It’s time for that ancient HR manual to be updated. The entire chapter on interoffice relationships needs an overhaul, and I’m just the man to do it. You see, I have a PhD in Reality.
The Situation: You’re spending almost half your weekday waking hours around mating options.
The Dilemma: If you have sex with a coworker, it could affect your work and (when applicable) your other relationship.
The Solution: Have at it and avoid being caught.
Don’t groan at me!
Yes, yes, I know: Most relationships fail, so any interoffice relationship is doomed from the get-go. Right. So, why not acknowledge that fact in advance, and agree to enjoy the fantasy fuck until it’s no longer mutually pleasant? Then, just like at the end of a recreational sporting event, you shake hands and go about your business.
Office affairs don’t really need to complicate things. They can be as simple as, “You scratch my gland (with your tongue, please) and I’ll scratch yours.” You don’t fall in love with your masseuse or chiropractor, right? Keep love out of it. Provide a kind service to a coworker, and I advise you to keep money out of it. (You don’t need the stress involved with collecting tax IDs and reporting payments to the IRS.)
Sexual tension and frustration cause job performance issues. It needs an outlet. By the way, I’m leaving in the clause forbidding office masturbation–that’s just creepy and gross. Let’s do a little role-playing exercise, shall we?
Scenario: Director Phil (unrelated … honestly) is clicking through his unread messages in his office while sipping office coffee made from ground-up twigs. New employee, Valerie, strolls up and taps on his door. She’s wearing a skirt and blouse that teeter on the edge of office-inappropriate (according to some HR beast whose vagina gets used about as often as Rush Limbaugh’s treadmill).
“Good morning, Sir. A group of us are heading to Friday’s for happy hour, and I thought I’d extend an invitation.”
“Ah, how nice. I’d love to join you.”
“Excellent. See you at six.”
Later that day, the group slams appetizers and cocktails on the boss’ tab while trying to avoid talking about work. Valerie’s on martini #3, her blouse is partially untucked, and her hair is wild. She sits next to the boss and chats about … who knows. All the boss hears is, “Please put your penis inside me.”
At first, there’s some positive body language: outer leg crossed over inner leg toward the boss. Then a bit of harmless touching of hands to arms and knees to knees. Things escalate with a hand on thigh, to make a point. Tension rises. Coworkers kind of notice, but they’re not sure. They begin leaving. Finally, just the two of them remain.
Choice A: Phil walks Valerie to her car, ensures she’s sober enough to drive, thanks her for inviting him, delivers a gentle fist-tap, and says he’ll see her tomorrow.
Choice B: Three shots of tequila later the two sneak off to her SUV, crawl into the back seat, and knock nasties.
Choice A is by the (former) book, which results in two highly frustrated individuals whose only recourse is to go home to their mates and fantasize. This is unhealthy.
Choice B results in the bliss of sexual afterglow and an exciting little secret, which can be reminisced upon at any time to lighten the mood and improve morale.
I vote B.
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