Three bananas in metal basket

Some years back, I got a phone call from a couple.  I will henceforth refer to them as Mr. and Mrs. Grey (which will become absurdly apparent shortly).  I was still advertising on Craigslist at the time. “Cleaning and Organizational Specialist” was my title and “Discretion” was my mantra.  They took that to heart and decided to give me a call.

Mrs. Grey greeted me at the door wearing a slim, black, two-piece skirt suit with stiletto white heals.  The skirt of said suit was a mini of the miniest proportions and her blonde hair hung down past her three-unbuttoned white-collared shirt.  I’m pretty sure the first thing I saw were her breasts bursting out of the void in her wardrobe and hoped my mouth wasn’t agape.  “Hello, please come in,” she said through brilliant white teeth and ruby-red lipstick.  She was tall, slim and strikingly beautiful and I immediately felt under-dressed in my t-shirt and sweatpants.  I made a mental note to myself that perhaps I should buy a pantsuit for this particular client.

She led me through a spacious living room gleaming in overstuffed, white sofas and shag area rugs.  I prayed the rest of the house wasn’t draped in white as this color is the bane of any cleaning lady.  It shows everything.

We walked into the dining room where she motioned for me to sit at a glass-topped dinning table with a zig-zagged chrome base.  “You have a beautiful home,” I said as I sat in a chrome metal chair.  It was like sitting on the bleachers at a high school football game.  Rich people always have the most uncomfortable furniture.

“Thank you,” she said as she sat down. “I designed it myself.  I’m an interior designer.” Rich people also don’t “decorate,” they “design.”

We went through my work history and her needs for the house. Her previous cleaning lady, it seems, wasn’t up to her professional standards and was a bit put off at their “unconventional” lifestyle.  Unconventional, I thought. Greeeaat.

“Well you seem perfect for us, but before we go any further, we will need to you sign a non-disclosure agreement.”

“Oh,” I said a little too shockingly.  Note to self: After buying pantsuit, retain lawyer.

“We’ll pay you [enter absurd amount] a week.”

“Oh,” I said again a little too shockingly.  “I think that will be fine.”

“Hun,” she called out to the other room. A short, thin metrosexual looking man in a silk suit walked into the room, his Italian loafers clicking on the bamboo floors. He was tanning-bed tan and there was enough product in his hair to fry a turkey.  Mrs. Grey introduced us and he produced a two-page form and a pen. “It’s pretty standard,” he said, like I sign non-disclosure agreements all the time. I inserted my name on all the blank spaces and signed on the dotted line, hoping I wasn’t signing a contract for my soul.

“Alright,” Mrs. Grey said. “Let me show you around.”  We got up from the table and made our way around the house. “We have three bedrooms, three full baths and a play room.”  Huh, I thought. I didn’t see any sign of children.

We went first to her bedroom.  It was huge, with a four-poster California King bed draped in burgundy velvet. Ornate candelabras adorned the Victorian nightstands and the walls were covered in a gold-gilded wallpaper.  It felt like some dark dungeon in a Gothic castle and was such a juxtaposition from the rest of the house that I believe my mouth was certainly agape.  “Lovely,” I managed to squeak out.  Thankfully the rest of the bedrooms and bathroom were pretty standard, until we got to the play room.

She led my up some stair next to the door to the garage. I was trying to picture toys strewn about a brightly-lit, happy room.  But, like I said, I didn’t see any signs of children anywhere else in the house. Oh my God, what if they keep them in cages!

We got to the top of the stairs and I was greeted to what I can only describe as a torture chamber. Upon closer inspection, it was a sex/torture chamber complete with wooden chairs with shackles, whips and riding crops, a whole wall of dildos and butt plugs, a sex swing, and in the middle, a very creepy looking table that could have been used for human sacrifices. My mouth wasn’t just agape, it had fallen wide open with my jaw on the floor.  These people really took “50 Shades” and ran with it.

Mrs. Grey turned to me. “As you can see, we require full discretion. My husband is a very prominent business man and some wouldn’t understand our unconventional lifestyle.”  So that’s what they’re calling it these days.  “This room needs to be deep cleaned and sanitized every week.”  Oh God.  “And I like to put the used sex toys in the dishwasher. It saves time that way.”  OH GOD! 

She smiled a toothy grin to me and said, “So what do you think? Would you like the job?”

I looked around the room and thought of the small fortune I would get a week.  “Sure, why not.”