We’ve all been there: You’re sitting at your desk, trying to get some work done, when from across the room comes the soft, distinctive hum of your matronly officemate’s HT-1220. What is this, her third session today?

Now, you’re a firm believer in personal liberties; you don’t care what you people do in the relative privacy of the space under your desks. And life in the rat race is stressful. Who are you to judge somebody else’s relaxation techniques? The A to that rhetorical Q is easy: You’re a thoroughly grossed-out dude.

Ick, her breathing’s becoming labored. She’s transfixed by her monitor. What is she looking at?

Whatever it is, you’re not buying the flimsy fiction that the HT-1220 is for easing tightness in the neck, or soothing sore hands. Riiight. And that bong you bought in college was for tobacco.

Anyway, it’s her business. Her vile, nasty, perverted business. If she wants to rub the magic lamp on company time, good for her. That’s great that she’s found a way to gratify herself—over and over again—after so many relationshipless years. It’s natural, after all.

Then again, so is solid waste evacuation, but that doesn’t mean you do it at your desk. You put your headphones on, but you can still hear the HT-1220 in your head: hmmmmmmmmm. You almost retch at the thought of its soft “flex-node” massage head probing her long-abandoned nethers like that sub drone exploring the Titanic. Yeesh. Now she’s really focused on the screen. Her face is flushed. Don’t look, don’t look.

Then at last she’s finished—for now, anyway—and, after a quick and not-very-discreet readjustment of her skirt, she returns the HT-1220 to its designated desk drawer and excuses herself to the Ladies.

You quickly pop over to her desk to see what she watches during these “massage” sessions that seems to get her so worked up.

And there it is, her online turn-on of choice: The Woot-Off, set to auto-refresh. OK, that’s just sick.

Back to top