So... I'm not really sure where to start, but I guess there's no point sugarcoating it. I clean apartments in LA. Not in the traditional way, obviously—otherwise I wouldn't be writing a confession, would I?
It started as a joke between me and a girlfriend from the Valley. We were talking about all the weird rich guy fantasies floating around LA, and she mentioned this one girl who made thousands a week just "cleaning" apartments... in nothing but an apron. Not lingerie. Not even cute PJ sets. Just an apron.
I laughed it off—until rent came knocking.
I'm blonde. Naturally. And that alone in LA? Might as well be a brand. You'd be shocked how many upscale, money-saturated men have this thing for blondes. "Like Barbie walked into my penthouse," one of them once told me. Gross, but whatever. They paid. And they tipped big. Most of them didn't even care if I wiped a damn thing. I was more entertainer than maid. I'd play around with a feather duster, pretend to mop while humming show tunes, bend a little too low by the fridge. That kind of thing. Nobody touched me. There were strict rules, all written out, legally signed. And I was always in control.
Until last month.
I got a request from someone with an oddly plain name—"John M."—offering a little more than my usual rate. Not a lot more, just enough to make me pause. I almost declined. Why? Because the address he gave was in this old apartment complex downtown, the kind with cracked stucco walls and rusty balconies. Seriously, my own place looked better—and I live above a vape shop.
But the money was green and the name wasn't flagged on my blacklist, so I showed up.
Same routine. Hair curled, makeup soft but flawless, apron tied. No underwear. I knocked. The door opened... and it was this guy. Late thirties. Average looking, wore a black T-shirt and jeans. No leering. No compliments. He just nodded, pointed to a bucket and said, "Kitchen first. Floors are sticky."
I blinked. "Wait, like actually... clean?"
He didn't even answer. Just walked off and sat down at a desk, typing something on a laptop.
So, for the first time since starting this little side hustle, I actually worked. Like, broke-a-sweat worked. I scrubbed his kitchen counters. His stove. I even wiped the top of his damn fridge. He didn't watch. He didn't comment. He didn't flirt. Not once. Just sat there, tapping away, occasionally glancing up to see if I missed a spot.
It felt... weird. Like I was naked for no reason. I know how that sounds. But seriously, I'm used to being watched like a zoo animal, not ignored like the air. And it kind of rattled me.
After two hours, he came in, inspected the place like he was reviewing a hotel suite. Then, he handed me an envelope of cash. No tip. No thanks. Just said, "You did good."
That's it. Then he shut the door.
I stood in the hallway for a full minute, holding my clothes, wondering what the hell just happened. I didn't feel violated. I didn't feel empowered. I just felt... human. Like, for once, I wasn't some rich guy's blonde fantasy. I was just someone doing a job.
And oddly enough?
I kinda liked it.
— Lacey