Page 41 of The Naked Cleaner

“You are like a fucking child.” I laugh. “How many times have we been through this? Mum ironed her kaftan earlier, and Dad was wearing slippers. They are fully on board. Promise.”

“I don’t trust you.” Pontus mutters.

“My arse doesn’t trust you.” I say back, half serious. Half wanting to laugh. Half hoping I can exit off the motorway faster than his dick takes to thicken up. All Pontus has to do is open his mouth, and bam. I get a hard on.

“You sore?” Pontus says, and his hand lands heavily on my thigh, which makes me jolt. Because. Yeah.

“Yeah” I sigh in defeat. “We need to buy more lube and I need a break. My arse can’t take more for a few days. Sorry.”

“Sorry.” Pontus almost whispers. “Should’ve gone easy on you, but you kind of… You need to tell me when I am being too rough.”

“You weren’t too rough, and anyway, I was the one screaming for more and trying to ride you on the hallway floor. It was pretty good.”

“Pretty good?” Pontus shrieks. “You did see those spunk marks on the carpet? You put those there? Remember? Bouncing on top of me, screaming my name andfasterandfuck me Pontusand all that?”

“Shut up.” I mutter, but my mouth is smiling. And Pontus’ hand squeezes my thigh. And there we go. I miss the exit for the services and I kind of swear a little under my breath. At least we will be on time for dinner. And I will just have to control myself. At least until later.

I park ridiculously close to the house, my nerves showing as I can’t line the van up properlydespiteparking on this drive every bloody day. And Pontus is fidgeting and chewing a fingernail and looking terrified again, and I stomp my feet on the doorstep in a clear warning to my parents to cover themselves up or face my wrath, and I even angrily buzz the doorbell before tugging the door open.

“EEELLLO!” I shout. Like a fool. Like I always do, but then it’s not every day I bring someone home. And then I rip my t-shirt off in sheer panic as Pontus’ face goes all white and I remember that this is supposed to be a clothed evening. No nakedness. I take a deep breath. Pull my t-shirt back on as Pontus carefully toes his shoes off. Wiping his hands on his trousers and tugging at the strings on his hoodie.

“Darling? Is that you?” Comes my mum’s voice from the kitchen followed by a stern, “Bernt, the boys are here, get yourself covered up dear.”

“I am not covering up in my own home.Dear.” Comes from another part of the house.

“Dad!” I whine. Because here we go again.

“I’m allowed to do whatever I want in my own home!” My dad roars from the chair where I have no doubt that my imposing father is sitting stark naked with his iPad on his lap. He may be old and awkward, but Bernt Ramsdahl has not let technology get the better of him and I have no doubt that Pontus is about to get an earful of my dad’s ideas and ideologies and all that crap he spills out. It’s fine if it’s just us around, but he bloody promised.

“Dad.” I warn, dragging Pontus with me by the hand as I sweep into the living room, where Dad’s face cracks into a blinding smile and he takes a couple of steps towards Pontus and shakes his hand vigorously.

“Pontus, is it? Dear boy, come in, come in, take a seat. Louis has told us so much about you, welcome to our home. I’m Bernt, and don’t be shy, boy, come sit down. Louis. Bring your boy a beer. I bought that German brand you like, and Mother has bought wine. It’s organic from New Zealand so none of those pesky Australian preservatives.”

My dad looks at me and smiles triumphantly. Like,Look? He’s fine. I’m not getting covered up in my own home just so other people can feel more comfortable about their own insecurities.

“I’m so sorry, Pontus.” I whisper as Dad rolls his eyes and taps the screen on the iPad.

“Now Pontus, I read this article about the future of computer graphics, and I wanted to ask your opinion.” He passes the iPad to Pontus, who accepts it with a pale smile, looking at me for the non-existent reassurance written all over my face, and I just sit my sorry sore arse on the sofa and let my head hang into my hands.

“You promised.” I whine.

“Your mother promised. I said nothing of the sort.” My dad replies, and crosses his arms over his bare chest.

“You are as bad as each other, you silly stupid men.” Comes the cheery voice from the hallway as my mum sweeps into the room, carrying a tray of glasses, wearing her favourite flowing kaftan, the one that is made by Colombian workers in the eco-factory sponsored by the Copenhagen Naturist Society. I stare at her and I honestly want to scream. This is not the kaftan she said that she ironed this morning. The one she ironed this morning is not bloody see-through with the evening sun glaring through the large windows facing the fields at the back of our house.

“Louis, darling, you are looking a little pale.” My darling mother comments and strokes my hair as she sweeps by, then she grabs the iPad from Pontus and drags him up into one of her hugs. The ones where she strokes your back and whispers secrets in your ear and makes the world a better place.

I hope.

Because this is all about to go wrong, and Pontus is about to walk out and never return, and why on earth did I think that this was a good Idea? Really? Why?

I can’t quite make out what Mum is whispering to Pontus, but Pontus is giggling softly and Mum holds Pontus’ face in her hands and she nods and he nods back, and I’m kind of about to swallow my own tongue in fear. This is not good.

“Dinner smells delicious, Isabell. Don’t you agree boys? I made the bread and Mother has done her spicy stew, and there is fresh sorbet for dessert. Arne came over earlier. He had made a fresh batch. It’s blackberry, if I remember rightly.”

“Arne makes the best sorbet.” My mum coos. And Pontus falls back down on the sofa with a thud.

“Mum. Dad.” I start, forcing myself to sit up straight. “This is Pontus. My boyfriend. Please don’t make me look bad by embarrassing the hell out of me. Not on our first date.”

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