Page 4 of The Naked Cleaner

“You should put some clothes on, mate.” Jonas says softly, looking at me and jerking his head. Telling me to get the hell out of here.

“You should have some respect.” I retaliate. Totally rudely. I do get his point, I do. If this Pontus turns his head a tiny weeny bit, he will have my dick in his face, and even I can appreciate the inappropriateness of that. However much I don’t necessarily want to.

“Pontus, mate, you fainted and hit your head. Nice looking bruise coming up on your forehead, by the way. Now can you follow my finger? Left to right? Good boy. Now what day is it? “

“Bloody Valentine’s Day.” Pontus rasps out. I can hear him from the hallway where I am standing like an idiot looking for something to cover my privates in. Like a towel. We always keep towels by the door at home in case someone has to answer the door. Here though, nothing. And I can’t remember where I dropped my clothes and instead, I fumble around in the open closet in the hallway and my hand finds a pair of trunks. Like speedo kind of things. Which are far too small, but they are at least covering my junk, and making me decent enough for other human beings—I hope.

Yeah, I know. I’m weird. I’m a mixture of red-blooded Latino from my Chilean mother, and cold-hearted Viking from my Dad, but in reality, I feel like a confused mouse most of the time. Perhaps a mouse mixed with a bit of sneaky fox. Because I do have my moments, and I can be confident and sassy when I need to be. That is all my parents’ fault, my parents who are full-grown twenty-four-hour naturists. I grew up like this, and my grandparents were naturists, and I somehow survived to this half-hearted adulthood, as a naturist. And that part I am really happy with. Because at least I have something. I may not have a proper job, and I may have fucked up every attempt at holding down anything long term, mostly because I am apparently weird, and yeah, the aversion to textiles doesn’t help either when you are working in a hospital. Scrubs are okay, at least I can free ball in them and they are loose and cool, but when you are used to just being yourself, wearing clothes is kind of... Weird.

But that’s the thing, I am me, and I am actually happy. I know for a fact most people aren’t, but at least when I am me, I am free. Just myself. And I am perfectly content in my skin. So, fuck everyone else who can’t see it.

My parents are lucky, they both work for the Copenhagen Naturist Society, and spend their days in their home office, living a nice happy peaceful existence with very little stress, and of course they wear clothes when they leave home, and I’m not a total imbecilic person. I know when clothing is not optional and when it is. Today was an optional day. I sent this Pontus person the contract. I have a very detailed terms and conditions list, and I explicitly explain that the cleaner will not wear textiles when working, and that this is not an option. I told him. He agreed. Well at least he didn’t argue, and he sent back the contract, electronically signed. He can’t sue me, however much he tries.

Which is why I only work for other naturists, or people who have been carefully vetted. Like Mr Holte, who isn’t a naturist at all, but his carers were driving him crazy, and I clean for his neighbour. And they talked and I was offered the contract, and Mr Holte, having been in theatre all his life didn’t bat an eyelid. He just wants meatballs on a Thursday and doesn’t give a monkey’s if they are vegan or not, as long as they come with a hefty scoop of mash, and Lingonberry jam on the side. Then he likes coffee in a mug with three sugars, and soup on a Tuesday, and his bathroom cleaned, and his medication neatly sorted into his little blue pill boxes. He doesn’t give a flying fuck if I do it naked or not, and anyway, he is interesting to talk to and tells me all this gossip about actors and TV stars and things. He’s my favourite client, apart from Ms Anita, who is a naturist and about eighty. She makes me laugh until I cry with her stories of Bingo club and her recaps of TV shows she watches.

And anyway. People should mind their own fucking business. Apart from Clara apparently, who gives me an eyeroll and a loud sigh as I sink to my knees next to Pontus, who just stares at me in shock.

“I said clothes. Louis.” Jonas warns.

“I am decent.” I hiss back.

“Who is. He.” Pontus coughs. “That. Why is he still here?”

“Pontus, this is my cousin Louis.”

