Clean Enough?

When I open my eyes, unusually, the first thing I feel isn’t panic washing over me. Instead, I’m surprised that I managed to sleep at all. I turn over and immediately reach for my phone. I switched off the Wi-Fi for the night because I knew I wouldn’t get any peace otherwise – I’d keep reaching for my phone every time it buzzed. Somewhere inside me, though, a more rational part already knew that at 11:30 last night, hardly anyone was likely to still be awake.

I made two profiles. For the second time in two days. Only this time, instead of calling myself “labfetisdeb” – basically foot fetish Debrecen – I went with “tapossmeg,” meaning step on me. Maybe that said more. I wrote underneath that I was only interested in meeting guys from Debrecen. I had absolutely no interest in some long-distance bullshit. I’d learned once and for all that nothing good ever came from that, and I sure as hell wasn’t going to travel fifty or sixty kilometres just to live out a fantasy.

I also made it clear that the username wasn’t meant literally – that I was into a softer version of it. I didn’t see the point in going into as much detail as I had on the previous profile, where I’d explained exactly what I meant and what I liked. If the username caught someone’s attention, they’d message me anyway. I took a few screenshots from porn videos where it was pretty obvious what turned me on. I also wrote that I can’t host. It was easy enough to lie and say I lived with my parents and my two older brothers, none of whom knew I was gay, so meeting at mine was completely out of the question. In reality, I very much lived alone – but letting someone into my home wasn’t even an option.

Both times I signed up, I just wanted to feel something. The emptiness felt as if it were gnawing raw chunks out of my soul, and I was so drained that nothing I thought about could excite me anymore. In fact, nothing seemed to stir anything inside me at all. Since I have borderline personality disorder, I think I can safely call that a depressive episode rather than simply being in a bad mood. A few days earlier, at least scrolling through TikTok had still been enough to distract me. Now even that couldn’t entertain me anymore.

When my phone reconnects to the network, the notifications start appearing one by one. Strangely, I’d been expecting something from Grindr rather than PlanetRomeo. All I can see is that tapossmeg has received three messages. In other words, me. I open the dating app. Out of desperation, I’d messaged a few men myself the night before, even though I’d promised myself I wouldn’t fall into that role this time. If someone was turned on by what they saw on my profile, they could make the first move. The top message catches my attention first.

If you can sort out a place, I’m yours for two hours ;)

I open the conversation. His username is tallbearguy. Now I can see all of his messages.

Hi

I’m an EU size 47.

If you can sort out a place, I’m yours for two hours ;)

Out of curiosity, I check his profile. According to his bio, he really is tall, 189 centimetres. About a head and a half taller than me, so I suppose it makes sense that his feet are enormous. Size 47? One of them could probably cover my entire face. But the familiar anxiety immediately creeps in. I have to find us a place.

Before I can properly register the sting of rejection, I check the other conversations. One guy has a photo of himself lying on a blanket beneath some trees, wearing sunglasses, with striking features.

Hi

I don’t think we’re looking for the same thing.

It doesn’t exactly tear my heart out.

The third guy is pretty heavyset, and every one of his photos has an AI-edited background. You only have to look a little closely to notice. His face is hidden behind a blushing emoji in every picture. I’d messaged him the night before too, asking whether what he saw on my profile appealed to him. I got a simple answer.

Never tried it before, followed by the same kind of emoji he used to keep his face anonymous in his photos.

I go back to my home screen and look for the Grindr icon. Not exactly difficult – the two apps are right at the top of my frequently used apps. I must have opened both of them at least thirty times.

There was a guy yesterday who seemed interested. Sure, his feet were only a size 40, but the photo he sent was actually pretty attractive. He hadn’t replied, even though he’d been online an hour ago. I’d watched an ad for some stupid game, which bought me the luxury of being able to see for an hour who had seen my last message.

The tiny Read label sits there miserably beneath it. Scrolling back through the conversation, it’s painfully obvious which one of us had been more enthusiastic. All it takes is two flattering words and my pathetic little soul, desperate for tenderness, immediately starts attaching itself to someone before I’ve even seen a fucking picture of his face. Yesterday, I’d been the one to tell him I’d show myself. His response was that he wouldn’t meet without exchanging photos anyway, so I sent one. Before that, he’d told me that if he didn’t like what he saw, he could always cover my face with both his feet. It had sounded sexy at first. Thinking about it afterward, though, it was pretty humiliating.

