CLEAN SWEEP
"So, I'm down to my underwear," the vacuum cleaner salesman said sheepishly, sprawled across my living room floor, peering up at his photographer and asking, "Now what?"
Just an hour earlier, he had shown up at my door lugging a massive, heavy industrial vacuum cleaner, made by Rainbow. He was working his way through the apartment building. My best friend, Aidan, and I took one look at this cutie-pie and decided to let him in. He introduced himself as Josh.
Once inside, his demeanor shifted. Josh seemed soft, insecure, and remarkably impressionable. He was a good-looking kid, probably in his mid-twenties, sporting a faint, wispy mustache that was clearly a naive attempt to look older. But nothing could disguise that adorable face or those big, glassy brown puppy eyes—decidedly bloodshot, betrayed by the telltale trace of a recent weed toke.
Josh had messy-sexy, honey-colored hair, cropped close on the sides with a blunt cut at the back. He wore an oversized, long-sleeve grey dress shirt—long enough to cover his rear—with a faint paisley pattern and tight, neatly buttoned cuffs. Paired with his loose-fitting jeans, the look was effortlessly casual yet completely swaddled.
Our Rainbow Salesman with equipment in hand
After just a few minutes with Josh, it struck me how much he resembled Iván, the hit Spanish pop star of the 80s, who was raised in Madrid.
As two of us settled in for his spiel, I offered the salesman a choice of home-steamed distilled water, sparkling water, or red wine. He opted for the wine. I poured myself a lime sparkling water, while Aidan stuck to the water with a single ice cube.
I was intrigued by the vacuum cleaner called Rainbow, but far more captivated by the guy selling it. He had the look of someone who could easily be coaxed out of those clothes—and while it might take a little persuasion, I was always up for a challenge.
I was no novice at this game. I found real delight in undressing these men: capturing them in my sightline, giving them my undivided attention, and admiring everything they had to offer.
I was often told I had an uncanny gift for getting men to strip. It was no exaggeration; I have bound journals overflowing with nude photos capturing all those encounters.
Case in point. One night several years ago, horny as hell and fresh off my mother's passing, I was perusing my old college stomping grounds at the Ohio State University in Columbus, cruising around in my Aunt Lurene's borrowed burgundy Chevy Caprice coupe, with a black leather roof. As an alumnus, I knew every back street and alley like the back of my hand.
I've always had a strong exhibitionist streak—there's a distinct thrill in revealing myself to men I find attractive, especially in places you'd least expect to find a naked guy. Late-night college tracks, dark alleys, quiet construction sites, or right in the middle of the street. It was like living out my own personal episode of Candid Camera with hosts Allen Funt and Fanny Flagg, or stepping straight into Funt's 1970 movie What Do You Say to a Naked Lady?—catching people off-guard just to see how they'd react.
There are many current trends, plastered all over the Internet, of those bold "Urban Nudists" who casually stroll the streets and ride the subway in Berlin in broad daylight. (Note: Michalis, the "Urban Nudist," was recently interviewed by Danny & Vladi, hosts of the Evoking Evolvement International Podcast. Catch the episode soon on @EvoEvoChannel!) A bit wild, sure, but we all have our ways of getting a kick out of life.
Someone with a background in psychology might look at this and label it as "acting out" triggered by the loss of my mom. Having a Master's in Counseling myself, I can confidently tell you that wasn't the case. It wasn't grief or a coping mechanism; it was a lifelong desire, pure and simple.
Cruising the campus in my birthday suit, I kept the car's heater blasting to fend off the typical, biting chill of a March evening in Ohio.
I spotted a young preppy guy sitting on a bench at a city bus stop, definitely a college student. The moment I saw him, an idea sparked, bringing a sudden rush of joy and anticipation. I drove past slowly to get a better look. Yes, he'll do nicely, I thought as a simple, half-baked scheme began to take shape.
I circled back around. At one in the morning, the usually busy street was completely dead. I pulled up right alongside him, tapped the brakes, and rolled down the passenger window, catching his eye with a calm, effortless glance.
"Hi. Waiting for the bus?" I asked.
"Yeah, heading back to my campus apartment," he replied. He had that classic 1970s teen-idol look—resembling Bobby Sherman with his floppy hair, chiseled jaw, and youthful face.
Dittmar resembled the singer!
There was an instant, palpable spark between us. He stood up, took a step toward the car, and leaned in toward the open window. I watched his eyes widen as he realized I was sitting behind the wheel completely naked.
"Wanna get in and have some fun?"
He hesitated for a few long seconds, taking it all in, before a smile broke across his face. "Yeah. Sure!" He hopped into the passenger seat.
"I'm Danny."
"I'm Dittmar."
Dittmar immediately began peeling off his clothes—it seemed he'd just been waiting for someone to egg him on. Once inside the warm car, he carefully pulled off his form-fitting blue jeans, tossing them carelessly into the backseat. Nice smooth legs. He kept on his vibrant, horizontal-striped sweater, a heavy, slouchy wool-weave in shades of rosy pink and deep cranberry, probably due to still warming up. He was now down to his briefs.
