In every single phase of a new life, one has to seek what to do to occupy himself within the first few days. Even if it means screwing around, be it then, no harm done, as long as he’s got himself protected, from any kind, and by any kind.
If getting dirty has falsely been accused with the notion of sexual activities (of any kind), then my getting dirty surely will turn you off. By any means, my getting dirty involves me doing what Doris Callebaut did to launch herself as a sex-bomb of 70s, i.e. doing household chores in a very suggestive way. Well, it was many of them, indeed.
Imagine me in a loose white shirt and batik pants courtesy of Ite, brooming and sweeping the floor mercilessly, chasing every single dirt and dust away, and soaking with foams and bubbles of soap washing my clothes.
This is not the end though. Tomorrow, and the days afterwards, the kitchen and dining room will be the places I crave my lust over everything neat, and tidy.
Now, whoever says I don’t possess any habits of becoming every single one of Desperate Housewives?