Boymaid

I said to my boss Max:

"So you never heard back from that guy?"

"Which guy? I hear from guys every day."

"You know, the heavy guy who shit and pissed on his bathroom floor and made me clean it up?"

Max looked up. He was sitting behind the cluttered desk of the cramped little office from which he ran Boymaid, his nude-male cleaning service. I'm not sure Max liked visitors. Three smartphones lay on the clutter in front of him and I think he preferred doing all forms of business, including the employer-employee kind, over the relative anonymity of the phone. You came here for your initial interview, you undressed for him, modeled your body, maybe he fondled you, maybe he even fucked you on his soiled and equally cluttered vinyl couch, as he had done me...If Max liked you he hired you. On the spot. Your contact number was on the application. Right?

"As soon as something comes up I think's right for you, I'll let you know." Now get lost, his sudden, head-down lack of interest seemed to say.

But here I was, today. The cleaning gigs hadn't exactly been rolling in and I was anxious to find out why. My college's Christmas break was coming up and I would have lots of free time on my hands. Besides, I needed the cash.

"Yeah, he called...," Max said, searching for something among his mess. The news elated me.

"He did?"

"Yeah. And when I told his ass it'd be a hundred roses up front...he said thanks but no thanks. He hung up."

"Damn, dude..."

Max gave me one of his stares. The withering one. "I told you if he ever called back I would charge him a hundred. No way I'm sending one of my boys out to be a human toilet."

I protested, meekly: "It wasn't like he pissed and shit...on me."

"Close enough. On the floor? And then made you spend an hour cleaning it up?"

"Yeah but the other stuff he had me do, the dishes and shit...I was only there like two total hours. Tops. And he didn't even want a blowjob. So..."

"So you shoulda charged him a hundred roses, easy. One-fifty even. For that shit? No pun intended? Screw him! Maybe his mommy'll send his fat ass a hundred bucks for Christmas and he'll call for you again."

I was flattered. It doesn't take much. "He asked for me?"

"Course he asked for you. `Skinny kid with the dark hair who looks like he's sixteen...'"

"I'm nineteen," I protested.

"I'm just sayin'! Sure as hell wouldn't send any of my other boys out to this creep's house."

"Doublewide."

"Even worse. Now...," Max said, lifting at me another of his stares. "Something I can do for you, asshole? I'm busy."

"A gig would be nice."

Max's head wagged as he more-or-less silently parroted my words. "Look, kid. To be frank? You needed some cooling off time."

"Some...what?"

"You could not have smelled too great after your little adventure. Have you ever been down in a sewer?"

Laughter bubbled up. A giggle anyway. "I know. My dormmate? He made me sleep on the couch for like the next three nights afterwards. He went out and bought me some rose-scented body wash. He didn't fuck me again for nearly a week."

"See? I had to put you on sabbatical for a while. Now?" Max said, sniffing the stuffy office air. "You're back. If you're looking to make bigger bucks, and if you're OK with piss and shit...which obviously you are? Fine."

Max had rotated his open laptop 90 degrees. An Excel spreadsheet was on the screen. He pointed a thick finger at the far-right column. "What's that say?"

I squinted. "Interest?"

"Interests. Plural. As in fetishes and whatnot. I keep track of all this shit so I know which is the right boy to send em. I got one on you guys too. I cross-reference em. Boys come and go...but the clients remain."

Max clicked on the header and the column instantly alphabetized. "Anal," all the visible names specified. Lots of interest in "anal."

Max pulled the scroll bar down into the "S's." He pointed again. What's that say?

"Cat?"

"Scat! Cat...," Max sighed, with a roll of the eyes. "You need glasses or somethin'? Know what Scat means?"

I searched my memory banks--which only went back about 14 years. I recalled something from a Music Appreciation class. "Some kind of singer?"

Another sigh. "It means excrement! Piss and shit! Your speciality! These guys with "Scat" by their names have at some point or another expressed interest in--big surprise--scat. Look. There's like twelve of em. Some active. Some not. But I could start makin' some calls, tell em I got a new boy they might be interested in." Max rotated his laptop out of my view and replaced it with a blunt forefinger: "But I'm chargin' these assholes a hundred roses up front. Got it? No exceptions. And I recommend you do too. At minimum."

Max gave me that look: Now get lost, kid. You're bothering me.

