Come June, one of Nerve's most enduringly popular features will return. I Did It For Science follows the sexy, occasionally humiliating, and often hilarious adventures of two Nerve writers who'll try anything once — as long as it's for science. All-new installments, by a fresh pair of writers, will hit your screen in just a few short weeks. In the meantime, we continue our refresher course with this classic installment by the legendary Rev. Jen Miller. Click here for more.

HYPOTHESIS:
State your hypothesis in the form of a prediction that can be verified by the results of the experiment.

When Henry David Thoreau wrote, "Beware of all enterprises that require new clothing," perhaps he had nude housecleaning in mind. After all, even strippers need to invest in pasties and stilettos, and I can't count the number of times I've donned a striking new slack-suit for a job interview, only to be shown the door five minutes into the meeting. Maybe it's time I cashed in on my exhibitionistic tendencies and exchanged my clothes for a feather duster. Would nude housekeeping prove to be a rewarding job, a way of flashing some flesh and scrubbing sinks for profit? Or would it be more about getting dirty than cleaning up?

MATERIALS:
Please list all the materials required for this experiment (including, if applicable, how they were obtained).

• One canister of Scrubbing Bubbles (They work hard, so you don't have to.)
• Three-pack of Scotch-Brite sponges
• One roll of Bounty paper towels (the quicker-picker-upper)
• Brillo pads
• Clorox disinfecting wipes
• Yellow latex gloves

METHOD:
In this portion of your report, you must describe, step-by-step, what you did in your lab. It should be specific enough that someone who has not seen the lab can follow the directions and recreate the same lab.

My search for employment began online. I Googled the words "nude housecleaning" in the hope of finding an appropriate temp agency. Unsurprisingly, a link to the "household services" section of Craigslist appeared. When I clicked through, I found a spattering of ads placed by aspiring nude housekeepers mixed in with hundreds of ads placed by clothed housekeepers. It seemed that a well-written ad on Craigslist was my best bet. Since I was conducting my Internet search from my part-time day job (where I'd already been reprimanded for excessive web surfing), I had to work quickly to avoid The Man. After a moment's deliberation, I typed:

Adorable nude housecleaner will clean your pad spic-and-span for a reasonable fee. Available immediately.

I figured that "adorable" sounded infinitely less conceited than "hot" or "sexy." Plus, I figured men who were seeking nude housekeepers were probably looking more for June Cleaver than Jenna Jameson.

Moments later, a deluge of e-mails appeared in my inbox. Posting my ad on the coldest weekend of the year had been a stroke of genius. No one was planning to leave his or her apartment. The very idea that someone, anyone, was willing to go outside, let alone take off their clothes, was a phenomenon — a marketing blitz.

"Do you do bathtubs?" "What is your rate?" and "Can you send me a picture?" were the most common requests. Not knowing how much to charge, I looked to the other ads on Craigslist, but all of the nude housecleaners simply wrote, "e-mail me for rates," with the exception of one nude housecleaner who was offering his services for free.

"Ew!" exclaimed my coworker, Angie, who'd been hovering over my shoulder, reading the various ads. The going rate for clothed housekeepers was between ten and twenty dollars per hour. "If they just took their clothes off, they could make a lot more money," I surmised. "Maybe they need a manager." Fifty dollars an hour seemed to be a fair price, if not a bit on the cheap side. But because my endeavor was really a science project, I didn't believe it was ethical to charge premium rates.

"What's the best way to clean a bathtub?" I asked Angie. (Not that I don't clean my bathtub; it's just that I clean my bathtub with no regard for whether or not I leave scratches.)

"Scrubbing Bubbles," she responded confidently. "Definitely Scrubbing Bubbles."

"Really?" My mother had used Scrubbing Bubbles in the '70s, and I was sure bathtub-cleaning technology must have advanced since then. "What if I faint from the fumes? I don't want to end up naked and unconscious on the bathroom floor."

"Maybe you should wear one of those paper masks," she suggested.

"That's not really erotic, is it?" I was going to look silly enough bent over in unflattering positions, my loose flesh flapping about. I didn't need to compound the ridiculousness with a mask.

After work, I went by the drugstore to peruse the cleaning-supply section. Much to my surprise, I noticed that Scrubbing Bubbles had multiplied into an entire line of products, including toilet brushes, Fizz-it toilet tablets and mildew-stain removers. The new products featured angry-looking bubble mascots with arched eyebrows and aggressive expressions. I wondered if the new, evil-looking bubbles were a reflection of American politicians in the new millennium — at war with an unseen enemy, going about their business blindly, only to be washed down the drain eventually. I was overcome with sadness. Then I realized that the old-school Scrubbing Bubbles canister still featured the happy-looking, bristle-mustachioed bubbles of yore. This cheered me.

On my way home from Duane Reade, I stopped in at the local video store, hoping to pick up a copy of Maid in Manhattan for inspiration. Maybe my first client would be a Ray Fiennes look-alike who would whisk me out of destitution and into a life of leisure and couture. Predictably, I could not locate said J. Lo vehicle — this being a downtown hipster video store — and I was too embarrassed to ask the surly cashier if they carried it. Instead I rented Murderous Maids, a French film about two incestuous sisters who are also maids and kill their employers. Probably a little more realistic.

At home I slipped into my footie pajamas and popped open my blueberry laptop, whereupon I began e-mailing current photos of myself to potential employers. I made an appointment with "Tony," an Upper West Sider who wanted to see me the next day at the unreasonable hour of nine-thirty a.m. We agreed on a minimum of two hours of cleaning.

Another potential client named "Ryan" — who had yet to see my photo — sent me his cellphone number and requested I call immediately. He's awfully trusting, I thought, dialing the number.