When I found out I was pregnant at 22, the first person I told was my co-worker Emma. It made sense, given that Nick, the person who got me pregnant, was also a co-worker. In fact, much of that relationship – the flirting, the kissing, the scrutiny of every detail – had taken place in or around the office.
Emma and I had been very close friends ever since I got a job at a big management consultancy. We went to the gym together after work and we also used to go for drinks at the pub around the corner.
“Come on, we need wine,” she said after I showed her a photo of the pregnancy test I’d taken in the ladies’ room after finishing my shift.
Emma grabbed my hand and led me to the bar around the corner, where we quickly downed two bottles and took turns calling abortion providers to try to get an appointment. I wouldn’t tell any of my other friends for another week.
Our workplace was a social environment, probably because most of the people we worked with were, like us, in their early 20s. It was 2016, the year before the #MeToo movement, and we hung out regularly, invited each other to each other’s birthdays, and often got drunk together.
And at those drunken gatherings, the topic on everyone’s lips was almost always sex. How many people we’d been with. The electrifyingly good ones. The mortifyingly bad ones. We even ranked our other colleagues based on who we’d most (and least) like to have sex with.
In retrospect, it wasn’t the most professional environment, but most of us were single, fresh out of college, and frankly, too naive to know better.
I’m now in my 30s and work in a very different kind of office, but I was reminded of that time when I heard about Charlotte Tilley, the recruitment consultant whose frequent talk of her “gold star” sex life at work led to a disciplinary investigation, which in turn resulted in her resignation and a claim for constructive dismissal.
Tilley, 29, boasted to colleagues about his lover who looked like Johnny Depp (also a colleague) and even showed them a sex tape, his local employment tribunal heard this month. He showed pictures of naked male torsos on his laptop at work and kissed another woman at the office Christmas party. Tilley denied the sex tape and the Christmas party allegations.
Following her resignation, Tilley sued the company for sexual discrimination and victimisation, claiming that her colleagues had asked her a “wave” of intrusive questions about her sex life. However, the judge dismissed her claims, saying that she “had a high tolerance for matters of a sexual nature” and that conversations about sexual matters were not unwanted.
It was 2016, the year before #MeToo, and in retrospect, the office wasn’t the most professional environment, but most of the staff were single, fresh out of college, and, frankly, too naive to know any better.
My first reaction upon hearing all this was compassion. Frankly, I wondered why a young woman was being discriminated against for behaviour that seems relatively normal among young men.
My male colleagues in the mid-2010s often behaved similarly and no one batted an eyelid, but women were censured for it. I remember hearing some men criticize a newly hired woman, saying it was inappropriate for her to talk about her love life. The hypocrisy was astounding.
It was also normal for colleagues in my office to go out together. At one time there were about five official couples. And although there was a rumour that senior management did not look favourably on them dating colleagues, no one ever imposed any rules on us. This was despite the fact that these relationships sometimes crossed important boundaries: people sleeping with someone despite being on the same team, young women dating their higher-ranking male bosses, etc.
Some men in the office acquired a mythical status. One of them, James, was particularly coveted. All the women wanted him and he was known to date several people at once.
For those of us who weren’t involved, it was an entertaining chat by the coffee machine, but I can’t imagine it was much fun for the two women who discovered he had been dating both of them for four months, even while they were sitting next to each other at meetings.
Luckily, my relationship with Nick didn’t cross any of those lines. He worked in a different department than me and was also the same age as me. We dated for about six months and it was fun for a while. We’d sneak down the stairs together. We’d drag him into the bathroom at the office Christmas party to secretly make out a little.
Everything changed when I got pregnant. When I told Nick, he reacted terribly badly and blamed me for not buying “proper” condoms and for not taking the pill. I realized that I was not a good person and that our relationship was not going to progress.
So I finished it. I actually did it in the pub that night with Emma, who helped me draft the text.
I would never have gotten over that breakup and miscarriage if it hadn’t been for Emma. Not only did she listen patiently and hold my hand as I cried (and drank) through my pain that night, but she took two days off work to accompany me to the clinic, where I had to take two pills a day to end the pregnancy.
Charlotte Tilley, the recruitment consultant whose frequent discussions about her “gold star” sex life at work led to a disciplinary investigation, which in turn led to her resignation and a claim for constructive dismissal
Be careful with workplace romances, because in my experience, they rarely pay off.
Emma took me there and back, cooked for me, comforted me and helped me through the next few months, which were equally painful.
Thankfully, Nick resigned shortly after and I didn’t have to endure any more awkward situations in the office. To this day, Emma’s behavior back then was the kindest thing anyone has ever done for me.
I understand why talking about sex at work is frowned upon. Of course I do. It undermines your professionalism and blurs the lines between work and play.
But while people have suggested that the response to #MeToo should be a blanket ban on workplace relationships and all personal-life-related conversations in the office, that’s simply not realistic.
Banning any conversation about dating and sex suggests that men and women are not capable of having these conversations in a non-exploitative way, which (I hope) is not the case in most places.
Talking about personal life creates strong bonds. In my case, it certainly did. Emma and I are still best friends, even though we now live in different parts of the country.
After all, what better way to cement a friendship than by gossiping about each other’s love lives? About the person you just dated who won’t text you back, or the guy you like at the gym, or whether or not someone is someone to date, etc. It’s normal, right?
I’m not saying people should start showing nude photos to their colleagues, although for Millennials like me and Gen Z, it’s pretty normal to send them to people you’re dating (I often show them to my friends first to check if they think I look good).
You need to be careful who you’re vulnerable to (ideally not someone who is significantly above or below you in rank). It’s important to maintain boundaries, something millennials and Gen Zers are used to, and talk well about in therapy.
As for workplace romances, I would treat them with great caution. In my experience, they are rarely worth the trouble.
But talking about sex alone? A little gossip about each other’s love lives brings people together, builds friendships and adds joy to the world. Don’t ban it.
All names have been changed.
