslist ad, I knock on the door and take a step back. He opens it right away. Jim or John, suddenly I can’t remember. He’s young to have such a nice mini-mansion with a swimming pool and younger than I normally like to deal with. I like his work jeans and dirty white t-shirt, though. They feel kind of homey.
I step in, a little flirty, but all-business to begin with. I get him to show me the whole house, which serves the double purpose of planning ahead for cleaning and making sure there’s no one else hiding, ready to pop out for a gang rape later. Just when the tour is complete my phone rings. It’s my security detail — Possum, the hillbilly witchdoctor I’ve befriended, following instructions to wait for me to clear the house and call to be sure everything’s okay.
“Hey,” I say. “It’s all good in here. Call me in like an hour.”
“ Ayep ,” Possum replies in his drawl.
I turn to JimJohn and start to pull my shirt off, then stop. “Business before pleasure, babe,” I say, making the little money sign with my fingers.
“Oh, of course.” He pulls a hundred out of his pocket and presses it into my hand. I shove it down one of my stockings as I take my pants off, because I have always believed that the safest place for my money is right against my skin.
I’d had eighty dollars left to my name when I drove into Greenville, South Carolina. Half a tank of gas and two blueberry smoothies later, it dwindled to sixteen dollars folded together in the bottom of my pocket. For some people, this might have been a problem, but not for me. I have the magical ability to walk into a strip club just about anywhere there is one and make a few hundred bucks just because I’m willing to get naked and smile at people.
Sex work is my trust fund. When I’ve been broke down on the side of the road with no money, when I’ve been a homeless teenager, when I’ve wanted to buy a house, a car, an education — sex work has always been there for me. I’ve done almost all the sex work: everything from street hustling to dancing in bejeweled gowns to foot fetish parties and erotic hypnosis. Whenever I discover a new form of sex work — the weirder or more interesting the better — I try to experience it.
I’m staying, with my dog, Spot, in my van down by the river next to Possum, who lives in a van that’s much bigger and nicer than mine. Possum drew me a map showing how to get to the two strip clubs he knows of: a big one, and a little one. Big strip clubs sometimes have things like rules and schedules and lots of competition and high house fees, which I don’t like. I decided to try the small one first.
The small one turned out to be a brothel with very little business, where I met some very beautiful, very southern women, including a 300-pound dancer named Hamhock who I wish I could introduce to every teenager worrying about their weight ever.
I was too fat for the big one, or the door guy was having a bad day.
I started to feel a little panic. That’s when the idea of topless housecleaning came to me — purely formed, rising sweetly out of my desperation — so I put up a Craigslist ad and here I am at Jim or John or whatever his name is’ house.
I do the kitchen first, like my friend Tania who actually grew up in a mansion and knows how to clean explained to me last night on the phone. I keep up a steady stream of flirting while I put his dishes in the dishwasher and move everything on the counter to one end so I can clean it. While I’m stacking his mail neatly I check out his name. Jim. The counter is dirty, covered in stains and puddles of dried-up food and glue and who knows what else. Scrubbing while bending over a counter in six-inch heels, back arched so that your ass sticks up pretty, is hard work. Especially while flirting the whole time with a man you hope is staring at your ass and not your sweaty face.
He asks about me, how I came to be a topless housecleaner. I don’t tell him that he’s my first, or that I’m broke, or that I live in a van. If you watch television you know what happens to broke homeless women: They give $20 blow jobs, not $100 counter scrubbings. Instead I make up a prissy story about finishing my Master’s degree and taking a year to drive around the country in an R.V. dancing. Of course I tried dancing here, I explain, but the clubs are just so dirty, and I’m way too classy to expose myself to such an environment. The crazy thing I’ve discovered is that the snobbier you seem, the more they will pay you.
Jim is amazingly empathetic about the nastiness of the local clubs. A classy woman like me obviously doesn’t belong in places like those. He follows me from kitchen to bathroom to bedroom to living room, staring while I wipe, mop, scrub and vacuum, all while trying to look like I’m not sweaty from doing this work in humid 90-degree weather. His story is interesting. All his time goes to his race-car business, which is like a dream, but lots of hard work. He bought this house two years ago, but hasn’t had the time or taste to furnish it yet, though he does find the time to indulge in the tradition of illicit hooch brewing down in the basement. Steely grey eyes and his young tough look contrast with his docile nature as he tamely follows me around his house. I’m beginning to think all men in the South must be gentlemen.
