"Love is what happens to a man and woman who don't know each other."

—W. Somerset Maugham

Clean Fantasy

 

The delivery man shows up finally, and Julia is ready to give it to him. How dare he keep her waiting so long. She had to take the morning off from work, and it's already afternoon.

But when she opens the door for him, her anger immediately subsides. The man is carrying the thing on his back. Up the stairs to her apartment. The poor guy has the shittiest job in the world. Carrying washing machines. To women who are all pissed off at him for not doing it fast enough.

She smiles, pleased to see him. A handsome fellow. Her heart melts at the sight of the profusely sweating man, struggling to keep his balance as he climbs one step at a time, trying not to make a fool of himself in front of the lady. One false move and he’ll fall backwards.

The man is strong enough for the job, a virtual superman but no competition for a washing machine. This deluxe model is superhuman, even for a machine. Man’s greatest achievement, according to the catalogue. It apparently not only washes your clothes but your mind as well, cleansing the spirit. Add enough detergent and the machine will bleach the soul of ugly thought. If you stick your head in it.

Everyone needs a washing machine, every man and woman soiled by the grime that accumulates with the days of our lives. Even before he can get it out of the box, the machine is having an effect on her. Her subconscious soaking, causing an inexplicable desire in her body. To take off her clothes. And get wet. To be clean.

In fact her clothes are rather dirty. Since the old machine broke, she’s had to wash a few things by hand. No one will notice. Unless they sniff. Standing in her kitchen in her office attire, all dolled up and ready to go, she looks what they call presentable. Ready to sell herself in the corporate marketplace. She feels weighed down by the pressure. The heels keep her ass in the air, presenting her to the world.

Meanwhile the common man is on his knees. Not exactly begging, just working for a wage. He has to literally kneel in front of her to do his important work. As if it wasn’t enough to carry the damn thing, now he has to install it. All in a day’s work.

Modern life has its perks though. The common man can drive to work, before hauling the load on his back. And the working woman has her washing machine. Every woman's liberation. The machine makes her life a little bit easier. Just load it, and turn it on. She can spend the time in bed, with a book, or a lover, before unloading. While the clothes get clean, she can get dirty as hell.

The man tries not to look up at her, which would mean looking up her dress. He just wants to finish the job, hopefully get a big tip, and finally go for lunch. All he can think about is that beer he’ll gulp down. He’s not supposed to drink during the day. He has to drive the truck. But he’s only human. After carrying and installing washing machines all morning, he deserves a bit of sin. What more do they want from him?

She stares down at her new washing machine. Since the old machine broke, she’s felt almost alone in the world. The TV still works. She stares down at the man. Yes, he’s rather handsome, and well-built, but more than a few steps below her class. How do you date a man with a van? Hit him over the head with a crowbar.

Then she realizes she hasn’t offered him a drink. There’s nothing in the fridge except milk and wine. The working woman eats out every meal. The milk is for her cappuccino in the morning. The wine is for evenings. She can’t offer the common man tap water. Too common. She wouldn’t want to treat him like a slave. But he’s probably very thirsty from all that sweat. Coffee is dehydrating. So is wine. And actually, she’s out of coffee. She used up the last bit waiting for him to show up. That was on her list for things to pick up as soon as the machine showed up and she could leave the apartment. Now that it’s here, she can’t leave the man alone.

“I’d offer you something to drink,” she almost offers. “But…”

But nothing.

“Would you like some white wine?”

The alternatives are worse. Would you like some tap water? Would you like some milk?

“It’s cold.”

The man looks up at her.

“The wine,” she adds.

Suddenly he notices the woman. And not just up her dress. He’d been so preoccupied with the enormous task at hand, he barely had a chance to catch his breath. Now he catches his breath. And sniffs like a dog.

He looks up at her, at her crotch. The thought crosses both their minds.

Her perfume reminds him of washing detergent. That’s what happens when you spend your days in the company of washing machines and desperate women. He swore the last time he serviced one that he would never do it again. The extra tip makes him feel like a gigolo. And the exertion takes it out of him. What energy he has left is just enough to finish the job. When he’s done installing the new machine, he has to take away the old one. Before moving on to the next address.

But somewhere in the perfume of hand-washed lingerie is a more essential odor, a stench you can never quite wash off. The woman reeks of feminine desire.

“Sure, I’ll take a glass of wine. Anything, as long as its cold. I’m too hot for words.”

“I can see,” she says, biting her lip.

She hates this sort of cheap repartee. Like cheap lines over cheap dinners with cheap dates. Releasing her lip from the bite, she licks it instead. She reaches in the fridge to find the coldest bottle. She pops the cork, hating herself for the cheap giggle that punctuates it. The only part of courtship that isn’t cheap is the sex.