I liked this gig already. My new client's house was in a gated community, and his 4/3 ranch with kidney-shaped pool (I'd Doodled it, satellite view) was on a canal that fed out into the bay. I arrived at five minutes to eleven on a Saturday--the appointed time--and was greeted at the door by a middle-aged man wearing what appeared to be a satin robe. Unsmiling, he looked me up and down before stepping aside and letting me in.

As soon as we were behind closed door in his tile vestibule, he produced a crisp hundred dollar bill. Which I reached for. He pulled it back.

"Last time I paid a boy up front he pretended he'd left his smokes in his car...That was the last I ever saw of him. You're not going to run off, are you?"

"No sir. The boy was from Boymaid?"

My client shrugged. "No. Just a boy."

"I can assure you, sir, we at Boymaid...For one thing my boss would kill me if I ever did anything like that."

"Max?"

"You know him?"

"We've had our dealings. Here," the hundred "roses" at last exchanging hands. I stuffed the bill into a zippered pouch of my backpack.

"What's in there?" he asked, of the backpack. "Guns and knives?"

I grinned. "Cleaning supplies, sir."

"Good. You're going to need them. Now get undressed. Time's wasting."

I liked my new client. Obviously he knew what he wanted. Obviously he was on the imperious, domineering side. I liked Dom men. Men like Max. And like the guy at my last gig who'd ordered me to clean up his shit. This could be a lot of fun today.

On the other hand...his house appeared immaculate. As if a cleaning lady, or a whole gaggle of them, had just left after pulling an all-nighter. His spacious livingroom resembled a museum. His kitchen, with its large marble-topped island, positively glistened. No dishes in the sink. Not a copper pan out of place. My client said to something--not me, that was for sure--"Music. Tosca. Play." He looked back at me. "You like opera?"

"Uh...I..."

He was smiling for the first time. "Have you ever listened to an opera before?"

My mind once again fled back to Music Appreciation class. "Part of one, once."

"What was its title?"

"Um...Something Butterfly?"

He burst out laughing. "Madame Butterfly." You fool, he failed to add. We'd come to sliding-glass doors, just off the kitchen, which looked out on his kidney-shaped pool, a grassy backyard to its rear, a pier, a bobbing boat and the canal. The glass, to my eye, looked as clean and clear as the air it held back. But he pointed at the long-poled squeegee and bottle of Windex lying on the lanai and said, "You can start by cleaning these doors."

"Yessir."

"Meanwhile I'll take my morning dip and watch you from the pool." He gave my bare ass a pat before we both stepped onto the lanai. "How old are you? Sixteen Max said?"

I started to correct him. Then caught the gist of the game. "Right."

"Sweet sixteen. Wonderful," he said, shedding his robe on his way to the pool. "Pick that up. Drape it over a chair. Carefully. It cost more than your car..."

Exterior speakers were pumping Tosca out onto the lanai and as I squeegeed his glass doors he watched from the pool making corrections as needed: "You missed a spot, there. No, back there." My client, I quickly discovered, was a clean-freak. He also wanted to know a little about me.

"How often do you...do this kind of thing?" he inquired.

I glanced over my shoulder. "Clean in the nude?"

"For grown men, yes."

"Once or twice a week. Sometimes more."

"After school?"

I caught myself again. Remembered the game we were playing. "Occasionally. But usually like today, on weekends."

"Spending money?"

"Something like that."

"Does Max get a cut? Of your take I mean?"

"No sir. He gets his up front."

"So theoretically you can charge anything you want?"

"The company has guidelines."

My client laughed out loud. "'Company.' I like that. So the hundred was your idea?"

"Partly. As I say..."

"Max tells me you had quite the interesting experience at your...how do you call it? Gig? Last gig? A guy made a toilet of his floor and made you clean up the slop?"

"Something like that, yessir."

"I heard it was exactly like that. Don't worry...," today's client said, breaking into a leisurely butterfly stroke that propelled him to pool's deep end. "You won't have to do anything like that for me," he continued. "That's disgusting. On one's own floor?"

Clean-freak I thought, once gain. He butterflied back to the shallow end and climbed the steps to the lanai. Thickish middle-aged body dripping, he held out his arms and said, "Dry me off. There are towels over there, on the table. Be thorough. I detest wet patches."