To make my profiles a little more appealing, I’d added a face photo to both of them late last night – the one I’d originally been saving for the point when we actually got around to showing each other what we looked like. I’m fat, and definitely not attractive. If I had a six-pack and biceps big enough to tear through T-shirts, I’d probably have more men interested in me. Or maybe if I paid them enough.

I switch back to PlanetRomeo and open the top conversation again. I start typing that I can’t host and asking whether he’s sure he can’t arrange somewhere. My thumb hovers over the send button while I run through the possibilities. I could message that woman who rents out a discreet little apartment for two hours for ten thousand forints, but money is really tight right now, and I’m not sure I can afford it. Fucking OCD. I can handle this. I can do it.

When are you free? I reply instead.

I can see that he’s online, and his answer comes soon after.

Four this afternoon.

I can arrange a place. Come to mine.

I thought you couldn’t host.

For a guy with size 47 feet, I can ;)

;) Where should I go?

I’ll send you the address. Message me when you’re nearby and I’ll tell you how to get in.

What kind of socks do you like? ;)

He really is trying to please me.

Dark ones. The kind that hold the smell in better ;)

That’s what I’m wearing.

Perfect ;)

After eight hours, you’ll definitely be able to smell them. Don’t worry ;)

I’d better ;)

I close the app. My phone buzzes again. For a second, I think it’s him, but it isn’t. I can see the notification came from Messenger – my sister replied. I open the conversation.

You’ve been talking about mass murder a lot lately. It’s starting to scare me a little.

The fucking Campus Festival is on right now, and even though the Nagyerdei Stadium is several kilometres away, I can still hear the noise at night. Every burst of music and distant cheering feels like a reminder that somewhere out there, people are having the kind of summer I’m not. They’re drinking, laughing, touching each other, making memories, while I’m sitting here alone listening to the whole thing from a distance. My fear of missing out is almost physical, twisting into loneliness first, then irritation, then anger. That’s what I’d been talking to her about yesterday, when I told her that sometimes I couldn’t decide what I’d choose if I could have one thing from Harry Potter: Apparition, or a wand that only knew the Killing Curse. Green flashes everywhere. I tap the message field and the keyboard pops up.

Obviously I was joking xd Don’t tell me you never have thoughts like that.

Not really xd, she replies.

I’m not serious xd, I write back.

She reacts with a heart. Nothing else comes through.

I get out of bed and start wondering how the hell I’m going to make this work. It isn’t the fact that a stranger is going to come into my home that bothers me. It’s what he’ll be wearing. The same clothes he’s worn outside, or at work. Who knows where he’s sat down in them. He’ll touch the door handle when he comes in through the gate, and I’ll probably shake his hand. Then my hand will be dirty too, and I know I’ll physically be able to feel that it isn’t clean. I’m not afraid of germs. I’m afraid of what people touch, and of the most disgusting possible scenes my mind immediately starts creating around it.

I try not to panic. I can handle this. I’ve managed it once before, years ago. But my OCD wasn’t this severe back then. I take a few deep breaths and start going through everything one by one. The bed. I make it quickly, but I don’t put the huge blanket away. I’ll use that to cover the part he’ll be sitting on. I still have plenty of disinfectant wipes at home. I’ll put the pillows down beside the bed so he won’t touch those either. He’ll probably just think I’ve prepared everything really well.

I go into the bathroom and wash myself quickly. Out of the four towels, I throw three into the laundry basket. I can’t think of a better solution, and there are freshly washed ones in the cupboard anyway. One will be enough for him to dry his hands with. It is my apartment, after all. I get to make the rules. I just hope I’ll have the nerve to actually enforce them. I already know I’m going to watch every single thing he does. The drops of water falling from his hands after he washes them nowhere near as thoroughly as I do. Then I have a better idea. I’ll put that one towel where I usually keep my “dirty” towel. That way he won’t have to reach across the whole bathroom for it, just over the toilet. I can wipe that down afterward. Oh, the toilet. If he needs to piss, I’ll tell him that in this apartment he either does it sitting down or not at all. I have three packs of wipes at home, to be exact, plus bleach. I can deal with this.

I don’t want to tell him about the OCD. I don’t want to scare him off. I don’t even want to talk to him again until he gets here, because I know I’ll somehow fuck the whole thing up.