She pours two tall glasses. She hands the man his thirst quencher before realizing she hasn’t offered him a seat. He must be exhausted.

“Won’t you have a seat?” she asks as if preparing for a meeting with a suit and tie. This sort of man is used to being told to sit his ass down. With a beer.

They sit their asses down at the kitchen table. They clink glasses. They do look each other in the eye, as is the custom, but the man looks away.

He’s too thirsty for words or any formality other than swallowing. He gulps down the glass of wine like a shot of whiskey. And burps.

“You were thirsty indeed,” she adds. “More wine?”

He knows he really shouldn’t. He shouldn’t have had that first glass. It’s not just that he could lose his job. He could lose his driver’s license, which would mean losing his career. It’s not just that he has money problems or an alcohol problem. He has a prostate problem. Not such a rare thing for a man in the prime of his youth. The gland is overtaxed by the combination of lifting heavy objects all day, drinking too much alcohol all night, pissing like a drunk, and yes, fucking whenever he gets the chance.

He decides he’s more into the wine than the fucking.

“Don’t mind if I do,” he says, and pours himself another glass. Stupid bitch, he thinks. She thinks she can get me drunk that easy, so I’ll fuck her. All these white-collar sluts are the same. They think a man is an idiot just because he works an idiot’s job.

What an idiot, she thinks. He drinks wine like it was water. Hopefully the dick is smarter than the idiot. She swore the last time she seduced one that she would never do it again. The cheapness makes her feel like a prostitute. And the exertion takes it out of her. When she’s done playing a part in a fantasy, she still has the role of her life in the real world.

But he is rather sexy for an idiot. And she is getting drunk. She’s not used to drinking before lunch.

If not for their decided differences, in class and gender, they would be of one mind. He was just thinking that she is kinda sexy for an uptight bitch. And he is getting drunk. Fuck it all. The working man is the pillar holding up the pyramid. He deserves the perks of the job. He takes what he can get. Even if it kills him.

The bottle is soon gone and she hasn’t finished her glass. They haven’t said more than a few meaningless words. What should people of such opposing backgrounds have in common? Except the obvious, the unspoken. The lust that binds us all together. In slime.

“I better finish the job,” the working man says at last, slurring his speech.

She bites her lips, and he kneels down on the floor. In front of the washing machine.

Idiot. Doesn’t he get it? Or is she just lost in her own cheap fantasy? She swallows down the rest of her glass. And finishes the fantasy.

In her mind’s eye she sees the game played out in perfect timing. To begin with, he asks for her name, something the idiot never bothered to do. He introduces himself as Thor, the god of thunder no less. He takes her hand in his and plants a soft kiss in the palm of it. He stares into her eyes.

His mouth is etched in her inner vision, even as his crack is staring her in the face. The jeans do indeed drop down when a man is forced to supplicate himself to a washing machine. Such a fit specimen, a slob nonetheless. So much for clean fantasy.

He staggers as he gets to his feet. The drunken fool remembers suddenly that he has to remove the old machine first.

She would laugh at him, but it might kill the fantasy, or stir it. Could go either way. That’s what she gets for her trouble. No sex, and a poorly installed machine.

All these man slaves are the same. They think a woman is a bitch just because she dresses like one. He doesn’t know what he’s missing. She’d give him a run for his money. All ten bucks of a tip.

She pictures his mouth opening as he leans forward to stick his tongue inside. Her mouth opens at the thought. She grabs him by the muscles on his arms and pretends to push him away, only to encourage him to be more forceful. Carefully he maneuvers her onto the table to lick her from head to toe, lingering on the soft flesh between her thighs.

Of course none of this actually happens. The man has his hands full installing the washing machine. His tongue is hanging out of his mouth like a beaten dog. The old machine won’t budge even after he disconnects it from the wall. And the stupid bitch just sits there watching him. He almost has a mind to fuck her, just to show her who’s boss.

She thinks about going into the bedroom and lying down. She’s certainly not going to offer a hand to the handyman. But why sit at the kitchen table playing with her empty glass when she could be lying in bed, breathing life into a battery operated machine? If only vibrators could gush.

He finally gets the monster out and away from the wall by tilting it. The tube rolls along the floor, and it does gush a bit. Foul stuff comes spilling out on their shoes.

“You got a bucket?” he asks plainly.

“I suppose.”

The maid brings her own tools. But there’s a pail somewhere. Before the floor is flooded, the working woman better mop it up. With a sponge.

Against all her better judgment, she gets on her knees and goes about doing what women are presumed to do best. Keep house. On their hands and knees.

Oh, how she suffers for her sex. If he hadn’t been sexy, she wouldn’t have felt sorry for him. If she hadn’t tried to seduce him, she wouldn’t have gotten him drunk and then she wouldn’t be crawling around the floor in shame. The bitch would have called him an idiot to his face and threatened to sue the company with a smile.

