Sharon and George at the Office

George tried to keep his mind on the business at hand, and his eyes on the thick file in front of him on the desk, but every few seconds an irresistible urge would wash over him. He would, in spite of himself, glance to his right at the firm, freckled mound of titflesh that swam into and out of his peripheral vision from the gaping seam of the Director's flawless white blouse as she stood at the edge of the boardroom table and raised and lowered her arms throughout the presentation. Three buttons. Three goddamn buttons. One would have been demure. Two would have been assertive. Three was just thoughtless and cruel – and far more interesting than working capital in a way that made his mouth water. Normally, this late in the day, his eyes would be on the clock. For the last couple of months his eyes had been glued to his Director's breasts.

Even when he turned his head towards the numbers on the screen at the foot of the room, he could see, in the corner of his eye, the subtle difference between the cream-colored flesh of Sharon's breast and the bright white of the cotton that covered it. He slowly rotated his chair to the left to avoid the subtle but devastating assault, but the only thing worse than suffering from the image of her small but beautiful right breast was not suffering from it. Just as slowly, he turned his chair to the right once again, in the pretense of watching her gesticulate to emphasize a particularly relevant point. He was rewarded with a mind-numbing display as she finished her portion of the presentation and lowered herself to her chair, reaching behind her five-foot-nothing frame to pull her chair forward. As she reached backward for the arms of the heavy piece of oak and leather, the seam of her blouse parted yet farther, pulling at the fourth button of her blouse, and as she pulled herself forward George noted that the brown, puckered edge of her aureole was visible from under the edge of her lace-edged, beige brassiere. He held his breath to prevent the soft gasp of surprised contentment that had been forming in his throat, and stared openly for a moment, temporarily abandoning propriety. As the focus of the meeting turned to another participant, she turned to George, smiled broadly, and winked conspiratorially. He had lifted his eyes quickly, but blushed furiously and spent the next few minutes wondering whether she had caught his wide-eyed leer at her exposed mammary. The meeting ended just minutes later, and George remained at his seat, pretending to take notes as his coworkers streamed out of the room in their single-file queue, as the soft bulge in his pants slowly began to recede.

He didn't know exactly what it was about her, but it had been months since he had thought of any other woman. She was fifteen years his senior, childless and divorced, almost fifty, and didn't attract much attention from the younger of her male peers who spent their time fantasizing about the newest bottle-blonde, silicon enhanced intern in Accounting. She wasn't "prima facie pretty", when she smiled she did so infrequently, and she had shown a willingness to be a profoundly nasty bitch when provoked. Nonetheless, he liked her style. She was direct and sincere. She worked hard and expected those around her to do the same. Sharon was short but physically fit, feisty and energetic, had excellent posture, and her breasts, however small and freckled, made George's mind alternately sweat and shiver in entirely unprofessional appreciation. He spent a moment wondering whether Sharon's south pole was covered in the same rusty brown hair as her north pole, and whether her thighs smelled of fresh soap, before shaking his head and trying to purge himself of all thoughts libidinous. He opened the file on the desk in front of him and began to read random reports to ground his thoughts in reality and away from his manager's boss' hidden assets.

Well after the last of his peers – and Sharon, with an inquisitive backwards glance – had left the room, he tamed his latent erection, pushed his chair back, and made his way back to his cubicle. George's immediate manager had left a thick stack of supplier evaluations on his desk during the meeting – tagged with a deadline that would require, if met, the invention of a time machine – and he sank to his chair in quiet resignation. There was no point in complaining. It may have been true, elsewhere, that the "squeaky wheel gets the grease", but at McDougall & Jamieson, the squeaky wheel got replaced with a new, naïve, and usually buxom model who would serve triple duty as purchasing clerk, eye candy, and in some cases boardroom table duster for one of the senior managers.

This late on a Friday, most of his coworkers had already fled to begin their weekends. With no special plans, he decided it was in his best interests to get some work done before heading home to his cat. He picked up the first vendor evaluation, propped it up on his sheet holder, and tapped the space bar on his computer to summon the infernal machine from its temporary slumber.