Who knows what’ll be on the bottom of his socks. What might get stuck to my carpet. I’ll somehow ask him to step straight from his shoes onto the little mat. At least that way I can stop him from putting his socked feet down on the filthy tiles. I’ll just say I don’t want bits of dirt ending up in my face.

I go into the kitchen, wash the dishes quickly, then go to wash my hands. Fuck. I should’ve thought about this earlier. What am I supposed to dry my hands on now? I rub them on my T-shirt, then go and get some paper towel. I tear off a sheet and dry my fingers one by one.

Back in my room, I clear everything off the table and put it into the storage compartment under the bed. Luckily, I haven’t spread the blanket over it yet. My laptop, my e-cigarettes, my glasses for wearing at home, the remote – everything. He might think it’s weird that every surface is completely empty, but that’s none of his business.

What if he wants to jerk off while we’re doing it? I’ll bring wet wipes and tell him he can only cum into those. But then how am I supposed to wash my hands first and go get them without touching anything? Fine. I’ll sacrifice an entire pack of disinfectant wipes. I can take one out whenever I need it, squeeze it in my hand, and convince myself that the liquid soaking out of it is enough to make my hand “clean” again.

I put away everything I can imagine him touching. I lift the bed back up and tuck a fresh duvet cover toward one end, because I’m convinced the farthest section isn’t “clean.” There’s barely any room left to store anything. I shift everything around carefully so nothing gets crushed.

What if he asks for something to drink? Water. Definitely just water. I know I’m going to keep a mental list of everything I’ll have to wipe down afterward anyway, but I want to reduce that list as much as possible. I set out two glasses. I dry everything in the dish rack with a clean tea towel and put it all away. I turn the blue plastic tray around so there’s no chance of accidentally touching it if I need to reach for the tap.

I make several more rounds through the apartment, putting away anything that might be at risk of getting dirty. When I finally can’t find anything else, I sit down on the edge of the bed and wait. It’s only noon. These next four hours are going to be long.

Around three, I spread the blanket over the bed, making sure it’s tucked in properly everywhere. Unfortunately, it isn’t quite as big as I thought. I take out a freshly washed duvet cover and use it to cover the remaining section. What if he asks me to pull the bed out? Then there’s no way around it – I’ll have to tell him about the OCD. But considering what we agreed on, I doubt we’ll need to use the larger part of the bed. I have to lie down somewhere, after all.

On a sudden impulse, I grab several disinfectant wipes from the pack I set aside and carefully kneel down to wipe the entire entryway floor. I don’t trust him to step straight onto the little rug when he comes in. And asking him to would probably sound weird anyway. I work section by section. Wherever I know I’ve already cleaned, I kneel more confidently, and little by little, I finish the whole thing.

In the bathroom, I pull the shower curtain all the way across so there’s no chance of him touching anything in there. Jesus Christ, what if he needs to wash himself after he jerks off? Maybe cancelling the whole fucking thing would have been the smarter choice after all. Not to mention how much torture I’m putting myself through just to live out this stupid fucking desire. Whatever. There’s no backing out now. That’s what the wet wipes are for – so he can come into one of those.

I open the app and see that he’s online.

Where should I go? he writes.

I explain which building to look for, where to find it, and which intercom button to press. My pulse is through the roof. When the phone rings in the entryway, I take a deep breath and remind myself that the room is clean because I cleaned it myself. So I walk over in my socks, pick up the receiver, and press the button to unlock the downstairs door. I still don’t even know what this man looks like. I’ve been so busy trying to figure out how to make all of this work that I forgot to ask him for a fucking face photo.

Carefully, I slip into my slippers – the soles of which I wiped down thoroughly earlier – then step outside and slowly make my way toward the entrance at the end of the corridor. There’s no elevator, so he has to climb four floors. I can hear his heavy footsteps as he makes his way up. At the final turn, slightly out of breath, I see someone who has to be him. He’s huge. His shoes are stylish, his calves are massive. His jeans look good, and so does the black T-shirt he’s wearing. It stretches over him enough to prove that his username wasn’t lying. But his face is what really gets me. His hair is cut just long enough to almost blend into the beard framing his entire face. He wears glasses, and they suit him ridiculously well. I take a deep breath, press down the handle, and pull the door open.

“Whew,” he starts, breathing heavily. “This place could really use an elevator.”

His voice. Deep and masculine. I don’t like this. I can already feel that part of me – the one starving for attachment – latching onto him harder.

“Since it’s not a five-storey building, there was never much chance of that,” I reply once I find my voice.

