T H E_.H O T_.S P O T The year in sex By Susie Bright Last year, cigars and scandals -- this year, the Million Mistress March! (01/08/98) ___________________ Satisfy all your intellectual urges at barnesandnoble.com! ___________________   R E C E N T L Y Bonfire of the porn queens By Benjamin Weissman Trapped between a silicon breast and a hard place, the Adult Video News Awards struggle to boost their legitimacy (01/14/99) The gentlemanly art of spanking By Carson Fitzgerald When women turn the other cheek, what are they asking for? (01/07/99) Two concepts of sexual hysteria By Linda R. Hirshman and Jane E. Larson The Democrats offer "Boogie Nights," the Republicans "The Crucible." Can we change the channel? (12/24/98) The shipping nudes By David Steinberg Why have certain postal services decided to become arbiters of obscenity? (12/10/98) - - - - - - - - - - Browse the Urge archives - - - - - - - - - -		Confessions of an office pervert IN SATISFYING HER OWN NASTY DESIRES, ONE WOMAN DISCOVERS THE KEY TO WORKER PRODUCTIVITY. ____________________- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - BY ANGIE MONROE As an affable, unrepentant office pervert, I have grown accustomed to indulging in shockingly noncorporate activities on company time. This is what I do. I have an instinct for intrigue, an eye for the isolated corner or unused stairwell, a sense of timing that allows me to make the most of my co-workers' absence or inattention and dive headfirst into a steaming miasma of fantasies and raunchy, electronic repartee. I wrote all of my freelance erotica, essays and reviews while pretending to "work." I have had figurative and literal sex on the clock. I have, you see, no scruples. Mind you, I am not at all the shifty-eyed, scuttling deviant you might expect to be confessing such sins. Objectively speaking, I am a lovely young lady, with a big, bright, customer-service smile, flouncy skirts, proper Mary Janes, a Nordstrom card and a blatant preference for clean living. I power-walk on lunch breaks. I can use words like "expedite" and "interface" without wincing. I am a "team player" who aims to "delight the customer," on the condition that I satisfy my need to perv away during the slack time. Never will you see a pornographic Web site in my Internet visit log. To me, that is for feckless, muddy-brained wankers. No, no, I am too clever. And what a stereotypical transgression besides! There are others like me, though, going tippety-tap at a frantic speed, reeling from an erotic directive from an e-mail amour, oblivious to the din of office drones yapping on speaker phones. We title our messages blandly, to discourage snoops from drawing the right conclusion about our twisted nature. I have sent many nasty notes about "filing procedures" or "administrative duties" that, lo and behold, inspire immediate replies and relentless follow-ups. My secret lover happened to be just down the hall, another upstanding office perv in our Fortune 500 company. At first I had no idea that he, too, heard the slutty siren's call most afternoons, when business memos would strangely metamorphose into Victorian porn with their naively sexual verbs and master-slave attitudes. We would watch each other walk. We would blush when we were caught staring. I tested his perv radar by wearing outfits that suggested, oh so subtly, assorted sexual roles: Catholic school girl, Queen Bitch, librarian; and I would gauge his response by the darkness of his pupils and his enthusiastic greetings. Between phone calls and word processing, I would have idle thoughts of flouncing into his office and mounting him on his chair before he could protest -- fast and furious, decorum be damned. But decorum was, as it turned out, the most intense turn-on. Decorum, and our superficial obedience to all its demands and advisories, incited insatiable hunger, a reckless, deviant imperative. I began fetishizing business attire, fantasizing about him yanking off his corporate-color tie to restrain my wrists and then laying me across the conference room table; he salivated over the thought of me, going presto-change-o, from modest professional to sex kitten, blowing him under his desk as the phones continued to ring and ring. N E X T+P A G E | First contact: A fever of e-mails