When I’m done cleaning I settle him on his couch, set my iPod to Depeche Mode, and tell him that he gets one free lap dance with his housecleaning and after that they are twenty dollars, just like in the club. He opens his wallet and peels off another hundred, right away, and tells me to just dance until that runs out.
“No touching,” I remind him as the song starts and I move in front of him. Soon I’m crawling all over him, undulating, brushing my ass across his hard penis through his jeans. He is begging me to let him touch me, and I’m reminding him that I’m not that kind of girl, although I make sure to sound a little confused.
“Come on,” he says, getting his wallet out. “What about for another hundred?”
I pretend to think hard, then: “Okay.” I take his hands and guide them over my body. “You can touch here — my ass, my thighs, my stomach, but no titties or pussy.”
“Two hundred?” he pulls two crisp $100 bills out of his wallet.
It’s not really a question for me. I’ve given this much contact for thirty dollars a song. I pretend to think long and hard, though. If I let on that I have no principles, I can’t pretend to sell them.
“Okay,” I finally say, pushing the bills down my stockings, “but keep your hands off the kitty! That is not for sale!”
He has gentle, well-practiced hands that he swirls around my nipples and brushes softly over my ass. I arch my back and gasp in pretend ecstasy. Soon he wants more again — a hand job, a hundred dollars.
I insist that I’m not that kind of dancer while I consider this through to its logical conclusion. A couple hundred more for a hand job, a couple hundred more for a blow job, a lot more for sex. It could be a grand, easily. But do I want to have sex with this guy? The thing is, I’m a lesbian. The other thing is, sometimes I think I could be bisexual, and every year or two I have a man sex experiment. I can get into men, and right now on this guy’s lap, I’m turned on.
My phone rings again. It’s Possum. “It’s been an hour,” he says, “are you okay in there?”
“Yeah,” I giggle, “I’m having a great time. I’ll be just another fifteen minutes or so.”
Do I look like that kind of girl? I’m a very classy stripper, I remind him.
“Oh, of course, of course. I’m sorry,” he says. “I hope you’re not offended.”
“No…” I cock my head. “Actually… I’ve always kind of wondered what it would be like to do something like that for money.”
“Well, here’s your chance to find out.”
“Hmm…I dunno. I couldn’t. Well…how much?”
“Two hundred?” He’s got his wallet out, two crisp hundreds in his hand.
“Okay.” I grab them and shove them into my stocking. In my mind I’m counting and calculating miles. This makes 600, or is it 800? That’s, like, 5,000 miles of gas money! Or 2,000 miles and a month or two of groceries and stuff while I explore desert canyons and sky islands. What more could a girl need?
I slide down between his legs and he unzips his jeans eagerly. It is small, with a nice curve and for a second I love it and want to fuck him. Smiling, I bring my face close, admiring it like I’m about to lick it. He gasps and wiggles a little, and I take his cock in my hand. It’s already throbbing, and I just run my hand up it lightly, swirl some of the pre-cum back down it, run my fingers over the whole thing. He moans and half thrusts his hips. I love this. When I finally grab his cock, two-handed, and give it a couple strong, twisting strokes, he explodes right away. Perfect.
“Stay right there, I’m going to get you a washcloth.” I run to the bathroom.
While he cleans up, I pull my jeans and tank top back on over my fishnets and thong. I’m ecstatic and high from the rush of going from six dollars to 800 dollars in an hour with my hustling skills, but I know I won’t have really pulled it off until I’m in the van, driving away. I make myself look totally calm while I throw my iPod and cleaning stuff in the bag I came with, give him a goodbye hug, and tell him he should really call me again to clean the rest of the house.
I don’t start laughing until I’m in the van and Possum is driving us away. Then I fold over in my seat, laughing and clapping my hands with excitement.
“Possum,” I exclaim, “I love having a vagina!
Leaning back, I push my hips up to pull my jeans down and start fishing the hundreds out of my fishnets.
Possum looks over at me with my legs up on the bed, pulling eight $100 bills out of my thigh highs. “Holy shit,” he says, “I do believe I wish I had a vagina too.”
Checking “topless housecleaning” off my to-try list of sex-work gigs makes me enough money to get back on the road. The next day Spot and I get in the van and drive across the country until I find a beautiful desert-sky island in northern Arizona. I stay for a couple weeks, playing in a creek and tracking coyote, before I get low on money again and start over.
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IT’S a hotel known for its “adults-only sensual fun”, so we went to check it out and found a lot of surprises. WARNING: Contains nudity.
AFTER hearing about the “adults-only sensual fun” on tap at Temptation Cancun we were unsure what to expect from the all-inclusive Mexican resort.
