business and pleasure

My coworkers and I have effectively eliminated any previously existing professional boundaries and obscured the concept of sexual harassment entirely by embracing inappropriate workplace conversation on a regular basis, always too busy laughing to ever be offended by the sexually-themed and suggestive (over)sharing in which we frequently engage. And besides, behaving like frat boys (reporting on our most recent sexual escapades) in our family-friendly coffeeshop is fun. For us, at least.

Last night, for the second time in two weeks, I met three of my far-too-comfortable-together coworkers for a drink (or three . . . or four), giving us the opportunity to get even more explicit in our professionally unsuitable discussions. Which we did. And how.

It began with Geneva, whose decision to wear a breast-accentuating shirt became an immediate topic of conversation, as she bent over to retrieve a fallen dollar from the ground and inadvertently exposed a little more boob-flesh than she intended. Geneva acknowledged the accidental uncovering with a laugh, and I commented on the impossibility of a similar breast-related incident happening to me, on account of my bite-sized chesticles (see: boobs). I was quickly reminded of a fact Geneva had shared with me in the store only a few days earlier: small breasts are more sensitive to touch and, thus, more sexually beneficial. She urged me to take pride in my less-than-bountiful bosom, and we discussed the possibility of exchanging breasts for a day, allowing each of us to experience life on the opposite end of the boob spectrum. More laughter.

The breast banter continued, as Saren—resident actress—offered to show us her girls for five dollars, to save us the trouble of renting the movie in which her role required a moment of brief but complete boob exposure. But no one paid up. The chesticles stayed concealed.

Soon after, Geneva learned that her husband, Ryan, was tied up at work and wouldn’t be joining us as planned. Inspired by the phone call from her man, Geneva boasted of the healthy and (over)active sex life she and Ryan share, the way they take advantage of weekend days together by “never leaving the house, if you know what I mean,” then informed us that her sex drive is such that it outdoes her husband’s on a regular basis, leaving him asking for a steak to refuel. We laughed, but Saren and I couldn’t help but nod, sympathizing with the strength of Geneva’s sexual impulse, and making reference to our own relentless desires, that sometimes demand too much of our men. Meanwhile, Zach, the token male coworker among us, sat speechless beside me, doing his best to act cool and unfazed by our claims.

But not wanting Zach to feel left out of our girl-centered talk of breasts and boys, I told him I’d make out with him, if not for his girlfriend and us working together. Then, after a brief pause, I retracted the qualifiers and said I would kiss him anyway, and in spite of them. Which, unfortunately (or fortunately, I’m not sure), didn’t happen.

And, finally, to conclude our unparalleled night of cocktails and boundary-crossing, we conferred on the subject of oral sex, bonding over our general enjoyment of the act, with Geneva calling herself a particularly proficient performer, and speculating that I am most assuredly the same. (Thank you, for that vote of confidence.)

After last night, I would have to assume that any residual lines of professionalism have been undoubtedly erased. I fully expect my return to work on Tuesday to include at least one unrestrained recap of a weekend sex-capade, probably more explicitly recalled than ever before. And I’m still holding out hope for that kiss.