A meeting request was waiting for him, blinking centre screen – from Sharon. The meeting title was ambiguous – "Review COE". The meeting description was more ominous.

"My office, please, at your earliest convenience. Bring your signed copy of M&J Code of Ethics."

George blushed furiously. Evidently his boardroom leer had been noticed. He wondered what the appropriate performance management response was to catching one of your employees drooling as he openly stared at your right breast. Evidently, he was about to find out. He clicked his mouse to accept the meeting and leaned back in his chair, inhaling deeply and quickly before exhaling slowly to brace himself for the inevitable.

He pushed his chair back, opened the large filing cabinet in the corner of his office, snagged the file labeled "HR BS", and quick-stepped the thirty paces between his own office and hers. The door was open, but she was in conversation with a member of the human resources team. Sharon held up a finger in his direction to hold him outside the threshold of the door while she finished her conversation. George waited patiently, transferring his weight from one foot to the other every few seconds and tapping his thumb on the ridge of the red folder in his right hand, until she motioned him into her office. The human resources clerk left quickly, with barely a nod of recognition for George before he hurried out of the office to begin his own weekend. George felt a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach as he took a seat at the round table in Sharon's office and put the file on the table in front of him.

Sharon smiled professionally at George for a moment before excusing herself for a moment, turning to her computer, and tapping out a quick note. George, always curious, glanced at the monitor but the new polarized privacy screens the management team had installed on their computers did their job very, very well, and George was forced to wait, curiosity and fear slowly growing, while she typed her missive and sent it into the digital world outside her door. George hoped sincerely it wasn't a note to Security to clean out his desk. While he waited, in spite of his situation, he admired the curve of her neck and the freckles that sprinkled themselves liberally down the line of her jaw before they disappeared under the collar of her blouse. For an idle moment he wondered how far down they ran. Did she have freckles on her breasts? Perhaps on her stomach? And if they extended that far down her lithe, tiny frame, would he find a random sprinkle of tiny brown dots on her luscious, heart shaped... he shook his head in disbelief. He was about to get fired, and he was still fantasizing about her. She finished her note and turned towards the door, standing and closing it before flicking a switch on the doorjamb. The glass in the door frosted instantly as an electric current flickered through it. She turned back to her chair, reclaimed her leather throne, and pulled herself forward to the table. She flicked her eyes in the direction of the glass and grinned.

"I had to ask for better glass after they put Barry across the hall." George mustered a grin, and understood her instantly. Barry was deaf, a masterful lip reader, and hadn't yet left the office. Glass would offer no protection or guarantee of confidentiality as long as he was within line of sight. In light of the knowledge that the conversation was going to one that required confidentiality, George was even more concerned. Sharon looked at the file on the desk between them, lifted an eyebrow, and reached forward with a lifted eyebrow. She paused before taking the file, making eye contact with George until he nodded. She slid the file across the table and over the rounded edge before flipping it up and looking at the file label. George blushed yet again. She smiled, lifted another eyebrow, and looked up at George.

"HR I understand. What does the 'BS' stand for?" She didn't wait for an answer. She opened the file, quickly found the document she needed, turned to the signature page, and placed the document on the table between them.

"This is the company Code of Ethics. Have you read the entire document?" He nodded without speaking.

"And is that your signature?" He nodded again, without looking, irritated by the very nature of the question.

"Then I think we may have a problem that you and I need to discuss. Have you reviewed the Sexual Harassment section?" Believing that honesty was better than deception at this point, George shook his head in the negative.

"Then you haven't read the entire document, have you? I have my own copy. Let's take a look at it together. It's on page six." She summoned her copy from her own portfolio, and opened it to a dog-eared page, waiting while he found the section in his own signed copy.

"Can you please read the company's definition of sexual harassment?" He looked up at her, wondering whether she was being condescending or serious. The look she gave him made it clear she was serious. He turned back to the document and read the section she had indicated.

