...writing a sex scene at work because you just have to have an orgasm now or you’ll die and there’s nothing there to read and you can’t get off without it, so you write it while you’re rubbing your thighs together and rub the fabric of your long skirt that you’ve got shoved up under this desk where nobody can see it against your aching clit — no soft, pretty love scene, not when you’re this horny, oh no, you know you want fast sex, rough sex, the way you think you’d like it, though you’re ashamed to admit it and afraid to try it and you think you’d want someone to push you into it with him and a friend or maybe a couple at once — you might even want to try pulling a train, with your body out there and it’s theirs and yours all at once and incandescent but you get a little anxious and so embarrassed to mention it, ’cause while it’s all right nowadays for women to like sex, they’re not supposed to like sex that looks like rape and they’re not supposed to like sex that might be degrading, and they’re especially not supposed to wonder if they might actually like rape after all — it were the right kind of rape, of course, the fantasy kind where you’re so hot and dripping that nothing hurts, that nothing he/they did could damage you, not like the real kind, where usually you’re so dry that even a gentle one would hurt you and a real rapist rips you apart, and leaves you sobbing or too broken for tears. Who could do that? Maybe that’s one of the fundamental problems between men and women, because I don’t understand how you could keep taking your pleasure, despite knowing, and you must know, that you’re tearing somebody apart underneath you. And maybe even taking some of that pleasure because of what you’re doing to them. But then again, maybe it’s not a fundamental difference, because come to think of it, I know plenty of women who do that too, just not in a physical sexual kind of way. People are fucked.