Adam’s counting his blessings (chapter III)

Adam’s counting his blessings

I decided to hire three women to live with old Mr. Me, in this warm South Eastern Asian country, by the ocean. Save for a bit of cooking and stuff, their job would mostly be to be walking around the house all day in the nude. Nurses? Well, not quite yet. Anyway, for such a job, and as employees, these three women cannot be idiots and have to know what they’re doing. So there had to be a contract between them and me.

What should that contract entail? The way I see it, no more than day care of a nice house by the beach and to keep company to an older crazy white guy who is no Dracula anymore. Yes, these three women would have to be naked at all times but, once the chores are done, they could watch TV, read, play music, do nothing or whatever or maybe come to swim with me, or talk. It’s not as if they’d have to plow a field or sew shoes and shirts for rich countries’ folks 12 hours a day. For all I know, they wouldn’t be overwhelmed with plight and I understand the pay, considering this ‘naked’ business, had to be fair. So it would be.

Since aliens had been nice enough, neither of the three of them would have to worry about being able to support their family and themselves, all expenses paid of course. On top of it, a fund would be credited in their names, and their names only, as to thus double their salary. They’ll get that fund money, and only they will, when they quit, when they get fired or when I die. Don’t I wish I could have done this just with my retirement money… That said, the point is not to go berserk, I’m no Cresus.

They should each have two days off a week, of course. Well, I haven’t met them yet but I already know that I will rarely see all three of them together in the house. Really, in between their days off, holidays, religious carnivals or others valid reasons, maybe all I’ll get will be glimpses. Maybe, I should hire ten of them, really. Now that I think of it, chance is that, most of the time, around the house with me, there will only be two nude female companions, often times only one, the rule being ‘please don’t ever leave me alone’.

I’m not all ugly and sin, just older. Alien’s money just fell off the sky and I have left everything behind me in good order, just so, free at last, I could do for myself something I’d really know would put me at peace. So here I am and I think a head hunter bureau should have no difficulty in finding candidates. Then I will have to meet with those and choose three. It’s intimidating just to think about it, even with aliens’ money.

OK, let’s say the head hunter bureau is an efficient one and someone there perfectly understood what I am looking for. How many women are interested in this kind of job for this kind of money? I don’t know. It sure beats, I think, working 13 hours a day in a mill for misery and no respect. Should I bring pictures of the house?

Very well, how many candidates should I meet with? 15? 20? 50? And how do I meet with them in the first place? Talk to them? How do I express what I mean, that no art piece ever in my life matched the unending beauty of a live naked woman being and that’s why I’m here? Do I mention Courbet’s ‘Origine du monde’? This is difficult.

The last thing I want is a moron at the head hunter bureau putting an ad on bumfuck Internet explaining there’s a ‘French guy in town looking for three girls, great pay, open minded welcome’. You know there would be 600 debutantes the next day on my beach and on the front steps of my newly bought house. Pimps and Police wouldn’t be far behind.

Still, I can imagine going to the head hunter bureau’s office, like you’re going to the doctor, and you’re crossing through the waiting room and there are maybe ten or fifteen women looking at you and you know they have recognized your footsteps, before even seeing you. They’ve got an idea of what you’re looking for but apparently don’t care. Slave market or help me God? No thanks. Don’t they have women’s rights’ laws in this country?

Come to think of it, the head hunter doesn’t have to know I want to hire three women. Let’s see if he can find one to begin with. He’ll find candidates and, when he’ll have a few, we can set up the meetings. And, to avoid the waiting room effect, the rule would be: only one meeting a day. Once a day, one can always meet with someone.

Where now?


I know that when I’ll meet with these ladies, I’ll have to tell each one of them, in all sincerity and no matter how odd the situation, what I’m hoping for. I guess they’d know already about the nakedness thing if the head hunter bureau has done its job. But I’d have to spell what I really want because these women should know what’s up before making a knowledgeable decision.

So where I meet with them is important. It can’t be at the hunter bureau – never trust the broker; it can’t be at the hotel because no one should be embarrassed. The lobby bar for a first look? Then again, should it always be at the same place? A different place every day? Because every woman is different? A place they’d choose? Breakfast? Lunch? Diner? Piano-bar? Or just a coke and peanuts like on a cheap airline flight?

Oh well, I’m sure there is a place in this capital city that would accommodate my conversations with my guests. That place would yet have to be comfortable and private enough and scream more of hope than despair. I’m afraid I’ll end up in some sort of office space but I’ll try.

And there is the question of the salary. These women will rightly want to know how much they will be paid. One thing for sure, they’ll all make exactly the same.

And there is the question of the language. Should they speak English? French? In general, the world over, educated women speaking foreign languages don’t look for a job like the kind I’m thinking about. Then again, what do I know? Is language an issue?

And there’s the question of the swimming. Could that be a worry? What if they’re afraid of the ocean? Is it a criteria?

Ellar Wise

Next episode: Adam takes that door and burn it in hell
Previous episode: Adam says I need a contract
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Iconography: Les dormeuses de Gustave Courbet – Petit Palais. Paris

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