"Sexual harassment is any form of undesired interaction, actual or implied, that causes a member of the McDougall & Jamieson team, or its suppliers or customers, to become uncomfortable about his or her gender or sexual orientation while in the workplace." When he had finished, he looked up at her and waited. She looked up from her own copy, met his gaze until he looked away, then spoke.

"George, sexual harassment isn't about rank. I'd like to discuss this as equals and peers. If there is something that is making either of us uncomfortable, we should really get it out in the open, shouldn't we? And we can't discuss this as equals if you won't look at me."

Surprised and curious, George lifted his eyes from their random strafing pattern in the wood grain of the table, and honored her request. He looked at her, making every effort not to look at her cleavage, and he was rewarded with an honest and friendly smile. He mustered a weak grin in response, and sat up a bit straighter in his chair.

"Good." She waited for a moment or two before continuing. "George, I've often found that it's easier to deal with uncomfortable issues if people speak in hypothetical terms. Would you be willing to try that?" Again, George searched for condescension and found none. He mustered a stronger grin, and did his best to lighten the mood.

"Hypothetically speaking, yes." It was weak, but it was an obvious effort. He was rewarded with a slightly warmer smile.

"Good. So why do you think, hypothetically speaking, we're in my office today?" She steepled her fingers under her chin and waited for George to provide a hypothetical answer. He thought for a long moment, blushing, and responded.

"It's possible that one of us has done something to make the other person feel uncomfortable about sex or sexual orientation." She frowned, and he knew it wasn't the answer she had been searching for.

"Okay. That may be true. But I find it interesting that you would replace the word 'gender' in the policy with the word 'sex'." She looked at him without judgement and waited for a response. He had none to provide, so she went on.

"That's actually very perceptive. The company worded it that way because they wanted to avoid the word 'sex' in and of itself without a prefix or suffix. This really isn't about gender, you know. This policy is really about sex and sexual orientation." She waited once again for a response, and found none.

"George, I don't mean to offend you with this question, but are you gay?"

His jaw quite literally dropped. The question didn't make him uncomfortable, but the fact that it came from a manager two tiers above his pay grade, and was asked in such a casual fashion, was almost beyond belief. After a few seconds he retrieved his lower lip, closed his open mouth, and regained his composure.

"No, I like women." He blushed and looked once more for answers in the swirling grain of the birds-eye maple of the desk.

"Because if you were gay, and I caught you staring at my breasts in the middle of an important presentation, I could safely assume you were looking at my blouse and not my tits. Are you sure you're not gay? Whether you're gay or not may be related to whether I feel uncomfortable or not." George saw the brightly painted escape route she was leading him to, but his pride wouldn't let him use it. He spoke again, albeit it softly.

"Given the consequences, I wish I was gay, but I'm not. I like women."

"It might be more accurate, under the circumstances, to say you like breasts." She was clearly mocking him, however gently, and it burned. He lifted his eyes, met her confident gaze with one of his own, and corrected her firmly without regard for her position.

"No, that would not be more accurate. I like women." The sudden steel in his voice had little impact on her. She smiled, obviously comfortable in conflict, and went on.

"I would challenge you to draw the distinction, sir." The honorific was accompanied by a slight slur of contempt that drew him out of his shell even further. She was pitching fastballs, and he intended to respond in kind. Without raising his voice, he stepped up to the plate and swung.

"The difference is obvious to anyone who cares to see it, Sharon. A man who likes breasts looks at women without pause and only craves their breasts, where a man who likes a woman may look at her breasts without pause but he only craves the woman." The statement itself was the epitome of clarity. Only after it was made did George question the wisdom of unintentionally making his situation so clear to a woman who was obviously no fool. In as little time as it had taken to make the statement, he saw that she had parsed it. He saw the beginnings of a smile, and the sudden appearance of subtle laugh lines in the corners of her bright brown eyes as she appreciated both the structural complexity of the sentence, and the philosophical clarity of the meme. She had obviously underestimated him, and the knowledge pleased her. Sharon paused while she stifled a grin, regained her composure, and looked over at him with unreserved sincerity.

