The Cleaning Lady

She could tell what had happened as soon as she walked into her employer’s apartment. Oh, Good Lord. Rosie set down her caddy of cleaning supplies and sighed. Every Friday morning, she found the same thing. What is it about Thursday nights? Is it three drink minimum night at Sleazebags-R-Us?

She started in the kitchen, tidying up the mess left behind. Half empty bottle of champagne, wasted. Down the drain it went. The chocolate dipped strawberries she made yesterday sat on the counter, untouched. Rosie dumped the tray into the garbage. That was a useful hour of her time that she could have spent watching Days of Our Lives. Hey, but at least he gave up trying to feed them oysters. The girls he brought home were typically finicky eaters, and it took several hours to remove the smell of oysters that had been sitting on the kitchen counter for 12 hours. This was a breeze in comparison.

Rosie moved into the bedroom and nearly gagged. Ugh, the smell! There was nothing worse than having to breathe in that stale, sweaty stench of a man who’s not your own. She opened the windows right away to air out what had taken place the night before. Then she moved throughout the room, picking up the clothes that were strewn all over the floor. His pants, his lipstick stained shirt…. Ah, there they are! The black lace thong that was left behind “on accident.” Like that will make him call! Rosie used the handle of her mop to pick them up and put them in the hamper. He’ll be able to add those to his collection, the pervert.

She stared at the bed for several moments, trying to build up her courage. Seriously, it was just too disgusting for words. How can he even look her in the eye, knowing that she knows what he does in here? Does he have no shame?

Best to get it over with.

She put on her rubber gloves, closed her eyes, and ripped off the sheets as fast as she could. Oh, God…. What is that on the sheets??? She could live with the food on the counters, the clothes on the floor, the smells… but she could not stand the thought of the sticky wet substance that may or not be penetrating through her gloves right at this very moment.

She was going to demand a raise. Today.

The Topic:
Let's get all steamy up in here and write about sex.

But you know us. There's a twist.

You can't write about the act. I don't want to read about any heaving bosoms or girded manhood (please tell me someone else giggled besides me).

There are so many other possibilities. And I hope you have fun finding them.