Would we be met by a beach of writhing bodies? Do nudists prefer you to keep eye contact or is it polite to greet each other with an ogle?
And do swingers wear clothes at the dinner table? Given our ages (just the right side of 50) and our marital status (happily monogamous) we wondered if we would fit in, but on arrival our preconceptions quickly melted away.
Temptation is full of happy, liberated, slightly older people who want to have a good time, drink plenty of cocktails, enjoy the sun — and get up to whatever else they fancy behind closed doors — but it’s certainly not a swingers’ hotel.
There’s no outdoor hanky panky allowed, and the vibe during the day is Las Vegas/Ibiza pool party — only without the pressure to be body beautiful. There are men and women of all shapes, sizes, colours and ages. No one cares what you look like in a bikini or whether you’ve got the latest designer sunglasses.
It’s not for everyone and you’ll see an incredible array of topless women, but if you have a laid-back attitude and like a good party, you’ll have a great time.
Most people we spoke to were returning guests, and Temptation’s rebooking rate is very high, with guests buying up memberships and coming back year after year.
The mix is predominantly couples, but there are quite a few single guys, same-sex couples and friends on girls’ trips too.
Our room in the newly built Bash Tower was huge, beautifully clean, sleekly decorated and came with two personal butlers who did everything they could to ensure our stay ran smoothly.
On our balcony we even had a hot tub big enough for two with a view over the ocean and the main pool. The blinds were electric, the minibar well stocked and the bathroom spacious.
Most people are at Temptations to socialise and party, most of which goes on at the imaginatively named Sexy Pool.
It’s busy, buzzy and full of people drinking at the huge swim-up bar, getting into dance-offs, playing drinking games (beer pong, anyone?) and partying to the booming music. Everyone talks to everyone, but it is in no way intimidating.
Tops are optional but nudity and any down-and-dirty sexy behaviour is a no-no.
The smaller Quiet Pool still has poolside waiter service, jacuzzi and swim-up bar, but the atmosphere here is more chilled.
There are also sunlounges on the beach stretching from the Sexy to the Quiet Pool, so you can choose which vibe you prefer while sipping your margarita with the sand between your toes.
The Rooftop Bar and Pool is an exclusive area available to premier guests only on the seventh floor — a fantastic space, with sunbathing pods, fabulous food and, of course, on-tap drinks.
The madness of the day at the Sexy Pool finishes with the hardcore party animals migrating to the huge jacuzzi to carry on the fun way after the sun goes down.
At around 7pm, when most guests are resting or getting ready for the evening ahead, wonderfully calming chill-out tunes are played all around the hotel and on the balconies.
If you want to relax a little more, there is a tranquil spa with amazing treatments which can be taken solo or with a partner.
We enjoyed a heavenly facial combined with a hot stones massage.
The family-owned hotel treats its staff well, and it shows in the way their employees treat guests.
Most of the staff have been there for years. Last year the hotel closed for eight months for a $60 million refurbishment — and the fact that the company carried on paying the staff while it was shut speaks volumes.
Every night is a theme night which takes place in the central Bash Bar — so in the name of research, of course, we went to them all.
Most of the guests aren’t in Cancun to relax — they’re there to party.
Our favourite was the neon night — think day-glo wristbands and luminous body paint.
All theme nights followed a similar vein — pyjama party, devils and angels, lingerie, throwback Thursday and the Friday night white party.
A lot of people dress up, but by no means everyone, and costumes range from hilarious to downright risque.
But if you don’t dress up you definitely don’t stand out or feel like you’ve come to the wrong event — all are welcome, no matter what.
We booked a cabana for a couple of the party nights, which gave us waitress service and a great view of the raised dance floor where there is usually some form of entertainment, from electric violins to pole dancers.
Once the entertainment is over, the guests can’t wait to get up there to strut their stuff to a vibrant mix of music, from handbag house to Latino and ’80s.
There are seven restaurants on site, with some requiring a supplement, depending on which all-inclusive package you are on.
We ate fantastic seafood, amazing Italian, top-quality steak and enjoyed the hibachi show at the Asian restaurant so much we went there twice.
This is a concept hotel — and the concept is that everybody should have as much fun as they want. It’s unique and we had never seen anything quite like it, but we found the freedom and acceptance of others refreshing.
It’s the friendliest holiday we’ve ever been on, and if there is any agenda for some of the guests, well, they are pretty well-versed in their lingo and good at picking up signals, so there’s no undercurrent of any expectation when chatting.
Would we be tempted to return to Temptation? Most definitely!
MEXICO TRAVEL: Read the Government’s advice before planning your trip.
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