The folded white bath towels were so thick I at first thought I'd picked up two by mistake. My client snatched it from me and gave his balding head a buffing before handing it back. I dried his back first. Then his hairy chest and belly and his sides and underarms. I got on my knees to dry off his abdomen and ass and his pubes. He was well-hung but showed little for it. Despite having a naked teenager kneeling at his feet he revealed no sign of arousal. ED? While I was down there I wondered if he wanted me to suck him. Too early? I didn't ask. I proceeded to dry his thighs and then work my way down his legs to his feet.

"You missed a spot," he advised. Of course I had, and patted the wadded towel against the small of his back in response. "Now. My robe," he commanded, arms still held out from his sides as if he were a kid making like an airplane. After helping my client into his robe he cinched the tie at the front, turned toward me and with the faintest of smiles reached down and fondled me.

"Not much there is it?"

I blushed. "They're a little frightened at the moment."

"Relax. Nothing to be frightened of. I'm harmless. Now, while I go inside for a moment you can take a dip in my pool. You smell like"--sniff--"Windex. Just make sure when you get out you dry off thoroughly. I don't want you dripping pool water all through house. Understand?"

I nodded.

"Have you ever bobbed for apples before?"

What? Talk about nonsequitors...I'd heard of it. Wasn't it something people did a hundred years ago? On farms? Before...video games and the internet? My client didn't wait for a reply:

"We're going to play a game next. I call it Bobbing for Apples. Ah, this is a beautiful passage...," he said of Tosca. "Listen to it. Learn. Anyway, my home contains four bedrooms. Two of these bedrooms have en-suite bathrooms. In other words, the bathrooms are connected to the bedrooms. One of these is my master bedroom, the other...we'll just call it the second bedroom. Down another hall are two guest bedrooms. The bathroom for these two rooms is across the hall. We'll call this the guest bathroom.

"Remember," he continued. "Three bathrooms: master, second and guest. Got it?"

I nodded.

"This is important because you're going to have choose one, and call it by the right name."

I was intrigued. But also wary. My heart was thumping. Was it audible? To him I mean? "Master, second and guest," I repeated back.

"Good. Now while you're rinsing off in my pool I'm going back inside. I'm closing the doors and drawing the drapes. No peeking," he smiled. "You'll remain out here until I come back. Make sure you're dried off and ready. I'll probably only be gone about five minutes.

"When I come back I'm going to ask you a question. The question will be: which of the three bathrooms did I just take a dump in? Three bathrooms, three toilets. You'll make your guess. Your chances are 33 percent, roughly speaking. If you happen to guess right...no problem," he said, his lips making a pronounced downturn. "You flush the toilet, get on your knees and give it a quick scrub. I pee sitting down so...Piece of cake. We spend the rest of the day in the pool, sunning ourselves, listening to opera...Pity you're too young to drink. Oh, and you give me a blowjob before leaving, of course.

"If you guess wrong, however...incorrectly would be the better English I suppose...If you guess incorrectly then here is where the Bobbing for Apples comes in." My client paused. Apparently to rub his dry-sounding palms together. "Instead of apples you'll get down on your knees and bob for turds. The turds I just deposited in the toilet you guessed wrong about." A frown, a head shake: "More atrocious English. But you get my gist. I'm blessed, if that's the right word, with shit that floats. A dietary thing I guess? I once had a doctor who told me that if your shit floats, you must be eating right. At any rate, son, you'll bob for my turds in the toilet, lift them out in your mouth and deposit them in the bucket waiting for you in the bathroom I plan to use. You'll do this, while I observe, until all the floating turds are removed, and in the bucket. Any of my shit that doesn't float...well, I'm not going to have you drown am I? You can fish those out with your hand. But only the turds that don't float.

"Once you're done, and I'm completely satisfied with your efforts, you can dump the shit in the bucket back in toilet, flush it down and get to work cleaning everything. Likely there will be some drip, some mess. And of course the bucket will have to be thoroughly cleaned out. You can wash it out with bleach and a hose on the side of the yard.

"Now," he went on. My pounding heart seemingly haven risen to a space between my ears. A brainless one. "What I've just outlined for you is best-case scenario. You owe me several hours and if I'm not pleased with your performance--the Bobbing for Apples part I mean--or attitude, I'll have you dump the turds back in the toilet and start all over again. And do it until you get it right. Understand? I hope you like the taste of shit." He was walking away, toward the sliding doors. "And piss. Cause you're going to get a mouthful today, sweetie. Now wash that Windex smell off!"

