The end-of-year office party. The soldier's awakening.

The office end-of-year party was one of those things you do out of inertia.
A company ritual, like pointless meetings or emails sent "just in case."

I, a sales manager, had been there for years. Long enough to know nothing memorable would happen. Long enough to know that, the next day, no one would remember anything significant.
Like all the others.

I arrived early.
I wasn't really in the mood to celebrate; the atmosphere at home had become complicated. Not argumentative. Worse: silent.
Over the past few months, I'd been fighting a war all my own. One you don't tell your friends, let alone your colleagues. I called it "stress," "monotony," "advancing age." Convenient, rubbery words.
The truth was more uncomfortable.

After several months, I couldn't hide behind a finger any longer.
Powerlessness.

My wife was almost happy that I was calming down.
"We're relaxing," she'd play down the situation.

As the months passed, it was starting to become too much, too little, even for her.
I had the desire. The mind was there. The will too.
A few lukewarm orgasms for her when things go well, then everything collapses and for me they are mouthfuls of frustration to swallow.

My wife has always been very happy with our sex life.
She often complained, even openly to her friends, about my intense and frequent performances. As well as my size.
She did it with a studied lightness.
At dinners between courses she would let slip phrases that seemed like jokes, but they always found a follow-up in the eyes of the others.

"Sometimes I have to tell him to slow down."
"I wonder if he has a switch." "
Let's just say he takes up... space."
"The three of us live together. Me, him, and Eugenio."

The friends laughed, some rolled their eyes, some asked "In what sense?" feigning innocence.
She smiled, took a sip, and said nothing else.
It was that silence that did the dirty work: it suggested resistance, abundance, a presence that took up space even when it wasn't mentioned.

Now that my wife had been empty-handed for a few months, the jokes had changed:

"Even 'semi' you're a nice toy."
"Look, when you're limp, you're probably better than my friends' husbands... from hearsay."
"Well, at least the model is still elegant, even if the battery dies."

Each joke was like a warning shot: ironic, biting, not malicious, but a shot nonetheless.
We love each other, but I saw in these small cracks the possibility of a terrifying abyss.
Adding more worries to the list, a vicious cycle.

So there I was, glass in hand, sipping spritz as if it could dissolve even the unspoken. One glass for the company. One for the house. One for me.
Not much else to do.

I was talking to a small group of colleagues, nodding, doing my part.
And, for no particular reason, I felt it.

A signal. Faint at first.
Then more decisive.

Like a soldier who, after months of inactivity, suddenly receives the order to return to duty.

I was speechless.
I stopped mid-sentence.

I wasn't in a position to worry about it at the time, but in hindsight, something strange must have been noticed.
I was obvious.
Serena, at the buffet table, tilted her head slightly. Giulia, next to me, stopped smiling for a moment.
Eyes that darted down, then back up. Appraising.

The same looks my wife's friends had when they realized there was a whole story behind a joke.
They said nothing.
But they understood.

I hadn't done anything in particular.
I was certainly absentmindedly staring at the movements of a fairly firm butt.
Things you do, an automatic process learned when you're young, certainly not enough to justify such a confident response.
Not in this period.
A long period.

I was celebrating internally.
But I held still.
It wasn't the right context.
It wasn't the time.
And above all, it wasn't the kind of enthusiasm you want to share with the office.

I grabbed a folder. I don't even remember what was inside. I used it as a shield to defend my dignity; it was a fragile barrier, but necessary.

I caught a colleague nearby peering under my shield; he stiffened in turn.
He had seen, then, at the height of his pubic bone, the same reaction, different strength.
But the shape spoke clearly.

The two lookouts, Giulia and Serena, also noticed.
Curious to the point of obsession.
They observed every slightest movement, like those trying to read a forbidden secret.
The colleague clumsily put his hands in front of him like a child being punished.
Their eyes glimmering with silent malice, their wicked attention was now entirely on him.

I moved to the edge of the room.
A few glances followed me.

I was tense.
In a good way.
In a way I hadn't felt in a long time.
Joy overcame embarrassment.

Bathroom.

I closed the door, breathed.
I raised the toilet seat as if it were a ritual gesture.
Button, zip.
And I stood there. Contemplating.
For several seconds.

Not for vanity.
For glory.

The soldier was there. Standing. Pulsating. Convinced.
As if he'd never left his post.

I did what had to be done.
It didn't take long.
Accumulated backlogs translated into enormous firepower but decidedly poor accuracy.

I was drained and incredibly filled with newfound hope.
The battlefield bore witness to that resounding success.
Proud.

But the evidence was everywhere.
I hastily cleaned it up with paper.
I pulled myself together as best I could. More paper, water, an attempt at decorum.
I left with a smile I hadn't seen in months.

Spritz.
I need a spritz!

The head of the technical department, Carlo, was telling me about his problems. Nothing new. I nodded. I was passing the time.

The soldier, who hadn't gone to rest firmly, was coming to attention again.

Carlo continued talking, but carefully avoided looking below my chest.
A clear sign that he'd already looked at least once.
An uncertain voice.
A strange silence between one sentence and the next.
As if she had sensed a disproportion.
And not just in roles.

Throughout all this, I was only thinking that this was the light at the end of the tunnel. I was thinking of my wife, of the possibility, finally concrete, of surprising her.
I wrote to her:
I'll get out of my way soon. Wait for me for dinner.

Graziella, HR, suddenly appeared on the horizon.
Her pace measured, her gaze attentive, like an officer surveying the front.
Trouble looming.
There was certainly no love lost between us—no one loves HR, let's face it—but I wasn't in any condition to face her.
I nodded politely. Briefly. Professionally.
Without daring the slightest eye contact.
God only knows how much she would have loved to have my balls, like paperweights on her desk.
She was distracted by something else, I was safe.

I had to leave.
I was thinking of only one thing.
The thing I always thought about, of course.
But this time it smelled different.
Of success.

I waited impatiently for Carlo to get tired of talking, waiting perhaps for another miracle.
I was tense again and felt the eyes on me.
I reached into my pocket.
The soldier acknowledged.
A tiny gesture.
Yet it was enough to change the atmosphere around me.
Eyes fixed, curious, hungry. Soft sighs between parted lips.
Fragments of sentences reached me in flashes, like echoes:
“…it can't be…”
“…don't look, don't…”
“…competitive…”

Suddenly, a very agitated young colleague, a new one, I think it was an account, clumsily attracted attention.
A hiss of disbelief was lost among the glasses: “But… seriously?”
Someone murmured: “It's a disaster… what a show.” From the voice, I think it was Giulia.
A suppressed sigh. Followed by an ironic “Oops…”
In the distance, someone let out that little “Oh!”

I seized the opportunity.
I left without saying goodbye to anyone.
My specialty.

In the car, I sent a voice message:
“Honey, the party was the same old story. Nothing special, I'm going home with a big surprise.”

The soldier was almost wearing out the fabric of his dress pants.
I released him; he deserved it.

I pressed the accelerator.