He steps into the corridor, and I close the metal door behind him.

“Levente.” He holds out his hand.

His probably very dirty hand.

“Márk,” I say, and despite my reluctance, I shake it.

The whole situation is a little awkward. Anxiety is raging inside me, and I can only hope it doesn’t show. I clear my throat.

“It’s the one with the security gate open.” I point toward the entrance almost at the far end of the corridor.

We walk side by side. I watch every movement he makes. No matter how good he looks, I really don’t want him touching anything else just yet.

“This one?” He points at the door.

I nod and squeeze past him to get ahead, my skin and clothes brushing against him in several places as I do. Oh my, I’m going to have so much laundry to do. Trying to keep my weight on the outer edges of my feet, I step into the entryway.

“Take your shoes off here.” I gesture around the small entryway.

“Want to smell them?” he asks, his tone cheeky.

Honestly? I want him to fuck off. This whole thing was a stupid idea. My OCD is going completely berserk, and the borderline side of me isn’t exactly staying quiet either. My cortisol levels must be through the roof, and my amygdala is probably one spark away from catching fire. But fine. Whatever.

“Yeah,” I say with a smile.

He kicks off his shoes. Fucking hell. He steps right onto a clump of dirt that fell from one of the soles. He closes the door behind him, picks up one of the shoes – God only knows what the bottom of it has touched – and presses it against my nose.

With no better option, I breathe it in. Wow. He wasn’t lying when he said there would be a smell. Heat floods my face; he’s probably been wearing the shoes all day. The scent filling my nose is sharp, but somehow pleasant at the same time.

“Like it?” I hear him ask.

I take another deep breath. I can feel my cock starting to stir, and I nod.

“Just a little preview,” he says, pulling the shoe away and setting it down.

He’s wearing black ankle socks. His feet are huge and wide. The erection inside my pants keeps growing.

“Come in,” I tell him.

I slip off my slippers, repeating the same mantra in my head the entire time: everything is still clean, clean, clean. He steps farther inside and looks around. I immediately head toward the bathroom.

“Do you mind if we wash our hands? Ever since COVID, I’ve had this stupid habit where I have to wash them whenever I come in from outside.”

“Sure,” he says, following me.

He touches the door handle. I quickly pump some soap into my palm and rinse my hands under the water.

“This is the towel,” I tell him, showing him which one I use to dry my hands.

I step out of the bathroom. Now the doorframes are dirty too. It’s fine. I have enough wipes. I keep tracking every movement he makes, watching the drops of water fall from his hands so I’ll know exactly where I need to wipe afterward. It isn’t too bad, actually. I head into my room, making it clear that he should follow. Looking at it from the outside now, the place looks pretty ridiculous with everything put away, almost as if nobody lives here, but he doesn’t comment on it.

“Shall we start?” he asks without wasting any time.

“I’m in,” I say. “Sit here on the bed. I’ll lie down on the rug.”

“Sure thing,” he replies, taking a seat.

Dirty. So many things are dirty now. At least the bed seems to have survived. All those precautions were a fucking brilliant idea. Sure, I won’t have anything to cover myself with tonight, but I’ll manage somehow.

“On the rug. Now!” he orders.

I’m surprised by how much authority there is in his voice. Without resisting at all, I lie down and position myself so that my head is right by his feet.

“Good boy,” he says.

The borderline part of me grows louder. He’s playing along, he looks good, his voice is sexy, and now he’s praising me too. I can feel everything inside me becoming tighter, more suffocating. I don’t think I’m going to be able to handle it emotionally when this is over and he simply walks out of here. I try to ignore the feelings. As if that were so easy with a heart like mine. I lie there and look up at him from below. I have to admit, I love the way he towers over me and looks down at me.

“Want me to rub hard?” he asks mischievously.

I swallow.

“Yeah.”

“Your choice.”

He lifts both feet and places them over my face. His socks are still warm, and the soles of his feet feel soft and padded.

“They cover your whole fucking face,” I hear him say. “They’re hanging off both sides.”

I really like the slightly rougher way he talks to me.

“I want to hear you taking deep breaths,” he orders.

I nod as much as I can, though he’s already putting some weight onto my face.

“You hear me?” he asks, probably because he couldn’t feel my head move.

I raise my thumb.

“Good boy,” he rumbles again.

Then he stops being gentle. He starts rubbing his feet hard over my face. I can feel my nose flattening under the pressure, my features being pushed out of shape. My cock is rock hard.