He stares down at her, wondering what the bitch is doing on the floor. “You need a bucket and a mop.”

She looks up at him, at his crotch. The thought crosses both their minds.

“Get a mop,” he suggests.

His impudent tone reveals a clear lack of respect. But what does she expect after serving the workman wine, now crawling at his feet.

“Gimme that sponge,” he insists.

She hands him the sopping sponge and in the process soaks his pants. The brute doesn’t seem to notice, but she does, half kneeling in the slime, feeling dirty not only in mind. The gentleman pulls her to her feet and for a moment they really are on the verge of a fantasy kiss, if not a mad bout of filth. But there’s no time to kill. The foul stuff is still gushing.

She runs off to fetch the mop, hating herself for having turned into the sort of woman she never wanted to be. Distressed, out of control, told what to do by a stupid man, running for a mop.

She can’t find the pail. The mop does the trick. She squeezes it out in the sink. The foul stuff splatters everywhere. Her clothes are a mess. On the upside, at least she’ll have a new washing machine.

Saved by the bell. Her cell phone rings and she leaves the manual labor to the manual laborer. She does what she does best. Bitch out a phone with pleasure. Service with a smile is something for the service industry, and usually the idiots forget to smile. In business you smile while destroying the competition. “My pleasure,” she tells the phone just before turning it off.

She returns to the man and the mess with pleasure. The phone revived her sense of propriety. She feels her guard go up again, back in place. Everything under control.

The man seems to have the mess under control. “It’s nothing,” he reassures the woman. “The stuff builds up. It’s gotta go somewhere.”

Oh, shut up. The idiot must realize what he’s hinting at.

She looks at the mess the idiot has made of her kitchen, and more importantly the state of her clothes.

“I better get out of these clothes,” she says. “I mean, can’t go to work like this. I mean…”

She would tell herself to shut up. But first she has to finish the sentence.

“Anyway, if you need anything,” she offers, “I’ll be in the bedroom. Changing.”

He just nods in her direction. Or so it seems. She doesn’t catch his gaze when she turns her back on him. She can’t see that the man is watching the bounce of her ass, that his dick is nodding in her direction too. He didn’t find her particularly sexy until she crawled around in the slime. He prefers a woman with some muck on her.

She returns in fresh clothes to find the mess cleaned up, the old washing machine in the foyer, and the new one already in place. He tells her he’s just about through. Then he’ll carry the old piece of junk to the truck and be on his way. He actually apologizes for the mess. For the customer having to get on her hands and knees.

“My pleasure,” she says out of habit.

Then he’s done. She opens her purse and realizes she only has a five and a fifty. Okay, the man is an idiot, a brute, an impudent slob who dared to treat her like a slut, an easy lay, a desperate lonely woman. But he got the job done. And he is rather sexy. Give him the fifty. What else can she offer?

“Thanks so much,” she says, handing him the token of her thanks.

“I don’t got any change,” he says plainly.

She’s still holding out her hand, and the money. So he takes her hand and shakes it, the money between them. They do look into each other’s eyes, the all-knowing glance.

“Thanks,” he says at last and releases her. “I’ll be on my way.”

Last chance. Her smile turns to a sullen grin. The woman stops playing executive and becomes a vamp. “There’s another bottle of wine. If you’re still thirsty.”

Slut, he thinks. She just can’t resist her manipulative fantasy to be serviced by the service industry, delivered by the delivery man, fitted like the washing machine. Well I’ll fit her good. Get her good and dirty with my foul stuff so she can try her new washing machine on for size.

She’s still waiting for an answer.

“Sure. I can always drink.”

Spoken like a true drunken fool. The idiot as alcoholic. A classic. The working poor can never figure out what exactly they’re doing wrong, why it’s so difficult to rise up the ladder in life. Two suggestions she has for the bunch of them: get an education, and stop drinking. Then you won’t be a drunken fool.

So she reaches into the fridge one more time and pulls out the coldest one. When she pops the cork she does giggle again. And no sooner does she pour the glasses than they clink. Man and woman look each other in the eye, but this time he doesn’t look away. He gulps down the wine, pours himself another glass, gulps that, and before she knows what hit her he’s all over her. Only, not like in the fantasy.

The brute is rough, as you might expect from a brute. He doesn’t lean over to kiss the palm of her hand. He grabs her by the waist and pulls her on his lap. His mouth mauls hers with the indelicate fragrance of wine and cigarettes, to say nothing of the garlic sausage he ate for breakfast. Nonetheless she submits. As only a woman can. With complete insincerity. In the name of love.