He snapped them off quickly. What remained was his white anklet white socks and his smooth rear pressed against the plush seats and a roaring hard-on. A very welcome sight.
"Can we go back to your place?" he asked.
"Well, no. I'm visiting from Los Angeles." I took a beat, anticipating my next question. "I was thinking we'd get naked outside, huh?" I was testing his limits.
"Oh..." he paused positively. "Okay, cool. Do you have a place in mind where we can do that?"
"I passed an alley a while ago that dead-ends into a chain-link fence by a dark baseball field," I told him. Within a few blocks, I found the spot and whipped right down the quiet road.
"Let's take some pics, Dittmar," I suggested casually, playing it off as an afterthought even though it had been the plan the entire time. "Are you okay with that?"
"Just as long as you don't get my face."
"Deal."
He had an above-average body, and his pretty firm, sculpted line turned me on instantly. In no time, we had arrived at our "photographer's studio" for the night.
He began peeling off his sweater. "Oh, wait. Don't slip that off yet, Dittmar," I instructed. "I love the color and wanna get it in a shot."
He waited for me to give him direction.
"Open your car door, lean back on it with one foot inside the car and the other on the ground. Turn your face to the right." Snap Snap. He then threw the sweater into the backseat.
Our very first pose was shot against the car door!
"Now let's see that sexy butt. Stay where you are, turn completely around and face the car door. Step one foot in the car and the other on the bottom of the door. Arch your back to show off your ass. Good. Good. Hold it right there..." Snap. Snap.
"Now bend over, then pull your buns apart. Let me see that rosebud." He did it. I aimed and shot.
He eagerly followed every direction, his cock rock-hard the entire time. In my experience, most guys—straight or gay—secretly crave the thrill of showing off their backsides and most intimate features. Because it's so taboo, exposing that raw, vulnerable side carries a forbidden charge that makes it all the more intoxicating, especially for straight guys.
Dittmar was certainly no exception.
I had him posing like classic physique models from Bob Mizer's Athletic Model Guild, channeling the artistic spirit of Bruce Weber, Robert Mapplethorpe, George Platt Lynes, and Tom Bianchi. He pushed his stiff cock out toward the camera to play with perspective, and then I started calling the shots.
"Let's use the chain-link fence," I told him. He immediately leaped onto it like a pro, scaling the mesh with the flair of a Superhero. Suspended there against the metallic wire, dazzled in the bright beams of the Caprice's headlights, he looked like a scene straight out of a classic rock photo—evoking Helmut Newton's iconic 1980s portraits of David Lee Roth and Van Halen. It was raw and undeniably sexy.
"Hang on a sec, let me grab the lens. Okay, ready." Snap. Snap. He did a full turn, showing off every angle before facing me directly, his dick standing straight up, praying to the heavens.
Against the cold steel weave of the chain-link fence, his bare form popped with incredible contrast. Aunt Lurene's Caprice became our stage, serving as the perfect prop to accentuate every curve and contour.
We both gave it our all. Focused and horney, not even the sweet bite in the night air could stop us from performing.
Glistening out of his cock was pre-cum. I could tell he was right on the edge.
"I'm about to pop!" he warned, scrambling up the silver mesh and grabbing his shaft. This guy was a natural performer—this wasn't his first rodeo. I caught his whole finish on film as he rode out the orgasm, gasping for air against the fence.
"Did you shoot, Danny?" he asked, leaping off the fence onto the grass.
"I'm right behind you, man." Standing next to Dittmar, who's now side-straddling the front of the Chevy, he took his cum, rubbed it onto my cock, and began pumping me up and down. That gesture sent me over the moon, and I shot my wad instantly.
We grabbed an old rag from under Aunt Lurene's car seat to clean up, tossed it off into the dark, grassy field.
We climbed back into the Caprice, and I offered him a ride home. Cruising up North High Street, we pulled into a neighborhood crowded with off-campus housing. As he got out, I asked for his digits, scribbling down the number, then reciting it back to make sure I got it right.
When I dialed a couple of days later, hoping for round two, I hit a dead end. It was fake.
No hard feelings. One crazy adventure was probably all he needed to scratch the itch. It was a hell of a night, and I had the photos to make it permanent.
Back in my living room, for the next hour, Josh gave us the full theatrical performance. He extolled the "sheer fabulousness" of the Rainbow unit, insisting with earnest intensity that standard vacuums were practically a public health hazard compared to this masterpiece of engineering. He demonstrated its ability to purify the air, deep-clean the upholstery, and even extract hidden dust from three layers deep in the sofa. He was entirely locked into his script, determined to make a sale in Beverly Hills Adjacent.
Yes, this IS the famous Rainbow Vacuum Cleaner
He was making this vacuum sound so out-of-this-world that I was automatically skeptical. But I sat back, sipping my drink, taking him in.
Running his nozzle along the rug, breathlessly explaining the superior suction power, I began weaving my own subtle script into the room.
