Notes From the Ground Zero at Corporate Hell (Part VII 1/2)

It’s been a long time since I let you readers into the masochist playground of Corporate Hell. But new responsibilities in my current position also demand an unfounded sense of discretion as well. Sure there have been little blogbits on the odd Satanist, or two, that I have encountered along the way, but nothing too meaty – until now.

In recent months, I have assumed a position of leadership at my workplace. Yes, yes, I know…I’ve become one of those clueless Gestapo managerial types I used to rave on endlessly about back back in the da. But what can I say? The old paycheck just wasn’t keeping my fat ass in the high-caloried lifestyle that I was growing into. Besides, it’d be fun to see it from the other side for a change.

At best, I can boss people around from time to time and use the refrigerator in the manager’s private cafeteria.

And so, at times, I am often sought out by my work peers to offer some insightful council on rather sticky workplace topics. One such particular topic matter now that it’s summer once again is that regarding the female dress code.

I know, I know, for any other red-blooded civilized man, this is a non-topic. Let them wear whatever the hell they want, the skimpier and more revealing the better. Who am I to frown in the face of such magnificent fleshy beauty? It is the nicer weather outside after all!

But those who reign supreme in the workplace seldom see it that way. It always comes down to the issue of “professionalism”. An over-exposing of breasts and skin is considered to be an office place faux pas. Well, if boobs were to be properly presented in a particular arranged appealing sort of way, I’d consider that to be pretty professional in itself. Not like those tragic trailer park uggo’s who wear tacky tube tops that allow their healthy truck stop cleavage to spill out like loaves of over-baked bread. It takes skill to look good.

Let's face it, men like tits...they like big tits better. Unless they're fags in which case they say stupid things like "anything more than a handful is a waste". Whatever, Rock, you obviously like little boys.

But what do I know? I’m just a single horny male coping in this hot sea of fleshy wonders. It's all I can do but prevent my heart from exploding in my chest every time a good looking girl walks by. And it's hard enough concealing my erection for 7.4 hours worth of my workday as it is.

So recently, a fellow colleague of mine who was looking for some empathy in what she was wearing brought me into such a situation. It seems that she had just been slapped with “corrective action” from her team manager in regards to her chosen outfit that day.

Her first words, as she stood up before me, threw out her arms, and opened herself up invitingly for observation, will ring out in my ears for years to come:

“Look at me. What do you think?”

I restrained myself from checking her out. My eyes continued their contact directly with hers and all but bore holes into the back of her skull; sweat droplets began to bead on my forehead. It felt like blood vessels were rupturing in my brain with the intense concentration required to not let my eyes sneak downward for a quick peak at her supple womanly features.

Must…stay….focused….

Here is a girl, and a beautiful one at that, inviting herself to be scoped out like a buffet menu item, and I can’t even allow myself to indulge her. Normally, situations such as this would set me back a few bucks. But not today - ohhh, no! Today it’s just being given away free for the taking. It’s tits on tap! And I have to be “professional”.

It’s a cruel world, dear reader.

This is not right! Inside, I turned into that slobbery Wolf from that ‘Red Hot Riding Hood’ cartoon of my childhood – howling, licking my chops, and pounding the counter with my fist. “Fly away with me to the Riviera and it will be a beautiful thing. I will get you diamonds, pearls-everything!” Externally, of course, I must have made a great impression of a kettle about to boil over. But still my eyes did not waver.

Oh boy.

My body then made a sudden ackward movement as if it was trying to run in several directions at once. Panic began to set in. My eyes began to burn as I struggled to prevent myself from crumbling like a stale Saltine. I would rather have been standing on the face of the sun than right there powerless in front of this angry girl just then.

Somewhere along the line, I have been relieved of my manliness. Since assuming my new position, I have trained myself to avoid such womanly temptations and maintain proper eye level contact with everyone, female and male co-workers alike. All I see at the workplace now are floating heads *; bodiless persons bobbing through the work aisles and in the cafeteria. Somebody could be wearing a purple thong made of chinchilla pelts and gold nipple tassels and I wouldn’t have the foggiest notion.

BLASTPHEMY!

Damn you Corporate American for robbing me of my natural machismo!

Things should be simpler. If I had my way, one of my duties would be to stand at the front doors and inspect each female associate that enters the building from head to toe. Those found to be wearing too much clothing or not conducting themselves in an otherwise titillating way, would be sent home immediately to strip down before returning to work.

It would be Hell, of course, but somebody has to do it.

Instead, I nodded and smiled like a retarded chimpanzee as the girl pleaded me her case. That is to say, I empathized my ass off and quickly walked away thinking unsexy thoughts.

"My nana in the shower...my nana in the shower…my nana in the shower…"

The real tragedy in this whole proper dress code debate is that I have to wear dress shirts, slacks and a tie every day. Shit, as it is, I'd rather come to work wearing a skimpy low cut fuck me dress too. I sure as shit would be much more relaxed - not to mention comfortable! But I'm sure there's some stipulation in the halloed Human Resource employee's guide that would forbid the exposing of any sweaty man boobs as well.

And who could blame them.

* Which, when you stop to think about it, is rather creepy.