“Take it out. I want to watch you enjoy yourself.”

I’m not exactly thrilled by the idea, but I’m going to have to shower afterward either way. I reach down, push my pants and boxers lower, take my erection in my hand, and start stroking myself. What he doesn’t know is that on the maximum dosage of my antidepressant, there’s almost no chance I’ll be able to cum. Not that my mind isn’t already in a thousand different places anyway. I breathe loudly the way he told me to, letting out the occasional hiss when he grinds his sole into my skin a little too hard.

“That’s it. Good boy,” he praises me again.

Something clicks shut around my soul. This man isn’t just a casual encounter to me anymore. I’m attached to him. Deeply. Painfully. I want to get up, sit in his lap, and kiss him without stopping. While we both keep going, my thoughts start wandering. He promised me two hours. Not even ten minutes have passed, and already I’m filled with this agonising, suffocating pain at the thought of what I’ll do when it ends. For one thing, I’ll clean. For another, I’ll probably cry my eyes out. Because I don’t believe this is going to become a regular thing. I’m unemployed; he has a job. My mind is already racing ahead, and I can feel how I’m going to want to know where he is and what he’s doing all the time. We met on a fucking dating app. Who knows how many other men he’s talking to? Maybe I won’t even be good enough, and one day he’ll just block me. Like so many others have. My chest turns ice-cold.

“What’s wrong? Not as good as you expected?” he asks.

My mind has been running in so many directions that I’ve gone completely soft. I immediately start stroking myself again.

“Better,” he says, then presses his feet even harder into my face.

Levente. This morning, I didn’t even know this man existed, and now he already means the world to me. Suddenly, he lifts his feet away.

“You look beautiful with your face all red from me stepping on it,” he says. “I’m thirsty. I saw the kitchen. Stay on the floor.”

“No. I’ll get it,” I protest, sitting up immediately.

I can’t risk him touching anything while I’m not watching.

“I’m the one giving orders here.” He jerks his head toward the floor.

“Please.” I look at him pleadingly. “I’ll make you some lemonade,” I lie.

“Alright, fine.” He gives in, his shoulders dropping as he slips out of character. “Do you actually like it, though? Am I doing it right?”

He cares. He genuinely wants me to enjoy this. Warmth spreads through my body as I realise it. I haven’t felt anything like this in years. A man I’m with is being gentle with me, and he wants to know whether I like what we’re doing. My heart starts beating faster. I smile at him.

“I love it,” I answer honestly.

I leave him in the room and lean against the kitchen counter as soon as I get there. I don’t even care if it gets dirty. Two tears roll down my face. Obviously, I can’t actually make lemonade, so I pretend to look for something, pulling open random drawers. In the afternoon sunlight pouring through the window, something glints in the draining tray. The long-bladed knife I used that morning to cut the vegetables after wiping them down with disinfectant. I freeze for a moment. My mind goes numb. I hold the glass under the tap and fill it with water, then pick up the knife and hide it behind my back before going back into the room.

“Sorry, no lemons, and I couldn’t find any lemon juice anywhere. So plain water it is.” I smile as I hand him the glass.

“That’s perfect. I’m dying of thirst.”

He reaches for it, raises it to his mouth, and drinks in large gulps. When his head tilts back as far as it can, I pull out the knife, step toward him, and slash it across his throat. The glass falls from his hand. His eyes fly wide as he reaches for the deep wound, blood immediately pouring through his fingers. He tries to speak, but nothing comes out. I probably cut through his vocal cords too. I bend down and drive the tip of the knife into his stomach again and again. His body jerks with every stab. Wet, choking sounds force their way from his throat. My grey carpet turns redder and redder. The blanket already had a reddish shade to it, but now thin streaks are spreading across it where the blood has sprayed. He tries to reach for me, but I step back. I watch him suffer. There would have been no chance of me cumming if we’d kept going, and yet now I’m breathing hard, almost mesmerised. His body collapses with a heavy thud. He looks into my eyes as his gaze slowly turns glassy.

“I hope you’ll always think of me as a good boy,” I whisper.

He doesn’t answer. His hand goes limp and drops beside him. I wonder what his surname was. Not that it matters. Levente will never be mine. But he won’t be anyone else’s either. Maybe my sister had a reason to be worried. I look around the apartment. What a bloody mess.

For once, I won’t be the one suffering through all the cleaning and disinfecting. The police can do it.