The Naked Cleaner

by Sophia Soames

  “Can you please… please put some clothes on.” I manage to hiss out, between trying to control what is probably going to be the most profound panic attack in the history of my panic attacks. Because this is not going well.

  “I don’t work well with textiles. Restrictive as fuck. I see you tow the middle line, but you don’t have to be a cotton-tail around me. I’ve grown up in the lifestyle, so nothing fazes me. That’s why I started this company, to cater for the residents in the Copenhagen Naturist Society who prefer to enjoy their freedom at home and not have to get dressed for their service personnel to come in. I clean, cook, and I am a trained nurse, so I even have clients who I can service with their medical needs. It’s been liberating for so many people, and for me… dude? Are you okay?”

  NOOOOO! I want to scream. I am not fucking okay. Instead, I sink down to my knees, and to be honest, my vision is blackening out a little around the edges, and perhaps I should have eaten today, and I can’t remember if I’ve actually made myself a coffee this morning or not, and then.

  Then everything goes black.

  Chapter Two

  Louis

  Fuck my life.

  Yes. Okay. Maybe I should have asked a few questions. Yes, maybe I shouldn’t have trusted Jonas. But hey, he’s my cousin and he’s family and he knows goddamn well how I run my business. Damn him. Damn everything. And damn the guy who I am manhandling into the recovery position as I shout at Jonas down the phone. He’s nearby, thank God, and is blue lighting it over.

  The dude is fine. Breathing. Moaning a little and drooling as I place my hand gently under his chin and check his pulse again.

  A faint. With a nasty head bump as he didn’t even try to catch himself before his forehead ploughed straight into the wooden floor planks. That will bruise nicely. And he should really get himself checked out for concussion, even though I doubt he will have more than a headache and a bruised ego. Because he’s just like everyone else. Totally stuck up and full of himself and rude as fuck.

  He’s all pale and his lips are blue, and I have a blood sugar kit in the van, but of course I didn’t bring it up with me. I tell Jonas to bring one and he just sighs loudly and hangs up on me.

  So, this is Pontus. THE Pontus. The dude Jonas won’t shut up about, and yeah. It is all kind of dawning on me as Jonas bursts through the door, immaculately dressed in his paramedic uniform, followed by Clara, his partner, who looks just as dishevelled as I feel.

  “Hi, Weirdo.” She says flatly as she kneels on the floor next to this Pontus dude and grabs his hand to attach the blood oxygen monitor to his finger as Jonas is already getting the blood sugar kit up and running.

  “My name is not Weirdo.” I say, trying not to sound pissed off at Clara. She and I don’t get on. Surprisingly enough, since we both adore Jonas. I mean I used to adore Jonas. Now he is pissing me off. Well, what’s new?

  “I only know you as Weirdo.” Clara continues. “I don’t care what your real name is. Do you actually have one?” She’s always like this. Dry and surly. I don’t think I have ever seen her smile.

  I just roll my eyes, and Jonas sighs as he gently slaps Pontus around the face. Not quite professional, but hey, they do know each other, apparently.

  “Pontus, mate. Wake up for a second, will you?”

  He moans. Pontus. Tries to roll onto his back, then Clara just pushes him back on his side and mutters, “If he pukes at least Weirdo here can clean it up. “

  “My name is NOT Weirdo.” I say back. I don’t know why I bother with Clara. She doesn’t like me. I don’t like her. We’re both fine with that, most of the time.

  “What the hell were you playing at?” I hiss at Jonas. “I run a professional business. I only deal with members of the Copenhagen Naturist Society. I don’t run some gag company, or provide sexual favours, and I don’t do some kind of fucked-up Grindr hook-up dating service for your emotionally stunted friends, Is that clear?”

  “If someone is emotionally stunted, it is you, Louis.“ Jonas hisses back, keeping his voice low, like he is pretending that this Pontus won’t hear what we are saying. He’s awake, I can tell, and his pulse is racing like crazy under the two fingers I have gently pressed against his neck.

  “You are really starting to piss me off.” I snarl.

  “Look at it like this, Louis.” Jonas is staring at me again, that intense stare he does when he wants to drill something into your head. He does that. A lot. “I have been trying to get you two to meet for years, and you put it off, constantly. You need someone in your life, and Pontus here, is such a fucking mess to start with, he needs someone to look after him and make sure he actually eats and breathes and sleeps like a normal human being.”

