Forbidden desire and the right wrong song

An erotic argument in favor of a certain type of tryst.

The following is work of fiction. It is also a stream of consciousness. This is a literary technique that captures the inner workings of the human mind in a spontaneous and unfiltered manner and may lack traditional elements such as punctuation and grammar. It often includes fragmented sentences, sudden shifts in perspective, and an abundance of sensory details.

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Nothing good ever comes from sparking an affair with someone you know in real life.

But for the love of god, if you ever do decide to take that electric plunge, don’t do it in your office at midnight.

Don’t finger her slowly on the communal table where your employees will reheat their lunches half a day later. Don’t fuck her in the conference room.

And—most importantly— don’t do any of this while listening to K Flay’s “High Enough”. (She knew the implications of the song she put on. She knew the lyrics.)

Choosing any or all of these options will result in the formation of a hyper-sexual brain worm. Fueled by proximity, artistry, ego, and hormones, it could easily morph into something neither of you needs.

Even if it doesn’t blow up it will become a distraction.

Distraction is the enemy of productivity.

A significant portion of your work day will be spent interacting with the various surfaces upon which you once placed her.

She’ll find herself masturbating at times she finds inconvenient and, knowing you’re alone, she will text you about it. You’ll do the same when you’re sick at home with only a second floor’s worth of privacy.

Eventually, you’ll run into her in a bar where she’s meeting with a thought partner about some work stuff and you will penetrate her with your eyes despite yourself.

You will do this until she meets your gaze but will turn away when he pivots to do the same.

“I thought I saw someone I know.” she’ll say, secretly wet.

You will want her as badly as you want to extinguish it.

And you won’t be surprised when she blocks your number. She will leave your life as quickly as she crashed into it that night she passed you the note.

Or she won’t so much leave it as she will return to her previous compartment within it.

She will move on at once and without regret. You will exist as a part of her past even though you continue to run in the same circles.

The others will remain unaware even as you stalk her website at night.

The only lingering ghosts will be a series of masturbatory memories and pavlovian responses and a mutual sense of “Got lucky that time.”

So listen to me and don’t push your luck.

Intentionally seek a lover who comes with transactional caveats even as she drips nocturnal energy. Play a cat and mouse game that brings the same fission but play it with rules this time.

Catch the feel of something too close but do it without complication. Jump through the hoops of process, secure a slice of space, then rest well knowing you can extract yourselves at any time.

Stay productive and focused.

Only fuck to unremarkable music and keep things simple.