Josh giving Aidan and me the full Rainbow demonstration!
"It really is a fabulous machine," I said smoothly, leaning forward and catching his eye. "But honestly, with a frame like yours, carrying that heavy gear around all day must be a full-body workout. Do you do any modeling on the side?"
He blinked, caught off guard mid-sentence about HEPA filters. "Modeling? Uh, no. Just... selling these."
"That's a shame," I replied, throwing a warm, knowing glance at my friend, Aidan. "You've got great lines. Strong shoulders. It's almost a waste to hide that behind doing manual labor."
I kept the tone light, flirtatious, and entirely disarming.
Over the next fifteen minutes, as he tried to steer the conversation back to mattress attachments, I kept gently steering it toward him. I casually dropped remarks about artistic photography, the beauty of the male form, and how freeing it is to just let go of pretension. Men are starved for real, focused attention; they spend their days trying to perform, to sell, to prove something. When you offer them a quiet space where the pressure drops and the admiration is entirely on them, the uniform usually comes off pretty fast.
By the end of the demo, the vacuum was completely forgotten, sitting cold and quiet amidst its scattered attachments. The weed and wine had melted his defenses, my flattery had boosted his confidence, and the sheer intoxication of being the center of attention had taken over.
I started clicking away, starting with his everyday clothes.
"Angle your head right, Josh. Eyes on the corner plant. Good, now bring your chin down a fraction."
He was stiff, typical for a novice, but followed every instruction faithfully, even when the clothes came off down to his boring tighty-whities.
After a few safe, domestic poses, I stopped. "I know exactly what we're missing. Stay put."
I retreated to the bedroom, raided my stash of fetish wear, and brought out the main event.
As I shook it open, Josh exhaled a sharp, startled, "What is that?!"
"A V-shaped sling," I said smoothly, referring to the white thong.
"Okay..."
"Go ahead into the bathroom," I instructed, giving his modesty a little breathing room. "Slip it on."
He returned to the room, putting more of his sinewy body on full display, the thong riding high and tight between his cheeks. It was an incredible turn-on. I caught a Marine Corps insignia tattooed on his upper arm, a rugged detail that made the scene even hotter. Combined with a scatter of freckles dusting his shoulders, the visual was almost too much to take.
His cheeks flushed a soft rosy pink, a self-conscious grin breaking through his wispy mustache. He adjusted his pose immediately, eager to please. This was an entirely new sensation for him, having a string tucked up his crack. He was like a young filly adjusting to a new harness, cautious yet strangely thrilled.
But Joshua was not going to be ridden! The topic of sex never entered the room; that was never the point. The real magic lay in unlocking Joshua's beauty and revealing it to him. I've always delighted in playing Henry Higgins. Back at fifteen, when I was going steady with my high school sweetheart, Debby, in the Midwest, I was constantly styling her to mirror the icons of the era: Twiggy, Marlo Thomas, Barbra Streisand, or Marilyn Monroe.
Joshua's "fifteen minutes of fame" was permitting him to simply be admired, resting in the pure, uninterrupted spotlight.
"Okay, Josh, you hold still and let the lens do the work," I said, stepping into the space with a calm, easy authority.
"Look at those shoulders," I said to Aidan, casting an appreciative look across the room. "The lighting is fantastic." Aidan nodded without hesitation, savoring the shared thrill of our little conspiracy—just two partner-in-crime Lucy and Ethel types having a ball.
I had Josh work through a series of poses: lying on his stomach, reaching his arms up along the wall like a figure model in an art class, turning his head slyly over his shoulder, and, naturally, zooming in on his edible butt.
Zooming in on the butt!
.
At one point, his pubic hair was sticking out wildly from the jockstrap. It felt like a distraction, so I had Aidan shave it. He was more than willing to do so! Josh didn't resist or raise a fuss.
He was fully locked into the moment, I was laser-focused, and Aidan was playing the ultimate cheerleader. After a rapid-fire succession of clicks from the camera, I instinctively called out, "Okay, let's take off that confining contraption and set you free!"
He slipped out of the sling effortlessly, then cupped a hand over his cock to cover it.
"Beautiful, Josh!" I exclaimed. "Hold it right there."
Click. That was the denouement. The hour was getting late, and I knew we'd reached the perfect natural end to our session.
Josh retreated to the bathroom to get dressed. When he emerged in his street clothes, we gathered to finish our drinks and swap compliments, praising his instincts and encouraging him to give professional or commercial modeling a serious shot.
We didn't buy the vacuum—two grand was an absurd ask anyway—but Josh walked out with a broad, genuine smile plastered on his face. He certainly didn't have that when he first walked through my door!
When Joshua left, the dutiful salesman was gone. He walked out looser, softer around the edges, and undeniably more connected to a side of his sexuality he'd probably kept locked away for years. In his place was a man who had shed more than just his clothes; he'd dropped an entire layer of inhibition, and he looked lighter for it.
He was ready to climb that rainbow!
XX
