Commercial I would produce as an advertising executive:
Mr. Clean is trade, but not the scary kind. Not the kind you blow in the backseat of a Ford parked behind the Saint Paul Episcopal at four in the morning. It's been a long time since you were seventeen trawling Craigslist in your shoplifted Target dress. You're a grown woman now. Youâre not that girl, and he's not that guy.
He doesn't try to get you to put out on the first date, or the second. Not even the third or fourth. But the fifth? Well, now youâve gotta have him. You slip up and call him âdaddyâ but he just rolls with it, real smooth. âDirty girl,â he growls, and now youâre digging your acrylics in his shoulder. He can take it. âThatâs my dirty fuckinâ girl.â
Heâs ex-Navy, blue collar, not rich but heâs got his shit together. Stays at the trailer park down Dryer Street. Itâs nice inside, cozy and neat. Manâs got better taste than all the other bachelors in their mid-forties youâve tangled with. Bi, which is fine. Not exactly out and proud, but he never treats you like a secret. You wake up in his sheets and here he comes in that tight white T-shirt with a plate of bacon and eggs and a glass of OJ just for you. Tells you heâs got his VFW buddies coming over later to shoot the shit over some beers but itâs just a matter of fact, doesnât have the âso you better get goingâ sting to it. But you go home anyway, âcause it sure as shit doesnât sound like fun. He gives you a ride and mom doesnât think to ask where the hell youâve been the past two days.
So youâve been seeing him the past couple months now. The manâs so easygoing when youâre with him you feel like you can let your guard down for the first time in Christ only knows how long. Soon enough youâre tangled in his big arms every Friday and Saturday and youâve got him watching Survivor and I Love New York with a big bowl of popcorn, a glass of wine for you and a can of Miller for him. You donât need to watch how you laugh with him, or the way you cough or clear your throat. He doesnât give a shit how you sound. Maybe heâs too good to be true, but you donât care. He just makes you feel so safe.
âTil one night you drive to the Loveâs down the road, the one where you pick up Marlboro Lights for yourself and Pall Malls for mom. This time thereâs a new guy at the register. âYou a dude, or what?â, he says, right when he rings you up. Fuckinâ hick asshole. Itâs been a minute since you got any of that bullshit and it puts you in a funk for the rest of the week. A real bad funk.
And now youâre damn near black-out drunk in his bathroom, puking your guts out, crying âtil your eyes sting. You feel disgusting. Ugly. Damaged goods. Just a fuckinâ tranny. Thatâs all youâll ever be.
But all you can choke out between the heaves is, âIâm a mess, Iâm such a fuckinâ mess.â
"Messyâs fine, babygirl. I can handle a mess. Letâs get you cleaned up.â