A stimulating fantasy, even if not the one she had in mind. She’s somewhat relieved that he doesn’t wait for the bedroom. Then she’d have to do the sheets. She already has a full load of soiled clothes. And he prefers to service his clients in front of their washing machines. Right there on the kitchen floor. They can mop it up after.

Okay, the sex is no good. He doesn’t take the time to give her her pleasure. No whispering sweet nothings, to say nothing of lip service. They both have busy schedules. She has to get to the office and he’s got some more women waiting for their delivery. Those fantasies of genital delight are the stuff of mind over matter. After tasting the man’s filthy mouth, she lost her appetite for his cock. She wouldn’t have wanted that tongue of his in her asshole, never mind between her legs. It was enough to get the condom on the klutzy thing before he stuck it in.

They both knew it would be a mistake. They did it anyway. When it’s over they behave exactly as they did when first they met. They keep their thoughts to themselves. They still haven’t properly introduced themselves. No names. Just his penis in her vagina.

He dresses unashamedly, smirking with insolence. She’s not grinning anymore. She puts her underwear on, for modesty’s sake. The second set of clothes will need to be washed. Mended, for that matter. The brute ripped her blouse open to suck her tits and tore her skirt pulling it over her head. More importantly, she will need a thorough washing, in the shower that is, before gathering all the soiled clothes for a triumphant first load in her brand new washing machine, washing away the sins.

The stains of humanity. For now her only interest is in seeing the man to the door. He still has his job to do. First he has to lift the old monster, which is rather more cumbersome than the sleek new model that was in the package. The tubes are still hanging out, threatening to make a mess out of the foyer and the stairwell if he shakes too much. Add to that the man’s drunkenness and anything can happen.

Instinctively he grabs for the bottle, to bolster himself for the long day ahead of him. Without asking, he polishes off the wine.

Drunken fool. She’s standing there in her bra and panties, stained with sex. Can’t he just leave finally. Does he want more money? Or more wine.

Uptight bitch. He burps at the thought of a lousy job well done. What a slut that uptight bitch turned out to be. What a lousy fuck. She couldn’t loosen up if you used a crowbar. He jammed his crowbar as far as it would go, but there was a wall at the end of the tunnel.

Her left kidney. What an idiot the idiot turned out to be. Does he really think a woman can be opened up by a crowbar. How many women have suffered at the incompetent hands of this fool, the handyman trying to shake them loose like they were washing machines made of plastic, steel, and concrete. She doesn’t offer wine or money or a single word. She slips on her heels. She grabs for the knob and holds the door open.

He staggers to the door. He hands her the empty bottle, as if to say thanks for nothing. He squats down, straps the beast to his back, and tries to stand up.

It’s always more difficult on the way out. For a few reasons. The old machines are always heavier and more cumbersome than the latest model. And contrary to common logic, it is more difficult to carry a heavy object down a set of stairs than up. Going up you fight gravity in an almost erect posture. Going down you lean back to avoid falling head first. Add a few more reasons why he should not be doing this and you understand the predicament he’s in. He’s drunk. About as erect as that limp spent thing glued to the side of his thigh. And the gland that keeps him propped on two legs is on the verge of busting open.

The fool manages to stand up, wobbling a bit, but steady. He squeezes his prostate for what it’s worth. He stands in front of the door, preparing to propel himself forward. As soon as the bitch gets out of the way.

She’s not dressed to go out. Neither can she come in. The fool is standing in the way. Only minutes ago they were stuck together. Now their bodies hesitate to even brush by.

“You’re in the way,” he says plainly.

She doesn’t bother to explain. She just wants him out of there. No one is in the stairwell. So she steps out into the hall. The compromising woman. Allowing for the stupidity of the man.

He stumbles on as best he can. The threshold is too narrow. How did they get this thing in? Or is he being stupid, and drunk? He decides to turn sideways, and manages to get himself stuck.

“I’m stuck,” he says.

She tries to control herself. She sucks her teeth and sighs with impatience. She rolls her eyes. She even smiles, if that’s what that is. She is after all standing in her dirty underwear in the hall with a man and washing machine blocking the entrance to her apartment. She has no choice but to pull herself together and take charge of the situation. She summons her managerial skills and executive experience to offer a clear solution.

“I’ll pull you,” she says with pleasure, if that’s what that is. She grabs him by the muscles on the back of his arms and yanks as hard as she can.

Oh, if manual labor were only as simple as love. She gets him and the washing machine through the door alright. Propelled forward by the weight of his burden, he topples over her and falls head first down the stairs. To make matters worse, the action pulls the door closed, locking her out.

So they were both right after all. He really does look like a drunken fool with a washing machine on top of him, leaking down his leg. And when the neighbors step out to see what the commotion is about, they can’t help but notice the filthy wretched half-naked woman in the hall and think the only imaginable thought, ugly as it is. What a slut that uptight bitch turned out to be.