  “I’m a nurse. Not a fucking prostitute.” I snarl back. Totally irrational, I know, but I am so bloody pissed off. I don’t need help to find a partner. I don’t need a fucked-up rude snarky half-dressed boyfriend. I need someone who understands me, who is part of the naturist lifestyle and who I won’t have to make excuses for every time I drop my pants. I tell Jonas that as well. He just sighs.

  “You have grown up like this, I know, Louis, and I am not condemning your lifestyle choices, but you spend all your fucking time with all these pensioners, who are all naturists. You have no friends outside your family and clients, who by the way, don’t pay you most of the time. You need a proper job, and I keep trying to get you to sign up to this Paramedic exchange, I mean I would have you ride along with us any day. Having a volunteer nurse on board on a Friday night would make our shift a breeze. Wouldn’t it, Clara?”

  I can tell Jonas is begging here, and Clara just hisses under her breath as she fills in forms on her tablet and takes Pontus’ vitals. I hope. You never know what Clara does most of the time.

  “And anyway, if you just tried, you and Pontus would get along great. He is just as weird as you.”

  Jonas winks and Pontus, the comatose rude human sprawled on the floor, actually speaks.

  “I’m right here, Jonas.”

  His voice is a little raspy.

  “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 t
hey 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 wearing my fucking 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 want you 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 is LOUIS. “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.

  It’s not like I have anything better to do right now, and then once I’m sure he is fine? I am refunding Jonas his bloody money and never setting foot in this goddamn flat again.

  Chapter Three

  Pontus

  I’m not a total fuck up.

  Okay. Ehhrm. Maybe I am a little bit of a fuck up. Because the headache I am spouting is kind of normal. I always wake up with my head pounding like a beast and my teeth clenching and my heart racing in my chest. But on top of that, I feel like someone has punched me in the face.

  Someone did years ago when I was still at school. Some stupid argument when I was drunk and probably too cocky for my own good. I remember being all stunned by it and stumbling away in a blind mess as blood poured out of my nose and my ears rung out with some kind of weird static.

  Today though? It just aches. And my forehead is all tight and swollen and it takes me a little while before my thoughts align enough to remember all the crap that went down earlier. Or was it yesterday? And on top of that I had a four o’clock conference call with a new supplier and fuck. FUCK!

  I have no idea what time it is. I have no idea if it’s day or night, and I sit up in sheer panic, only for my vision to blacken out, and I feel like I am going to faint again... or throw up. I’m not sure.

  Then, there is this almighty cr
ash that breaks the silence and I kind of force myself up from the fear of it all and stumble clumsily down the hallway, holding onto the walls like a toddler learning to walk.

  “The FUCK?”

  I can be polite if I want to. And to be honest, I am terrified. I have been burgled once and it wasn’t fun, and the thought of facing an intruder head on is something I don’t even consider before galloping down the hallway like a fool.

  “You’re awake. Good. Dinner is ready. Sorry about the noise, the handle fell off your pasta pan, and honestly mate, that pan is going in the bin. It’s dangerous! Anyway, the pasta is good, and I made a sauce. I wasn’t sure whether you are vegetarian or not, so I stuck to a vegan one, with cheese on the side. Good?”

  It’s the naked weirdo. Of course. I mean, with my luck, of course I would end up with the damn cleaner stalking me and refusing to leave, and now I will have to call the police and have him forced to leave and file a restraining order. I am also never speaking to Jonas again. Because this? This? This is like my worst nightmare. Strangers. People in my flat. Food.

  Well the food is not a bad thing, it smells bloody gorgeous and my stomach makes a growling sound somewhere deep inside and it’s embarrassingly loud, to the point that this Louis dude giggles and points to the chair, the one with the plate of food being put down on the table. With a tall glass of water and a folded napkin.

  “Why are you still here?” My voice is all raspy and my head is pounding like a motherfucker.

  “Pontus, mate, you fell. Fainted. Big nasty bruise on your forehead. Jonas’ orders, okay? I have to monitor you for any side effects of your fall for a good twenty-four hours.”

  He says that like it’s totally normal. Which makes me snigger, because it suddenly dawns on me that he is, once again, naked.

  Apart from a plain white apron with generous splashes of tomato sauce down the front.