I took a quick dip in the pool. That was all. I was so nervous my hands were shaking. Nervous-excited and nervous-frightened. What had I gotten myself into this time? This was not cleaning up after some fatass who peed and shit on his bathroom floor. This was not mere extreme Boymaid service. This was actually submersing my lips, mouth and tongue in a man's toilet pool of piss and shit. Tasting it. Having some of it trickle, inevitably, down my throat. Having clots of his solid waste in my mouth. Getting between my teeth! I'd have to bite into the turds wouldn't I? Or would the pressure of my lips be enough to lift them out?

I'd lose grip and the turd would fall from my lips and splash back in. And the splash would cover my face. Pee would be dripping from my face, down my chin. Running down my chest, dripping to my thighs, dripping between them to the floor...

Christ!

My body was dried off now. I could escape all of this. Run to the chair by the vestibule, pull on my clothes, some of them anyway, leave the hundred roses behind and flee to my car. I tried the sliding door. It was locked. The fucker had locked me out! I tried to look through the drapes. They were opaque. I looked for a crack, an opening. There was none. Meanwhile somewhere in the expanse of the house my client was emptying his bladder and his bowels. For my benefit.

I told myself to calm down. Wasted breath. I was near outright panic. I wanted to call Max. Plead with him. My client would emerge at any moment and--

"Have you made your guess?"

I swallowed. Tried to. It would be one of my last tastes of pure saliva for many days to come. "Um..."

"I have good news," my client declared. "Good for you, that is. My turds are exceptionally buoyant this morning!" He frowned: "I would much prefer to pick them out with my mouth, rather than have to submerge my hand in all that muck, wouldn't you? Well, maybe not. What's your decision? You remember the three options don't you? DON'T you?"

I nodded. My client was clearly a Dom. He liked to be waited on. Liked to give orders. He liked to correct you. Liked to humiliate, if this Bobbing for Apples game was any indication. He liked boys. Submissive boys. He liked being their...

"Your decision?" he asked impatiently. "The quicker you make it, the fresher and firmer my shit will be. Hurry up."

I drew breath. Let it out. I could still make a break for the front door. Couldn't I? Hell, I'd drive home in the nude if I had to. Fuck appearances. Fuck his neighbors!

"What, I have to beat it out of you, little boy? With one of my paddles?"

"Master," I blurted.

There was a pause. A smile. His. He looked down at the lanai. Looked up. Put an almost comforting hand on my on my bare shoulder. His expression was...unreadable.

"Let's see if you're right," he said. "Let's take a tour..."

I knew right away I was sunk. There was no bucket in the master bedroom's spacious bath (the largest bathroom I'd ever laid eyes on). There was almost no point in peering into the immaculate toilet. He patted my back.

"You lose. Sorry. Or maybe not?"

Suspense over, a calm was washing over me. The calm that comes with resignation. It was OK. I would "bob for apples" in some other toilet. I would get it over with. Not all these Boymaid gigs were a piece of cake. It was a form of prostitution. Sometimes you just wanted to get out. But it was only three hours, tops, and eventually it would be over and I'd be driving home, fifty dollars richer. Or in this case, one hundred.

He led me to second bedroom's bath. No bucket. No piss and shit. Another pat on the back. I'd almost said "Second." Wrong, wrong again. I should've known. Or guessed. What was I if not this guy's guest?

The guest bathroom! Of-fucking-course!

The guest bedrooms proved to be on the opposite side of the house from the master and second bedrooms. As soon as we entered this alternate hallway I could smell the evidence. God it stank.

"I've been holding it in all morning," he declared, echoing the words of my previous shit-and-piss client. This bathroom was of a more normal size: double sinks, large shower stall (no tub or jacuzzi like the others), toilet standing alone opposite the sinks. The lid was up. And there it was: the "apples." I couldn't help noting that the piss filling the toilet was--sort of--the color of apple juice. A metal bucket sat off to the side. My client moved past me, flicking on the exhaust fan as he went.

"Funny thing about shit," he said. "You don't mind it when it's your own. Or maybe in your case..."