"Well spoken. Point taken. You like women. Please accept my apologies for a statement that was as unprofessional as it was inaccurate." George nodded his acceptance of her apology and waited for her to guide the conversation to its next logical step – a step that he was certain would involve censure, given his tacit admission he had been staring at her breasts, his awkward confession of his emotional attraction, and his open insubordination. She went on.

"The hypothetical question remains. Is someone uncomfortable, and what caused their discomfort?" She looked at him across the desk and waited for him to respond. He looked at her and realized that she still had three buttons undone on her blouse. Frustrated now more than afraid, he felt something begin to wake, and he began to assert himself.

"Have I done something specific to make you uncomfortable about your sex or sexual orientation, Sharon?" She looked at him closely before answering, searching for any sign that could be interpreted as patronizing, and finding none. She answered honestly.

"I thought that you had. Now I'm uncertain."

"Clarify." She pursed her lips slightly, aware that the brevity of his request redefined their conversation and realigned the dynamic of their communication. It implied that she was accountable to him. And, in truth, she was. Honesty once again.

"For some weeks I've been aware of your performance in the office. You're productive and efficient, and there is opportunity in the organization for those who excel. When I noticed your attention to my breasts in the boardroom I was disappointed in your lack of self-control. In the moment I saw you as unfit for promotion."

"And now?"

"As you have stated, you enjoy women, not breasts. Your distraction in the boardroom became less... disappointing."

"Inaccurate once again." His brevity began to frustrate her.

"Clarify."

"You have quite outstanding breasts." She flushed, and resented him for it.

"Then you, sir, are a liar."

"Not so. Your breasts are indeed outstanding. You, however, are more so." She flushed on hearing it, inhaled sharply in surprise, and began to love him for it. She felt the flush travel down her neck to her chest, and felt her nipples tighten. Oh, how she had underestimated him! And oh, how pleasant a surprise that error was! And oh, how unfortunate the only position she could recommend him for was a more senior one with the firm. She was, quite suddenly and inappropriately, seeing him in a much different position – using his penetrating mind, or an accessory attached to it, to guide her organization to new and unexpected profits, while firmly ensconced in a plush, warm office that had been empty for much longer than she would have preferred. She banished the brief and inappropriate fantasy and pushed her chair back from the table.

"My apologies once again, George. You are as charming as you are proficient. Thank you for coming." She stood up and took two steps towards the door before George spoke.

"Very welcome, Sharon, but the Sexual Harassment policy is designed to protect men as well as women."

She stopped, both curious and incredulous, and turned to the desk before reaching the door. What could he possibly mean by that statement? She felt, in her momentary confusion, that he might better answer the question than she.

"What could you possibly mean by that statement?" She stared at him with open and sincere confusion.

"There is a possibility that I've been a victim and that I may seek redress." He smiled briefly, and his smile was momentarily infuriating. Her voice rose slightly as she spoke.

"How could I have made you feel uncomfortable, George? It was you looking at my tits, not the other way around!" He lifted his eyebrows at the obvious error. "Dammit, you know what I mean! How the hell can you be a victim in any of this?" She stood by the edge of the table now, leaning forward over his seated form, and realized with more than a small degree of surprise, that he had utterly failed to meet her eyes, and that he was staring directly into her cleavage. She took two outraged steps backward and blushed once again, covering the exposed triangle of cleavage and neck with both hands.

"How dare you!" She stood, panting in enraged disbelief. He sat calmly in his chair, looking at her with mild contempt and finally raising his voice in return.

"I dare because you do! I dare to look because you dare to undo three goddamn buttons on a blouse that should be buttoned to the goddamn neck! I dare because I have enough goddamn trouble working in the same office as you without the sight of your tits playing havoc with my head! What the fuck are you thinking, woman?" His contempt enraged her even more than his indiscretion and, desperate for a way to discredit him, she picked the first thought that came to mind and threw it at him.