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" \n  I was hungover and reading a Game of Thrones recap on my phone in a restaurant when NudeHouseCleaners.com&amp;#039;s &amp;quot;Jason Chrome&amp;quot;* called me and let me know he was outside my apartment. I was flabbergasted.   &amp;quot;I&amp;#039;ll be right there! I totally forgot,&amp;quot; I sputtered, unsure of what the protocol for this sort of situation was. Unless you count putting someone else&amp;#039;s gin and gingers on my tab until they are tipsy enough to wonder what my boobs are shaped like, I have never paid for someone to get naked in my house.   And of all the unorthodox things you might have considered doing naked \u2014 playing RISK, cooking a salmon fillet or talking to your career advisor on the phone, for instance \u2014 cleaning is probably not one, if only due to the simple hazard of Mrs. Meyers products going anywhere near your genitals. On the other hand, thanks to the Internet, you can hire someone to Brillo the rust off your stove in the nude quicker than you can get a two sushi-roll-and-Sapporo special brought to your door on Seamless Web.   An important word about the resting state of my apartment.   Some girls are &amp;quot;cute messy.&amp;quot; Like, just a lipgloss or two and some socks on the floor, and &amp;quot;You wanna come upstairs? Just warning you, it&amp;#039;s messy!&amp;quot; My apartment, roughly the size of a Habitrail hamster cage, is not &amp;quot;cute messy.&amp;quot; Once a week or so I&amp;#039;ll throw some dirty underwear in the hamper and drag a Swiffer Wet Jet half-assedly around the floor, but most of the time it looks like a scene from Children of Men \u2014 which is why the fact that I did not remember that Jason Chrome was coming to vaccuum/stick his perfectly sculpted buttocks in the air like a juicy Christmas ham was a huge problem.   Jason is about 5&amp;#039;7&amp;quot;, black, and handsome, with a wrestler&amp;#039;s build, toting one of those drawstring nylon gym bags the popular guys in high school used to use as bookbags. He isn&amp;#039;t as taken aback as most men are when he sees The State Of Things. After all, in the four months that he&amp;#039;s been working for the service (which also involves performing via the site&amp;#039;s webcam) he&amp;#039;s seen it all \u2013 he&amp;#039;s cleaned nude for married and closeted men, married women, divorced men, divorced women, and anyone else who has $300 and a yen to look up someone&amp;#039;s butthole while they make a bed in slow motion. Mostly gay men, he confesses, some of whom masturbate while he cleans.   I ask him if he is gay.  &amp;quot;No, but a lot of the guys are. And some of them are, but don&amp;#039;t know it yet.&amp;quot;  Does he pretend to be gay when he&amp;#039;s with gay clients?  He smiles, looks down. &amp;quot;Yeah, a lot of the time.&amp;quot;  But what does he say when they ask why he&amp;#039;s not hard?  &amp;quot;Usually I say &amp;#039;When I&amp;#039;m focused on cleaning for you, I&amp;#039;m not gonna be up.&amp;#039;&amp;quot;  When Jason is not leaning against my desk taking his shirt off and answering awkward questions, he is a law student doing this to pay tuition.   &amp;quot;International law is my focus right now,&amp;quot; he tells me as he takes his pants off, rather like a dentist asking you what your plans are for the weekend in order to distract you from the Novocaine he is injecting into your gums.  He begins to slip his boxers down and I instinctively avert my eyes, ultimately breaking my pledge to Just Be Cool and blurting out: &amp;quot;Sorry-can-you-maybe-keep-your-underwear-on?&amp;quot;  &amp;quot;Sure.&amp;quot; He smiles, snaps the elastic against his waist. &amp;quot;Most customers like me to have them off.&amp;quot;  &amp;quot;Yeah, hahahahaaa, do you want some baby carrots?&amp;quot; (I seem to be having a small stroke, similar to the one I experienced with dicks waggling in my personal space during the Great Male Strip Club Experiment of yore.) &amp;quot;I have some in the fridge!&amp;quot;  &amp;quot;I&amp;#039;m good.&amp;quot;  He stands, waiting for me to give him instructions.  &amp;quot;Um, you can just, like, put those books in a stack?&amp;quot;  He piles them. Even watching him do this is uncomfortable. The few times I have hired a fully-clothed cleaning lady to come to my apartment, I have fled the premises as quickly as possible in order to not feel like Lucille Bluth.  I ask him, &amp;quot;Do most people have you actually clean?&amp;quot;  &amp;quot;Some people ask you to really scrub things down.&amp;quot; He shrugs. &amp;quot;They want to see the sweat glistening off you.&amp;quot;  &amp;quot;Oh!&amp;quot; I say brightly. &amp;quot;Okay, um, you can stop.&amp;quot;  He steps away from the books. Within the next five minutes, his pants and shoes are back on, because he is a gentleman.  &amp;quot;Some of them are awkward, like, have conversational issues\u2026 and you&amp;#039;re kind of like, &amp;#039;I can see why you&amp;#039;re alone.&amp;#039;&amp;quot;   This strikes me as weirdly sad. I stare forlornly at a point in the distance for a second until I realize it looks like I&amp;#039;m staring at Jason&amp;#039;s bulge.  Later, on two-wine-glasses auto-flirt with a friend of a friend at a party, I tell the guy the Tale of Jason.   &amp;quot;Wasn&amp;#039;t it awkward?&amp;quot; he asked.   &amp;quot;I guess. But I mean, everything is a little awkward.&amp;quot;  The friend of a friend nodded and we just stood there, having run out of things to say, until we both started talking to other people. I rest my case.  Follow Anna on Twitter. *Name changed.   Photo courtesy Getty Images "^^<http://www.w3.org/2001/XMLSchema#string>
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