Wooden Desks

I want to talk about wooden desks for a moment. The kind you imagine yourself being fucked on. I don’t know whether it’s the books on the bookshelves by the desk, or the desk itself, or perhaps even the lover engaged in this fantasy scenario with me. Maybe it’s the intersection of intellectual and sexual attraction merging to such degrees that the space in which a simple, appropriate conversation on the psychology of intimacy is taking place suddenly turns into a heated erotic exchange. I’m not sure but I am certain that there are times to share these fantasies, and times to keep your mouth shut, or typing fingers still. It only takes a few words to slip and slide into the cyber-oblivion of lost connections, and failed intimacies. We exist only in so far as we construct ourselves via text. Words, sentences, textual utterances … we rely on linguistic accuracy to get our meaning across, and whilst as far as wooden desks go I suspect my meaning was very clear I feel the failure of text to represent my underlying meaning. I am now the recipient of Warm Regards. This is a difficult game, this Getting To Know You game. Fraught, this cyber-realm in which we attempt to be genuine despite the fact that we only have two tools to work with: memory (of what was, of each other), and text. Oh yes, and silence. In this silence, as opposed to other silences in my life, I am haunted by images of the wooden desk, the books, and now, of course in the sexual fantasy I am standing alone in the room, my skirt hitched up, waiting … but nobody is there. Which makes me question my own desires. Had I really wanted to be thrown over this wooden desk, like a pliable object of desire? An object. Am I? As in, am I casting myself in the role of “object”? In this empty room, draped across the highly polished wood of a man’s desk, the worth of his life’s work scattered about the room, on shelves, in folders, and loose papers I have to ask myself what I am doing there, sans underpants. I lie on the desk, feel that smooth, cold, hard wood underneath me and close my eyes to try and decipher this silence at a deeper level. Life is full of fateful choices. Each moment of a conversation is a fateful choice: what do I share, when is it right to share this detail or that detail? Somehow I have translated my admiration for what a man has achieved in life, his passion, the ways in which he is making choices that matter to him and to others … I have translated this into a desire to be fucked by him on this wooden desk. It’s a genuine physical desire, but it’s also a deflection of real emotion. Oh yes, that. I’m in trouble. I’m stuck on this desk. It’s all complicated. I’m scared of him finding me here, half naked, exposed like this. I’m getting cold, lying here. Am I allowed to even be here, in this room? It’s an impressive room of a very impressive man who I know has better things to do with his time. And what am I offering? Can there be any sort of deeper connection between us on this desk, his desk. I don’t know. I want to be real, but these emotions … are they real or not?
I don’t know.
I don’t know.
I really, really don’t know.
Is sex the easy option for what can take place on this desk—the opening up of body, but not of heart and mind? Obviously it’s time for me to get off the desk. I think we’re starting from scratch. We are post-sex, and perhaps pre-intimacy?
I don’t know.
I don’t know.
I really, really don’t know.
FIONA