The end-of-year office party

At the marketing agency's end-of-year party, the only truly "creative" thing was the open bar.
The rest was colleagues talking and/or arguing about work and the usual corporate ritual: forced smiles, pats on the back, and people saying "see you in January."

The catering was mediocre, with finger food served standing up, no tables, and the DJ, a cousin of the creative director—this one most likely organized by Graziella (HR)—forced everyone to participate, at least trying out a few timid dance steps, hoping the alcohol would do the rest.

Behind the buffet counter, Giulia and Serena looked at each other with a knowing expression. Both young, brilliant, single, and with zero tolerance for male colleagues who spent the year making awkward jokes during meetings.

"Now let's see if it really works," Serena whispered.
Giulia nodded, clutching a red silk bag decorated with gold ideograms, now half-empty, in her pocket.

They'd bought it a few days earlier in a tiny traditional Chinese shop, nestled between a laundromat and a hardware store. The owner, a very old man with legendary eyebrows, had smiled enigmatically, saying in a thick accent:
"Ancient recipe. Dragon, root, and moon. Use with...respect."

Giulia had "respectfully" poured more than half a bag into the spritz dispenser; the inevitable star of any corporate event over the past three years, one of the most revered objects in the company, second only to the coffee machine.

The evening dragged on slowly as usual; someone sighed, "If tonight ends with the same awkward networking experience, I swear I'm going into accounting," to which a senior colleague added, "It could be worse, it could end up at karaoke like last year."
Serena, with an almost wicked smile, thought to herself: "Don't worry. I had a social guerrilla marketing idea."

The effects weren't immediate, but they were becoming unmistakable, though not immediately apparent.

Male colleagues began to behave… differently.
First, a general stiffening. Then a series of micro-adjustments: jackets pulled forward, unnaturally straight postures, measured steps as if the floor had suddenly become unstable.

An account manager froze in front of a colleague, unable to hold her gaze, blushing all the way to the ears for no apparent reason.
Another, at the buffet table, sipped sparkling water as if trying to put out an internal fire.

Giulia tilted her head. "There we go."
Serena smiled softly. "Oh my God, I can't believe this is actually working."

The men, meanwhile, were fighting a losing battle against their trousers. Jackets pulled forward. Wallets strategically shifted. Hands shoved in pockets with suspicious conviction. One even attempted to hold his laptop in front of him, despite being at a party.

The two began to observe. With a hint of mischief, but above all with great analytical precision.

"The one with the light-colored shirt."
"Yes. Very obvious, no control."
"Classic meeting profile: talks too much, manages too little."

"Another curtain at two o'clock."
"Good, this one wasn't easy to spot, either he's very good at hiding or nature has been harsh."
"Maybe he's still on his first round of spritzes."

Another mannequin walked past, stiff as a mannequin.
"Pocket technique."
"Ineffective. The fabric doesn't cooperate."

The sales manager walked past them, stiff as a statue, holding a folder exactly where it wasn't needed.
Giulia pretended to examine the canapés.
"Interesting choice of accessory. I didn't know folders had become... protective."
“It’s the new line,” Serena replied. “Business self-defense.”

Another colleague attempted a concealment maneuver, crossing his legs with heroic determination. He failed.
Serena followed him with her gaze. “Oh, no. That makes it worse.”
Giulia nodded. “It’s like when you try to straighten a tie in front of the mirror and it only makes it more crooked.”

The men carefully avoided looking below the belt, but they compared notes anyway. Sideways glances. Quick assessments. Expressions that oscillated between panic and resignation.

“Have you noticed?” Serena whispered. “They’re making comparisons.”
“Of course,” Giulia replied. “It’s a competition that no one wanted, but everyone’s participating in.”
“And everyone’s losing.”

The realization that they were the cause of all this embarrassment gave the two a great sense of power; it was as if they had effectively forcibly exposed the men of the company, an intoxicating sensation.

One of the more self-confident men tried to walk casually. Two steps. Stop. I changed direction. Hands in pockets.
Giulia smiled crookedly. "Ten points for the attempt. Zero for the execution."
"It's wonderful to see how self-esteem can evaporate so quickly," Serena added.

