To be clear,fuck reportwas not my terminology. And in myline of work, it didn’t refer to my colleagues and their sex lives. Instead, it referred to the metric tons of data currently cluttering my laptop screen.
At BuzzCorp, we prided ourselves on being user-first. Testing was conducted at every phase of new toy development. Our talented QA team would be sent a product, use the toy for a certain number of days, and then write detailed summaries of how those toys functioned in solo use and (if applicable) with a partner or partners. Being the head of engineering, I could have delegated the work of poring over the fuck reports to someone else, but I never did. When it came to work, I was a control freak.
And when it came to sex, it was nice to know someone was having it, even if it wasn’t me.
Our testers ranged from a grocery clerk at the center of a polycule to a housewife trying to reinvigorate her sex life to a single mother hooking up between work and her daughter’s soccer practice. Rich or poor, fat or thin, sexually adventurous or meek, beautiful or ugly, young or old, nondisabled or disabled, men or women or otherwise…it didn’t matter.
People were having sex. Great sex, with the help of the toys I was engineering.
Reading about them was my Monday workload. Just another day at the office.
The BuzzCorp offices took up one floor of a “reimagined” workspace in downtown Dallas. What had once been the cold,Office Space-y confines of a multinational bank was now an open-concept, glass-walled, potted-plant oasis built with collaboration (and splashy, stylish magazine spreads, probably) in mind.
Most of the time, I worked in the safe and secure confines of my lab, a private glass box of sterile space that made me look like I’d been sentenced to a thousand years in movie supervillain jail. It was as uninspiring and unsexy as a room could be, but I lovedit. The seclusion gave me space to think and kept me from getting too mixed up in my coworkers’ lives.
But on Mondays, the fuck reports called, and I was forced to answer them in the communal space in the office’s open-concept center, which was comprised of a kitchen, call booths, a community garden, and group workspaces—the typical trappings of a too-hip-for-its-own-good, late-stage-capitalism office.
And not even the fuck reports could take my mind off Hudson. I’d been checking the door all morning, waiting for him to pop his unreasonably attractive head into the office. I needed to go back on my offer. As I flipped through fuck reports, his sweatshirt (which I’d forgotten I’d been wearing until I collapsed on my couch last night) sat in a little bag near my feet. Every time I brushed against it, I imagined how that conversation would go.
Hudson, I regret to inform you that I will be unable to teach you about sex due to a prior commitment. I have to get a Brazilian wax. I haven’t shaved down there in a while, so by the time the waxing tech gets finished, your contract will probably be up anyway.
Or—
Hudson, here’s my password for this women-owned porn site I visit regularly. They’ll teach you more than I ever could.
Or—
Hudson, I’d love to teach you about sex toys, but then I might stupidly give in to my urge to ride you like a mechanical bull. You understand. It’s for the best I keep my distance.
“Scout? Are you in one of your scientific fugue states again?”
I looked up at my small engineering team. There was Jared Blotcher, the loudmouthed wiring specialist who’d asked the question. Addie Cao, a fresh-faced recent grad whose parents still believed she worked in microchip development at an electric car company. And Terrence Ramirez, our fabrication expert, who I would have been able to describe in more detail if he ever talked about himself.
“No, I’m fine,” I replied to Jared. “Just a little jet-lagged. Addie, how are things going with the marketing department?”
Addie, as the most junior of the team, was our technical liaison with the advertising folks and helped prepare all the packaging, branding, and marketing materials for The Fantasy. She scrunched her pert nose.
“I’m not totally sold on their concept, but we’re looking at alternatives.”
Jared wouldn’t let it go, though. “Jet-lagged? There’s only a one-hour time difference.”
Addie cocked her head, turning on him. “Hey, didn’tyoumiss almost an entire day of work the Monday after Daylight Savings?”
Thank God for Addie. I should have her nominated for sainthood.
“We’re not talking about me here. We’re talking about our extremely exhausted-looking boss.”
Oof. Spoke too soon.
“You’ve been pretty quiet this morning, boss,” he continued. “Going to regale us with all the shenanigans you got up to in Cleavage-land?”
He waggled his eyebrows.
Gag.
“She’s going to refer you to HR,” Terrence muttered, not looking up from his work.
“Sorrythat I’m trying to ask myfriendhow her trip went. I didn’t realize beingnicewas afireable offense.”