“The weirdo?” Pontus says, and he gives me a disgusted look. Like I am truly a weirdo. I should be used to it, that bleeding nickname that has stuck since school.

“Louis. His name is Louis. He moved back from Aarhus recently and runs his own cleaning business.” Jonas says, shooting me what I think is a supportive smile. “Louis is not a weirdo, he is a naturist. “

“A weirdo.” Pontus coughs. “Is he wearing my speedos? Why is he wearingmyfucking Speedos?”

Pontus tries to sit up and Jonas and I both say, “Don’t,” in unison.

“You need to lie down and let us monitor you for a while. You had a nasty fall and could be suffering from concussion. I am a trained nurse, and Jonas and Clara here are checking you over. If you get up too fast you might faint again and injure yourself or others, so please just lie down and relax. Would you care for some water?” I do my professional nursing spiel as Jonas packs his kit away, shooting me an appreciative smile for once.

“Jonas, we need to shoot off. Back in the van, duty awaits. You have four minutes. Four.” Clara drones on and Jonas just nods.

“Pontus, when did you last eat? Your blood sugars are shit, you are quite severely dehydrated, again, and I kind of wantyou back on those iron tablets I gave you.”

“They made me constipated.” Pontus sighs. Then he blushes. Yeah. Because I am still here, and obviously Jonas knows his shit. In a non-literal way.

“I will stay with him for a while.” I offer. “I’ll make him something to eat and ensure he rests, and I can monitor, and let you know how he is before I leave later. “

“I have a client meeting at four. I need you all to get the fuck out of my flat and let me just get on with work. I promise I will eat and drink a whole two litres of water like a good boy.”

Pontus doesn’t even sound sassy. Just pissed off and tired. He sounds so bloody tired of everything that it makes my heart ache. I know the feeling, because that is sometimes me. That sinking depressing, awful feeling when nothing makes sense and there is no light at the end of the tunnel. When Monday turns into Sunday and nothing has changed.

“You need monitoring for the next twenty-four hours.” I mutter. It’s the truth. Honestly. “I have no more clients today, so I can stay with you. I promise not to get under your feet, and I will just check your vitals and make sure you don’t pass out or puke your guts up. Any visual disturbance? You have to let me know if you feel unwell, or if your vision starts acting up, that’s a good indication that there is something we need to investigate. And anyway, I have been paid to clean your goddamn flat, so I might as well do that.”

To be honest, I don’t feel up to it. I kind of just want to go home and sleep. It’s kind of exhausting when you realise a simple job is a fuck up, but it’s the first time the client has actually collapsed on me. Like it is my fault he has collapsed. Like seeing my dick has made him faint, which makes me wonder how fucking deep in the closet this Pontus is, as my head is trying to remember the things Jonas has told me about him. Because Pontus. Yeah. Gay. Stupid. Successful, and impossible to drag out to a party or make him come for dinner. And yes, Jonas has tried to set us up before, which I have refused. I am not willing to date a cotton tail. Tried it. Didn’t work. Never does. There are always the sexual undertones, and the weirdness and the friends and family and the comments that then turn into resentment.

I’m a normal fucking human being and I just want to have a life.

“Done deal.” Jonas says and snaps his paramedic case shut. “So, Louis, you stay here, and I will come over and check on you tomorrow morning before my shift. Please eat, Pontus. Seriously. And be nice to Louis.LOUIS. His name isLOUIS. “Jonas’ raised eyebrows and stern look at Pontus makes me smile. It’s the same look he gives me.

Behave. It says. Like I need reminding. I’m not the one with issues here or stuck in some closet or so uptight about his own self that he can’t deal with a bit of nudity. Anyway. These Speedos are driving me mad and I am going to go and look for a towel, and then I’m going to steam clean the hell out of that cesspit of a kitchen.

And check Pontus’ vitals once an hour. On Valentine’s Day. But then it’s not like I have a date or anything. My parents are going to the annual Naturist Ball of Love. I was going to sit at home and order in dough balls with garlic dip, and pretend I am not a total freak.

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