Slip on those heels and grow a penis

When my friend Sara joined a reputable graduate programme in Johannesburg, she was assured that even though the company kills people for a living (they manufacture a kind of poison); the organisational culture at work would be categorically awesome.

She was promised personal development mixed with out-of-the-box thinking (necessary if you want people to buy something that will eventually kill them) would reign supreme over egos, hierarchy and other types of maloney baloney of antiquated staffing models.

And she wasn’t disappointed.

A jet-setting lifestyle of privilege and benefits, further consummated by a fat pay cheque, turned her butt into the envy of every unemployed South African graduate, converted traditional healers into marketing protégés and coaxed non-smoking beauty queens into raging alcoholics.

But now she has the audacity to complain.

She says that despite all the goodies and perky puddings offered by the corporate world to make her time, experience and conscience as jelly-cool as possible, she just can’t handle all the sex-talk in the workplace.

Sara says that though she loves her work, she is quickly realising that “informality” was really a synonym for her manager to “talk about sex all the time” between work, during breaks, on the road; just about anywhere and at any time. So during a coffee break she’d hear about how nifty Viagra can be with the missus or how his daughter is at that pumpable age or how prolifically he scored dressed as wolverine some years back.

It’s beginning to needle her in ways only freaks, stalkers and the neighbour’s strange dog ought to.

She stands there laughing at his manliness; feigning hysteria for that palpable puke feeling.

But I know Sara. She might be cute, coy and seem all Santa Maria like. But I know she is quite capable of handling it, in fact, I know she enjoys a good banter.

But her manager is no Brad or Jude; more like a clown than the Clooney. He is the married anti-thesis of the young, sexy commanding officer whose gruff voice, strong arms and hairy neck hairs would’ve otherwise sent vibrations through the petite young woman trying to make it up the corporate pole. In short this man could be her father.

“No!” she insists; “it’s not because he isn’t hot”.

“Lies,” I say.

She protests. “That is sick. I’m no prude but I don’t want to be forced to listen and be all polite because he is my boss and I don’t want to offend him.”

But then what did she think the corporate world was?

A place where diverse cultures, opinions, methods work side by side in forwarding the goals the organisation?

Did she imagine her dignity to remain intact because everyone looked so good, drove such nice cars and didn’t live in Soweto?

And wait, did she think she was selected because she was unique or because “they” (yes, the same ones who are watching you) figured she’d fit into the blithely mithely tithely world of corporate shebang?

Didn’t she know, I asked.

That the corporate world is nothing but the big platform; a big demonstration of power where the goal is an insatiable, endless and maddening urge to grow bigger, outwit and outlast competition? That it was irrepressibly macho: insecure, moody, risky, philandering, exhibitionist and appraisal-seeking? That the corporate was not some organ waiting for something to happen? And most importantly, that the modern corporate is really the male penis — requiring constant gardening, stroking, banter — and to survive, thrive, extend, you grow one?

And when such growth occurs, the minefield of contemptuous egos become permanent; differing sexualities fade away, both men and women morph into a despicable corporate macho prototype. The perversion becomes so ingrained that women are often forced into replacing their already constructed femininity for another constructed corporate macho identity. Cracking the ceiling becomes farcical with women bearing wrap-on dildos.

“What has this rant got to do with me,” she asks.

Well it’s about her options I reiterate.

She could, as a first course of action, be old-fashioned and talk to him like how most did before email. She could explain how his wild sex talk turns her into a scornful dike with a penchant to shred the tools of boastful men into chicken feed. This could work but I warn that news will spread very fast that she is the hapless-prude-virgin-from-planet-uptight-no-rude-jokes-allowed-chick.

Her second option, especially if she has already chatted to him and is ostracised for her stance, would be to report the problem to the divisional head or whoever else seemed to be an in-house resident feminist. But with all the sex talk being random sex talk, and with no pass made or bum pinched, what was she going to report and at what risk to her otherwise good-working relationship with the hero?

And then there was option three. She could go and discuss the issue with another woman who clearly didn’t seem to be too flustered by the random sexualised comments directed within earshot. But we know what the advice is bound to be: plough thick skin, slip on those heels and grow a penis.

“So I need to adapt then,” she questions-states-concludes.

But I really don’t think she ought to.