Most of her colleagues had now settled on the safe "glass in one hand, hand in pocket in the other" position. Serena noted, "Boring but effective."
Giulia sneered. "They're looking for dignity in their pants pockets. Spoiler alert: it's not there."

The other few female colleagues—the company is mostly men—didn't take long to realize that something in the air had changed.

Low, almost imperceptible whispers:
"...do you see them too?"
"Yes."
"All of them."
"Don't look, don't look—okay, too late."
"All together?"

One covered her mouth to stifle a laugh. Another tugged at her friend's arm, pointing with her eyes, not too openly, to maintain a veil of discretion.

The bulges were now impossible to ignore. Jackets used as shields, unnatural postures, glasses held at lumbar height.
"Have you noticed?" Serena whispered. "The people who usually explain life to women now can't even explain themselves."
"That's the most educational silence I've ever heard," Giulia replied.
"I wonder if they're wondering in their little heads what's happening or if they're simply too busy dissimulating."

This had been going on for several minutes, interrupted only by a few colleagues quietly stifling a chuckle into their wine glass without anyone making a joke.

But at a certain point, an incident occurred: one of the men broke down.
He didn't do anything dramatic, but something worse: he attracted attention.

A junior accountant, very nervous for some time. He was laughing inappropriately. He kept adjusting his jacket, visibly worsening the situation. He bent down to pick up a dropped napkin, and when he stood up, his body betrayed him.
There was no sound.
There was no scene.
There was evidence.

He remained motionless, his gaze fixed on the napkin, not moving a muscle, a few imperceptible movements in his underwear, and a sudden change in the fabric of his trousers.
It all happened in a few seconds, too quickly to cover himself immediately.
Once it was over, he took a calculated step back to escape the eyes of the more attentive.

Giulia held her breath. "Oh."
Serena narrowed her eyes. "No… yes."
"She's lost control."
"Completely."

He realized he'd been noticed at the worst possible moment.
He froze.
Then he grabbed his jacket with both hands and held it out in front of him, stiff, unnatural.
A blush rose from his neck to his ears.

Of the few men who noticed him, none said anything.
But they all looked away at the same time.

Serena didn't look away. "I'd say she's out of the running anymore."

He took two steps.
Then three.
He ran with a feline stride, toward the exit, as if he could erase the moment simply by changing rooms.

Unaware of what had happened, like most of her colleagues in the room, on her way back from the women's restroom, a shrill voice came from an incredulous intern: "But... is this the line for the men's restroom?"

"Ah," said Serena. "The migration has begun."

For the first time, the line for the men's restroom was longer than the line for the women's restroom, a historic fact.
Long. Silent. Tense.
In the corridor, her male colleagues avoided eye contact, stared at the ceiling, compulsively checked their phones.

Giulia felt again that thrill of pleasure at seeing her colleagues, many of them married, lined up like impatient kids.

They entered hopeful.
They left still out of breath, more wrinkled, more defeated.
Serena was fairly certain she'd seen someone rejoin the line without a sign not long after making the first attempt.

The women's restroom remained empty. Unused. Almost offensive.
Serena took advantage of it, partly out of spite and partly to give her beloved, restless colleagues another "check-in."
No one in the male line raised their eyes to meet Serena's piercing ones.

"I think the old man in the shop meant 'respect' with moderation," Giulia murmured.
"I glimpsed a few dragons," Serena added, as the HR manager walked past the line with a look that promised very long emails the next day.

The party broke up early. The spritz was almost finished, however, proving that many hadn't yet connected the dots.
But it was a clear sign that her colleagues would take "the problem" home that evening.


The following Monday, no one ever spoke openly about the incident.
Later in the week, a colleague, perhaps innocently, suggested an aperitif, and a certain stiffening could be felt, and a timid, icy silence fell over her colleagues.
Which was countered by a wicked smile from the colleague who made the proposal, erasing any doubts about her good faith.

Giulia and Serena?
Normal. Professional. Invisible.

Of course, every time they passed by the men's room, they barely smiled.
Because certain legends, once reawakened, are not easily forgotten. 🐉