Just another Slavenly thought.

If he didn’t make such beautiful babies, then perhaps I wouldn’t lust after him the way I do.

The Vice President reduces me to base animal that I am: a thirty-something woman at her sexual peak who’s looking–if only subconsciously–for the perfect sperm donor.

Handcuff me.

I started a Twitter account today, a private one that I will use on my phone. I wanted a way to “jot down” the miscellaneous Vice President–related thoughts that strike me throughout the day. I often intend to remember a gem, but by the time I get home from the office, I have already forgotten its cut, quality, and color.

I realize I’m setting myself up to eventually be busted. That frightens me. But. . .Maybe I want to get caught. Maybe I’m tired of pretending that I don’t want to fuck the ever-loving shit out of the Vice President. Maybe this is all a cry for help, professional or otherwise.

Case in point: my first Tweet reads, “I can now identify his footsteps just from their sound. I’m not sure if I should be proud of or disappointed in myself.”

‘Nuff said.

Dear Vice President,

I keep dreaming about you. These dreams are wet, yes. How have you gotten such control over my subconscious? Are you as skilled and open-minded a lover as my subconscious thinks you are? Would you really wear a leather collar and beg me to fuck you with a strap-on?

As for reality, I keep thinking about you staring at me at the company party a few months ago. I could feel your eyes carving into me, and just when I would glance toward you, you would retract your daggers and turn your head away from me. You remained standing in the back of the room while I danced with a coworker. When I finished dancing and returned to my seat, you sat down, too.

Society says you’re not supposed to long for your subordinate, much less your subordinate’s subordinate. Is this why you can’t be seen eying me?

Look, I don’t have to tell you how wrong I am and how ill I might be to allow you to consume my waking and sleeping mind. But the fact is, I am very wrong and I am very ill.

You accidentally touched my hand once when we exchanged papers awhile back. I continue to let that fleeting skin-on-skin encounter dictate my fantasies about you.

I keep dreaming about you.

Overflowing.

I wanna tell him. I fantasize about it daily:

I’m quitting my job, moving on with my life, trying to get away from him. On my last day, I ask the Vice President to walk me to my car as I carry out my last box of personal belongings. When we get to my car, I ask him to have a seat inside. He sits in the passenger seat. I sit in the driver’s seat. I divulge. He looks bewildered for a few moments. He sits in silence. Eventually he begins to smile. He says he wishes I’d said something sooner–because all this time, he’s been wanting me as well. Then we proceed to make out in the car for, like, an hour, and we don’t care if anyone from the office spies us. We arrange for frequent hook-ups thereafter.

I wish I could tell him, but telling him would ruin my life–or what little of it is left.

Ooh. Oh!

My Christmas present came late this year. The Vice President was supposed to be out of the office this week, but he showed up for work today.

“Um, excuse me. What do you think you’re doing?” I asked him as breezed past me.

“Change of plans,” he said, then paused in the hallway and turned to face me. “I mean, we didn’t go anywhere. All we were doing was sitting around, looking at each other. I figured I might was well just go back to work,” he explained.

And so my day–no, make that my week–had been made.

I decided right then that I was going to visit him in his office today for no good reason at all because, well, I never do that. And I’ve missed him.

Later in the afternoon, after plotting for a few hours, I wrote down two Dutch words (the surname of an artist and the movement he is associated with) on a sticky note and marched to his lair.

“I have a very important question,” I announced, brandishing my sticky note as soon as I walked through the doorway.

He looked at my note and spoke those words a few times. So, so beautiful. I tried repeating the words, but I failed.

“No, it’s an ‘ooh’ sound,” he said patiently, smiling.

“So any time there’s an ‘oe’, it’s going to be pronounced ‘ooh’?” I asked.

“Yes.”

I had been staring down at my lap, afraid to show my blushing face. He had no idea how badly I was turned on. But I finally looked up at him, perhaps giving myself away: “How many languages do you speak, anyway?” I quizzed him, smiling out of one side of my mouth.

His expression softened, and he smiled a shy schoolboy smile. “Oh, really, just English and Dutch. I can understand most German, and I can understand French–as long as the speaker will slow the fuck down,” he said and laughed. And I laughed.

And we laughed and carried on a playful banter about home décor for a few minutes, with him telling me what he would do with his home if he lived there alone and what sorts of décor he liked but his wife didn’t like.

Proud of myself, I floated back to my seat and replayed the conversation in my head. I spent several minutes looking at a Web site he had suggested, and as I was doing so, he came over to me with even more décor ideas.

A small success.

It’s now snowing outside, and I hope he makes it home safely this evening.

Silent Bite.

What’s been going on in SlavenlyWorld? you ask. Well, nothing worth writing about. I’ve spent my days vacillating among feelings of lust, hatred, and indifference toward the Vice President. With our team’s new office configuration, I can easily go for a day or two without seeing him at all, which is one part sad, one part helpful, and one part confounding.

Of course, the holidays always make me feel glum, especially when I know that there’s not a variety of mistletoe strong enough to make my Christmas wish come true.

Pane and suffering.

Our eyes meet and lock. He smiles. I smile back.

If the eyes are windows to the soul, what is showing through my gray glass? What am I seeing through his tempered windows? A reflection of myself, of what I want to see in him?

DOA in REM.

And then the Vice President has to show up in my dreams again. Damn him. Damn him and his confidence and his well-honed bedroom skills. Damn him.

ODAT

I’ve been wanting to write here for a while, but about what? It is often said that a writer should write a least a little bit every day so as to indulge his or her literary prowess. Although I’m not claiming to have any such writing skills, I still think it’s healthy to rock the cyber-mic here on a regular basis.

But with the Vice President, things are, well, over. Owing to our office’s relocation and our team’s consequent dissection, I see him once, maybe twice a day. This should make feel better, but it doesn’t. I guess I’m feeling that second D in DABDA now: depression.

I’ll find ways to fill the void in my life, I suppose. In fact, just the other day, I learned to dance the pizzica. Perhaps I’ll just keep on enriching myself and moving beyond this situation. It’s all about preoccupation.

One day at a time, they say…

I think it’s working.

Keeping myself sequestered in my cube does seem to be working wonders for me. I can almost feel my obsession with the Vice President slipping through my fingers.

In fact, today, as I was leaving, I passed him in the hall, and he told me good night. I threw a fake punch at him, and he did not react at all. Of course, it doesn’t bother me at all now, whereas it would have crushed me a couple of weeks ago. Now, I just think it’s funny.

Funny.