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By Eliza Hecht. The Houseboy first messaged me six months ago on the online dating site OKCupid. I will clean your house, or anything else you want me to do. I expect nothing in return. I like serving strong, confident women.

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I also like women who smoke. I have always loved the absurd, and this scenario seemed too strange to pass up. I wanted to meet this man with a housecleaning fetish. And, frankly, I wanted a clean apartment. I had joked with friends about how great it would be to have a manservant, someone who would clean, do my dishes and laundry and all the other things I hate doing.

Whatever turns him on. When can you come over? We started messaging and then texting. Although most of our interactions were fetish-related, there were moments of intimacy. I had women looking for slaves single for nearly four years, and it was easy to confide in this stranger who already had made himself so vulnerable to me. Even so, I told him not to tell me his name. I thought he would like it better if I just referred to him as the Houseboy.

After all, I wanted him to get something out of the situation, too. If his fetish was to serve a woman who would boss him around and make him feel worthless, I would try to play the role. We set up a date for him to come over and clean.

But at the last minute, he backed out. I tried twice more, and both times fell through. It was a simple premise: I would sit in my bathtub, drink martinis and sing karaoke. Sometimes I would smoke cigarettes. I posted a few videos on YouTube. My friends thought they were funny. I thought they were funny. That was all I thought would happen. Over the next few days, people started following my YouTube channel.

Except the people watching my videos were people who got turned on by watching me smoke. It would be hotter.

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And then, I needed a lamp. And some wineglasses. And Ikea is in Red Hook, which is a hassle to get to. So I texted the Houseboy. We made a date for a Friday at 2 p. I called him, trying my best to be domineering. Finally he showed up, around I walked outside to meet him, and saw a man waving at me from a red Toyota. I was looking forward to seeing what this man, this Houseboy I had been talking to for months, would be like in person.

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I felt I already knew him. I walked over to his car and opened the door.

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The Houseboy was overweight and had long dark hair with streaks of gray. As I had already known, he was women looking for slaves his early 40s. He started driving. I sighed. Everyone hates each other too much. And no one is willing to compromise. He responded with an educated, nuanced take on the situation.

I was surprised. When we got to Ikea, I told the Houseboy he could push my cart. He agreed, thanked me and went to get one. I led the way, walking two steps ahead of him through the assorted goods in the Ikea Marketplace. Occasionally I stopped, picking up bowls and wineglasses. I needed a new comforter. I needed a lamp for my room. We checked out. I swiped my credit card, put my stuff back into the cart and walked out of the store, the Houseboy at my heels.

When we got to my neighborhood, I gave him directions back to my building. He parked across the street, and I loaded things into reusable shopping bags to carry up to my apartment. The Houseboy offered to help me take them upstairs. I opened the door to the building.

We walked up two flights, and I unlocked my apartment.

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I put my bag down on the floor, and the Houseboy put his down, too. We stood awkwardly, a few feet away from each other. It seemed strange to hug, but doing nothing felt uncomfortable, too. Maybe I should have been meaner. Maybe I should have made him take the B. Maybe I should have lectured him on Gaza, interrupting him when he tried to give his perspective.

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But the Houseboy saw through me. I wanted to give him what he was looking for: I wanted to dominate him, boss him around, make him feel bad about himself.

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I just want a friendly ride to Ikea with a smart guy who can talk intelligently about Middle East politics. I Tried to Oblige. And then, I got a text from the Houseboy. I started to lose interest, but he kept texting me. Let me be your pig-slave.

Ocean Avenue and Parkside. We headed back to my place. But my apartment is still a mess.

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The Massive, Overlooked Role of Female Slave Owners