I’m afraid there is software on my computer that is logging all the porn I watch. It will send a long list of links and titles to my boss as a .zip file. She will download it, assuming it is one of my overdue projects. It will infect her computer, collect and send a .zip file of all her porn and mine to the dean of students in an email about a retirement potluck. Maybe it will even reply all. It will spread, yet another virus, continuing with the dean, the provost, the university president, board of trustees, governor, and eventually the president who will tweet about that time I got off on the couch while The Lion King played in the background, Nala giving Nala eyes. Then, after everyone has been fired and shamed, the software will release to the internet all the things that any of us has ever gotten off on and nobody will really be surprised.

I am so afraid this will happen that, instead of porn, I’ve taken to watching passionate scenes in mainstream movies or sexy music videos. Pretty Woman, Titanic, Megan Thee Stallion—that sort of thing. Work myself back up by rewinding. Since I’m also afraid the software will record my face, I cover my camera. I disable the microphone. I mute the audio. I cum to the subtitles. Let’s call it—subtitillating.

(Dramatic, Engaging Music)

(Soft bang)

(Moaning loudly)

(Bed creaking)

(Crying in Italian)

(Urinating fully and easily)

(...)

(Silence)