I saw no point in delaying this. Get it over with. As quickly as possible.

"Oh you do like it," my client enthused, as I dropped to my knees. The stench filled my nostrils. I gagged--once. I pulled the bucket near.

"In here?" I asked nonsensically, looking up.

"You see another bucket? Bob for apples, son. Start bobbing."

After a pause--and a final thought of flight, escape--I opened my mouth and lowered it toward the nearest, and largest, of the turds. I placed my lips against it...and it scooted away. I tried again. No cigar. I had shit on my lips now. Pissy shit. I licked them. Unlike the smell it tasted sweet. Well...salty-sweet, from the urine. I tried a second, smaller turd. My nose dipped into the pee water as I tried--and succeeded--in getting hold of it. No teeth. Just lips. It was mushy though from being in the water those several minutes. It was starting to fall apart in my mouth! I raised the bucket. I turned. In it plopped.

My client applauded. "Good job! One down, a half-dozen to go. Some load, huh? I saved it up just for you, baby-boy."

I lifted another turd out, then another. The shitty pee was up my nose and the pissy shit was on my lips, in my mouth. On my chin and upper lip and the tip of my nose as well. Liquidy shit was running down my chest. I needed to work quickly. The turds were softening, starting to break up in my mouth as I attempted to lift them out.

Five down but that first big turd still eluded me. It was at the back of toilet's oval now. I leaned in, my head against toilet bowl's sloping inside. I tried to grab it with my mouth. The turd broke apart, split in two. Christ! In retrospect this was a blessing. The easier now to wrap my lips around. Get a hold. I eventually dropped one half in the bucket, then the other. Now the only shit remaining, aside from tiny floating fragments, was down in the bottom of toilet's curving neck. Before reaching for it I wiped my mouth on the back of my wrist. And stained it brown in the process.

I was mid-forearm deep in the fetid toilet water, reaching for the softening last of the non-floating turds when...something warm and wet hit the right side of my face. Holy shit! I'd all but forgotten about my observing host. I looked over and discovered him jacking a load out of his barely half-hard penis. Another dollop of thick jism shot out and hit me square in the right eye, blinding me momentarily. The shit in my hand--his shit--oozed between my fingers as I squeezed it. This would be next to impossible to salvage. And would this mean I had to start all over? Dump bucket's load back in the toilet and begin "bobbing for apples" again? I was simultaneously trying to wipe the sperm from my eye on my right shoulder. Not easy considering it was my right hand at the watery base of the toilet.

Fortunately, my client's interest in his "scat" game seemed to have flown away with his semen. He couldn't get out of the guest bathroom fast enough, it appeared. Gruffly he said: "What a mess! Clean it up, clean yourself up and..."

I didn't catch the rest.

On the drive home I reported in to Max. I guess he recognized the incoming number.

"This guy shit and piss on the floor?"

"No. In the toilet. It was all very..."

"Civilized?"

"Something," I replied. "We played Bob for Apples."

"Bob who? There were two guys there? He only paid me for one, dammit!"

"No, no," I said, with a roll of my own eyes. I decided it would take too long to explain. "Everything went according to plan." Whatever that meant.

"Well you must've done a good job. He's already texted me. Wants you back next Saturday. Says he has a new surprise in store for you. Thinks you're, like, 16."

"Oh. OK." What could be more of a surprise than bobbing for apples? Or being three years younger than my actual age?

"Got an incoming...," speaking about his client calls as if they were enemy missiles.

"Bye."

A hundred roses richer I stopped at a Pepper's to reward myself. I produced my fake ID (courtesy of Max, by the way) and ordered a vodka martini on the rocks. It was all-day Happy Hour so two were delivered. Woo-hoo! A middle-aged guy (story of my life) took interest and moved himself and his beer mug down two stools.

"I swear," he said, "you don't look old enough to drink."

"Shhh!" I playfully replied, lifting an index finger to my lips. The finger smelled of shit. I was certain my breath smelled the same way. Probably my whole upper body. The guy, leaning in, reared back.

"Christ, baby. You've been rimming somebody this morning or something?"

I blanched, wondering if I had shit between my teeth. I was already on my complimentary second martini. Maybe the speared three olives would help mask the odor? (Doubtful.)

"You wouldn't believe it if I told you," I replied.