The end-of-year office party. The flip side of the coin.

The end-of-year party was exactly as I expected.
Worse.

The lights were too bright, the music prevented silence but didn't justify dancing, colleagues dressed slightly better than usual, as if that alone would make the year less mediocre. I'd gone in with a simple plan: an hour, two spritzes, a few strategic smiles, and off we go.

Then that feeling arrived.
At first I was just confused, my dick twitching between my legs for no apparent reason, an inappropriate awakening that I attributed to the alcohol, the heat, the tight jacket. A manageable discomfort. I shifted position. I tugged on my jacket.

I thought, "It'll pass."
I drank another drink to distract myself, awkwardly tried to dance.
It didn't pass.

In fact, trapped in his increasingly tight underwear, he began to make independent decisions.

While I was talking to a colleague from the sales department—she was telling me something about a client, I think—I started to lose bits of the conversation. The words came muffled, slipping away, drowned out by an overwhelming physical attention and a decidedly inappropriate impulse: don't let your gaze fall where it shouldn't.

A partial failure.
I tore my eyes away from her cleavage just too late, with a beginner's awkwardness. She smiled. Not kindly. consciously.

And it was only then that I began to look around.
And just as my gaze fell on my colleague, it fell again and again on the other colleagues' flys, and even worse were their attempts to hide them.
Jackets held out. Hands strategically occupied. Colleagues who usually invaded living space were now keeping a prudent distance. And, with a very quick glance to the side, I noticed what no one wanted to admit: some were having a worse time than me. Others surprisingly better.

I didn't want to linger too long with my gaze; some were half-saved by their jeans, while others, the more elegant ones, were having a hard time hiding the evidence.
And the silent awareness that we were all making comparisons we'd never asked to make.

When I realized I wasn't the only one scanning the room, but that a couple of small groups of colleagues were even darting their eyes from one pair of pants to the other, I decided it was time to calm down: bathroom.
I interrupted my colleague who was still discussing a topic I was no longer able to follow and headed for the restrooms.
I found a line. "Right now," I cursed under my breath.
I realized almost immediately that we all had a common purpose in that line.

It's my turn.
I walked in quickly, doing a fireman's job, dignified, almost professional. Damage management.
I settled back in without even waiting for my erection to subside and left without paying much attention to the others in line.

When I returned to the room, I felt relatively in control.
Relatively.

It was then that a colleague—the same one from the sales department—approached me again.
"Where were we?"
I obviously didn't know what to say; the only thing my brain had registered before the bathroom was that roaring erection that had come out of nowhere.

She tilted her head, her eyes shining with amusement.
"Everything okay?"
Pause.
"You seem… a little tense tonight."

I mumbled something. Weather. Alcohol. End of year.

She made a face I couldn't decipher.
"Maybe," she said. "We'll talk about it on Monday…"
With that, she turned to go get a drink, they whispered, "…it seems contagious."

I could have sworn she was intentionally wiggling her hips as she walked away, or maybe it was just the effect of the dress.
She walked away, leaving me with the distinct feeling that part of my dignity was also slipping away with her.

I stood there for a few seconds, frozen. In the truest sense of the word.
Tightly clad in my underwear again, the situation was rapidly escalating, and any attempt at distraction seemed completely futile.
For several interminable minutes now, I had been constantly keeping one hand in my pocket, trying to keep the situation under control.

I never thought I'd find myself as excited as a teenager, holding it in my hand just a few feet away from my colleagues, who were scrutinizing my every move. I was simultaneously in awe and intrigued by those fleeting, invasive glances.
When I saw Graziella, the personnel manager, wandering among the various groups of colleagues for her usual small talk, I realized that sooner or later she would come to me.
My fist twitched.
Then he did two more, dangerously close together.
At this rate, I would have exploded in front of everyone.
I had to go back to the bathroom.

When I returned to the corridor for the second time, the line was longer. Quieter. More resigned. Slower.

The bathroom told a story I didn't want to read: obvious traces of previous visits, suspiciously large amounts of paper, sinks left dripping. Clear signs that I wasn't alone in this struggle.

The second session was long.
Very long.

I sat, motionless, staring at a stain on the wall as if it were a mental vanishing point. Every sound outside felt like an accusation. Every minute a test of patience. When I finally got out, I knew I wouldn't stay another second.

I grabbed my coat. I avoided glances. I ignored the stifled giggles. In the car, I rested my forehead on the steering wheel and breathed deeply.

The drive home was a test of self-control. Every traffic light an exercise in concentration. Every slowdown a risk. I wouldn't get out of the car until the situation was presentable again.
It was imperative that my wife not notice anything strange.

In fact, I spent a long, sleepless night tossing and turning several times, my mind constantly returning to the party and the erections returning in relentless waves.
In the morning, I blamed my tiredness on the hangover and stayed in bed until the dust settled.

On Monday, no one at the office said anything, and how dare they.

When someone suggested a drink a few days later, I felt a shiver run down my spine.
I lowered my eyes and said I already had a commitment.

Since then, every time I walk past the men's room, I feel like he's judging me.
And maybe he's right.