Where are you supposed to meet your mate? (If not at work?)

They tell you not to date at work.
They tell you not to flirt at work.
They tell you not to notice at work.

Fine.

Then where the fuck are you supposed to meet your mate?
At the gym?
At the bar?
On an app, swiping your soul away hoping for a connection that doesn’t feel hollow?

Work is where you spend your hours.
Work is where you build your future.
Work is where your blood and sweat go.
Work is part of life.
And life is only interested in one thing.
Procreation.

It’s not predatory to meet someone where you actually live.
It’s natural.
It’s human.
It’s how people have connected since work first existed.

Pilots married flight attendants.
Doctors married nurses.
Architects married architects.
Baristas married baristas.

It’s not a scandal.
It’s biology.
It’s life.

You don’t stop abuse by banning connection.
You stop abuse by commanding clarity.

Clarity between invitation and intrusion.
Clarity between noticing and pushing.
Clarity between welcome and unwanted.

You don’t need HR to tell you the difference.
You don’t need a legal department to draft your instincts.
You already know.

You know in your gut.
You know in your skin.
Because we are mammals before we are employees.

The real sickness isn’t attraction.
The real sickness is pretending attraction doesn’t exist.

Work became barren not to protect women.
But to kill risk.
To kill agency.
To kill the messy, beautiful truth of human beings colliding in real time.

Because yes. Sometimes men and women work together.
And yes. Sometimes chemistry happens.
And yes. Sometimes that chemistry is real.

And it leads to marriage.
And children.
And families.
And life.

The idea that attraction should be exiled from work is as stupid as telling flowers not to grow in the sun.

The world isn’t broken because a man asked a woman out at work.
The world is broken because we taught women to fear being seen.
And we taught men to fear noticing.

We didn’t fix harassment.
We fixed ourselves into isolation.

Where are you supposed to meet your mate if not at work?
In a cage?
On an app?
In a fucking waiting room?

The people telling you not to meet your mate at work aren’t protecting you.
They’re isolating you.
They’re breeding loneliness.
They’re neutering the field where life used to bloom.

Attraction isn’t the enemy.
Misuse of power is.
Confusion of signals is.

Signals at work need governance:

Men may signal.
Men may never advance.

It is always the woman who chooses.
She decides if a charge closes.
She decides if attraction becomes touch.
She decides if the loop completes — or dissolves.

That’s the rule. One rule.

Everything else is noise.

But connection. Real. Alive. Adult connection.
That’s never the enemy.

Creation is erotic. Always.

You can’t sit shoulder to shoulder.
Build late into the night.
Argue over pixels and phrases.
Without some charge moving between you.

It’s not misconduct.
It’s not betrayal.
It’s what building together feels like when people are alive.

The same current that fuels sex fuels creation.
The same electricity that makes a cock swell makes a team spark.

Pretending otherwise isn’t safety.
It’s death.

Work is a forge.
Shared heat births attraction.

When you build side by side.
Long hours. Raw ideas. Friction. Triumph.
Energy sparks.
Bodies tighten.
Glances anchor.
Hands linger.

It isn’t corruption.
It isn’t betrayal.
It’s biology. Charged by creation.

When you’re in the zone.
Building. Sweating. Creating.
My cunt knows before my mind does.
It swells.
It heats.
It claims.

It doesn’t ask for permission to feel electric.
It doesn’t wait for the rules to catch up.

It knows. This is life moving through flesh.
And I am the one who decides how it completes.
Not HR.
Not gossip.
Not fear.

Sometimes the current needs closure.
Sometimes a glance says more than a speech.
Sometimes a body needs claiming. Not forever. But for completion.

I don’t withhold.
I don’t collapse.
I don’t promise.

I place.
I receive.
I move on. Clear. Powerful. Free.

Attraction isn’t the enemy.
Unfinished charge is.

Because the body knows when something is incomplete.
The body knows when the loop is still open.

Completion is clean.
Completion is sovereignty.

Not every fire needs to be taken to the skin.
Some heat completes by being witnessed.
Some loops close just by being held in the field.

I don’t have to touch every charge that rises.
I choose.
I discern.

Because sovereignty isn’t just in the claiming.
It’s in the clarity of what I let land.
And what I let pass.

Not every cock that swells enters me.
Not every charge that rises earns my hand or my cunt.

Some currents pass through the field. I let them.
Because power isn’t about catching every spark.
It’s about commanding the circuit.

I choose what enters me.
I choose what fuels me.
I choose what completes inside my walls.

The rest burns itself out.
Without ever touching me.

Because life isn’t neat.
Work isn’t neat.
You aren’t neat.
And love will never wait its turn.