One Man's Trashy Talk... 

We had phone sex.  At least I think we did.  I’m not sure. I don’t even know if I did it right.  I mean I guess we had fun, that’s all that matters, right?  I think she got more into it than I did.  I asked to make sure.

“Is that it?”

“Oh yeah, baby,” she cooed, “that was it.”

“Ok, great.” I guess I’m better than I thought.

It began as all sexual adventures begin.  I’m busy cleaning the house in my bathrobe, with porn music pounding from the stereo.  I say that like I’m experienced at these things, but I’m an average guy. I’ve heard the stories; I just never thought something like this could happen to me.

That is until the Pirate Queen called yesterday.  Her ship had run aground and her crew was jumping overboard with everything they could grab. “Some day’s I just hate my job.”

I bent over with my feather duster, sympathizing as best as I could, splitting my attention between the dust runs at the base of my entertainment center and my poor Pirate’s day of woe.

“…So I slaughtered the crew.  Their lawyer tried to contest the matter, but once I explained the disloyalty severance clause in the contract, he didn’t have a leg to stand on.”

“I can see that.”  I say squeezing blue goop in the toilet bowl.

“What’s that noise?” She asks.

“Oh, I’m just cleaning the house.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, Persephone just won’t work a mop.”

She laughs, but it’s a darker tone that I haven’t heard from her before. “Soooooo,” she begins, “what are you wearing?”

“Nothing.” I say, gathering the trash.

“Really?” I think she dropped the phone here, but she recovered quickly.  I heard her breath. She was back.

“No, actually I’m in my bathrobe.”

“uh-huh,” says the hoarse whisperer, “and what are you doing?”

“I told you, I’m cleaning the house.”

“Right, but what exactly are you doing?”

“Trash?”

“Ohhhh. That is soooo hot.” Her breathing is getting deeper.

“Really?  I’m taking it out now.”

She let’s out a little gasp.  “Oh.... tell me about it, please.”

“Uhm, yeah.”  I’m a little concerned.

This is a side of the pirate I haven’t seen. So far everything has been fun and flirty.  This trashy talk is taking things to a new level.  I’m not sure I’m ready for that. I don’t know what’s next.  What if I can’t perform to her expectation?

“So how big is your trash bag?”

“It’s a large black one.”

“mmmmm…yessss?”

“Well right now I’m going into each of the rooms that have small trash cans and I’m stuffing them all into the big sack.”

“Oh, I’ll bet it’s so full…” There are other noises from the phone. Is she writhing?

“Are you writing?”

“Oh yeah, baby.  Tell me what else you’re doing.”

So I talk her through my house cleaning ritual.  An hour later, she’s still hot, and impressed; I’m still going.

“Most guys. They rush.” She moans.

“Yeah, My mom told me a long time ago that if I was going to clean at all, I might as well do it right.”

“Smart mom. Now go—do the bathroom. Do it please.”

I’m almost done with the house. She’s almost done too. She’s screaming for me to scrub the toilet harder and faster. I flush. There’s a fluttered inhale. There’s silence. There’s deep relaxed breathing.

“You are so good at this,” she laughs.

“Thanks,” I say. I’m a little stunned.  I feel a little used, and I’m not sure how I feel about that.  Then she says something that really disturbs me.

“Can we do this again tomorrow?”

She’s an animal. I’m older Rob.  There was a time when I could have cleaned the house 7 days a week, but now? I don’t know.  She says she can show me new tricks. Tricks like scrubbing baseboards and other dark arts that Martha Stewart only dream about.

I’m not sure I’m ready for that. It’s going a little fast.  Soon she’ll have me painting and weeding.  “Can’t we just cuddle?” I plead.

She just laughs her dirty pirate laugh.  “Ok, if that’s what you want, “ she offers, “ but I was hoping I could tell you about rebuilding a V8 engine from the block.”

“Oh,” I whisper, “you are so hot…”