Sex, dirt and other Freudian fantasies

I like waking up to a room full of mess. It is sadly reassuring because I know exactly what I am going to be doing with my morning. Too bad I don’t normally wake up to filth. But let’s say I did, that would be my ultimate sex fantasy. Picture a pair of clean, naked feet trying to grope for slippers under the bed only to feel a plate of curd. Now you curse and step on a crushed bottle, now you open your eyes to the dismal yet liberating view of papers everywhere, books lying open and scattered, clothes all out of the closet, and the bathroom, a pigsty.

Now picture the slow, almost orgasmic uncluttering of all this, breathing in every moment of objects cleaned, of spaces washed, of clothes arranged and rearranged, of books carefully organised randomly, of cursing the tragic lack of hangers and of fresh synonyms of high that only a bottle of Lizol pine fresh can bring to your bathroom. 

An ink pot lies broken and you watch with horror and amusement as the tsunami of royal blue ink begins to decorate your marble flooring. It’s a beauteous sight. Deep blue against pure white. You take an even whiter cloth and try to absorb some of the magic from the floor. The dustbin looks cheerful to be accommodating half the room’s wealth. You peel old and stinking bed spreads from its partner and dump it into the washing machine. Two rinses plus one for the nice smelling clothes conditioner. You watch as the mini waterfall begins to envelope dirty sheets. Dump three spoons of Surf and watch the merry go round of dirt squeezing itself out and into the soap. It is oddly gratifying to watch dirt coming out. Almost soul cleansing.

The red bed sheet you have chosen today is perfect for a Sunday morning. Clearly, the sun is brighter on Sundays. The red stretches its canvas out as you spread it on your bed, it yawns now before claiming all 4 corners of the bedpost. The sunlight sleeps on the red now, bouncing its long golden ladders on the pillow. Proud as you are of your room’s giant ventilation, you make your way towards the windows to see the dust off. They sit there like they always have, in books and in movies, of ancient times and recent. A bottle of Colin apparates into your hands. As it hisses open a fresh batch of spray, you can smell the air of clean, knocking out that intoxicating smell of dust.

Now you move to your cupboard. All your tees are neatly folded and kept far away from the main clothes – those that you wear everyday. Your sweaters are hung neatly, all the hanger points facing the same way, color coordinated and all. You open the windows to let Sunday inside. A new pack of incense sticks – sandalwood this time and soon you see wafts of sandalwood inviting more of Sunday morning inside.

You save the party project for last. That bottle of yellow Lizol lemon and bits of surf excel to give the commode a thorough, warm, and fuzzy wash. 

Satisfied but not thoroughly yet, you leave a kettle of water on the stove for that first cup of tea. And now the little cherub of an orgasm peeps at you from the clean corners of your room as you embrace the day.

What would Uncle Freud say?

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