“What good to climb the social ladder if not to gain some interesting perks? All my life, I’ve struggled, begging for favors from scornful cunts. As soon as I neared them, they clenched their asses like cows during the fly season. But one morning, after my one-millionth promotion, I suddenly became handsome, funny and witty. Like magic, I got hot out of the blue. So what should I do? Send those pushy bitches off to hell? Or should I make them pay for their behavior by gently slapping their tushy? Am I the only one to think it’s wrong that all those second-rate producers fuck a bunch of starlets all day long? I wonder if anyone would dare to disturb Axl while locked up in the dressing with three highly-stoned backup singers, and after talk him into no fucking at work? I’ll tell you what, my dear Paul: They’ve been selling us this nonsense of Maslow’s concept for years. There’s a whole floor missing at the very top of their goddamn pyramid: the 24/7 blow job floor.”

So spoke Sauron behind his beautiful wooden executive desk. One of those that the Corporate reserves for their top management. Of course, I couldn’t argue the boss. And anyway, what could I say?

Facing the level 8 boss : find the right retort.

Option 1: Mr. Director, I think bill-clintoning my secretary in the back room would sabotage my team building.

Option 2: Your Darkness, I’m afraid that a treat given in the middle of an open space would create, beyond a certain jealousy, a suspicion of favoritism at the payraise season.

Option 3: I thank you for having received me at such length, Mr. Sauron. I will take my leave if you wish. I can hear Elodie stamping her feet behind the door, and she will get angry if I have to pass her by.

Games people play

Everyone tells you: don’t fornicate with your co-workers. It’s wrong. It’s an endless source of trouble. Period. It’s common sense indeed. However, a quick glance at the stats and you’ll find out that everyone says it, but no one really does it. Just count the number of couples in the office. That’s it. All around you, the sole interest of your peers (e.g. that bunch of fake asses) is getting into someone’s pants and keeping you away from getting yours down.

Sexual harassment, couch promotion, vengeful cuckoldry, locker room threesomes. We all have stories to tell at the Board of Elders while commenting on the who-fucks-who of the Corporate. Stories end up the same nine times out of ten. The same old story: that bastard had it coming, or, the smallpox took him away in excruciating pain. Or even: it would’ve been funny if there hadn’t been any kids. On the other hand, if no one is willing to take the bullet and self-sacrifice for the sake of the morning gossiping, the 9am cup of joe might not just be the same.

So let’s not be too dogmatic. Let’s weigh the ‘don’t-shit-where-you-eat’ the pros and cons — just like that French sociologist once compared the overdramatic consequences of these both scenarios.

The capitalist reasoning behind this ban is the following: If employee X get laid with colleague Y → And employee X is a heartless little bastard → Employee X may dump colleague Y like shit → Colleague Y will get unhappy → Tension and resentment in the open space → Productivity in free fall → Less cash flow for the Corporate → Boss won’t be able to get that Jacuzzi in his duplex by the end of the year.

Our actions have consequences. Know that. For all that, I believe that another analysis is possible on this issue, because if we reverse-engineer the problem we can see that: If employee X doesn’t get laid with colleague Y → Employee X gets fustrated like a little forty-year-old virgin → Employee X is forced to satisfy his sexual misery in front of YouPorn at work → Meanwhile, colleague Y gets no fucked at all, hence is frustrated as well → Tension and rancor in the open space → Concentration and productivity in free fall → Less cash flow for the Corporate → Bankruptcy and thousands of people lose their jobs.

Steeve Bourdieu, L’Art de la drague 2.0

Like you, I have spent an infinite amount of time as a manager dealing with the inextricable problems generated by my colleagues’ gloomy, funny or tragic sex-stories. It has often been funny. Sometimes much less so. Let’s face it: there have been some casualties, and we’re still mourning them. But allow me to tell you a story chosen among the lightest and most educational ones. I hope it will calm down even the top naughtiest and help them to preserve their couple, and their wallet. Let the misfortune of some serve as a lesson to others.

Bad Romance

I was dozing off while pretending to study a file, when my phone rang. It was Deep Throat. To preserve his anonymity, we’ll call him Bernard.

Bernard is in charge of in-house training at the Corporate’s HQ. As such, he deals with the newcomers’ onboarding training. He’s supposed to teach them the specificities of our department. Despite being pedagogically-irrelevant, this training session is the fast-track to send newcomers off to their new nation-wide posts as fast as possible.

Having Bernard on your side will get you premium intel on the best staff profiles’ before the rookies are sent off to their BUs. Basically, it’s PE all over again, you take the good ones and leave the bad ones to the others (they should have been smarter).

“Mr. R, we have a problem.” Deep Throat panicked.

“Calm down Berny Derny, fill me in.”

“We’ve got a C-cup problem, with very bad intentions.”

“Could you be more specific?”

“When I asked her to state her motivation, you won’t believe what she told me.”

“Speak up, Bernard.”

“She said, ‘You know, I’m not really here to work. I’m here to find a husband.’”

“Well, at least she’s sincere. Dangerousness level?”

“I’d say 8 out of 10, although a bit vulgar.”

“OK. We’ll send her to that little bastard of Mercier.”

“Excellent idea. I’ll make the arrangements.”

That’s how this time bomb was dropped at the other department under the orders of Mercier — who indeed, didn’t see that coming. And as you can guess, things did come, and crashed.

Jennifer was a struggling young single mother. For her, it was a matter of survival. No time to lose. She was fishing with an industrial net. After a few warm-up matings, the vixen soon spotted her prey: a middle manager named Herwann. He had the southern accent, a washboard, tribal tattoos and gummed hair. His income was quite fair — even overpaid if we consider his rather-inexistent academic background. In short, poor Herwann was the perfect victim.

The young dude was married, but he couldn’t help it, women liked his body and smile. Plus, he was too nice to say no. So from time to time, when the opportunity showed up, he let his bad-hubby fever out. And when Herwann met Jennifer’s fiery gaze at the Corporate’s gala, he was as hot as a spicy burrito. One dance led to another, and the affair was quickly, but classily, consumed in the storeroom, over a crate of beers.

A few weeks later. Alice opened her mailbox while finishing her morning tea along with her finance colleagues. She was surprised with a long message detailing the crazy adventure of Jennifer and Herwann — her husband. Little place for imagination in this saga : the places, positions… the late abortion in Belgium.

And, then?

Herwann was sent to the Mediterranean coast — to the delight of the local girls. Last time I checked, he was still married to Alice.

Mercier was able to get rid of Jennifer by passing her off to another department — where she was responsible for no less than five break-ups.

Sauron lit a cigar, offered me a glass of cognac and knocked me out for half an hour with a long speech about how he would always cherish the pre-MeToo era. It was so obvious. One day he would leave the stage hand back-tied, booed after all the complaints under his belt.

As he walked me to the door, he concluded with a fatherly hug “You know, Paul, given your poor looks and your higher-up position here, take my word, I don’t think you have any interest in entertaining the idea that there’s no point in sleeping around to get a promotion.”