Corporate Dresscode

"What?"

"Bottomless."

I was about to laugh at the suggestion. Was that just a sisterly joke? But the elegant secretary in the impeccable business attire--silk blouse, tailored jacket, black skirt--looks serious. "You heard me, young lady. Panties off, please. Just drop your knickers and give them to me. I'll give them back to you when you exit the CEO's Office."

I give a quick look at her backside as she selects an official-looking folder behind her desk providing me with the thick non-disclosure agreement I need to sign before being allowed to enter the CEO's offices. Her pencil skirt is tight, its fabric is thin, yet no panties' lines are visible. She is following the peculiar corporate dress code herself. But everything else at Quentin Quantum Computing headquarters looks politically correct and cool, exactly as I imagined: glass façade, soft carpets, Norwegian wood.

And my first business meeting with Doctor Quentin Razor--the celebrated inventor of the first commercial quantum processor--has nothing to do with my gender. Nor with my knickers. Nor with my pussy. My hi-tech startup needs faster processors, and he manufactures them. So, ours are complementary firms. We are much smaller than them, but all the same, a business agreement between our firms is a win-win concept. But the man--albeit notoriously tough in financial negotiations--is too clever and politically correct to harass any woman--leave alone a potential business partner.

True, he is notoriously an eccentric and a prominent art collector, and his gaffes when addressing gender-sensitive issues are legendary. But this?

True, panties are a modern concept, especially for women. Victorian ladies went always bottomless. On the other hand, they wore petticoats and crinolines and multi-layered long skirts, almost impenetrable barriers to any introspection. Besides, Victorian society was hardly an example of gender equality.

True, I remember an oldish feminist addressing our self-awareness group with horror stories of despicable alpha men dominating women through bottomlessness.

The gyno who wanted her patients pantyless in his office even if they just needed to renew a prescription, leaving all the ladies looking at the audience with a mixed feelings of embarrassment and naughtiness, as the nurse asked them to slip their knickers off and surrender them right there, in the open of the waiting room, under the leering gazes of the occasional accompanying hubbies.

Or the shrink who insisted on bottomlessness during therapy sessions. Most patients reportedly enjoyed the diktat, the airy freedom of strolling around bottomless under a light summer skirt of their chosen length on a windy day among male passers-by. Without any sense of guilt: doctor's order.

But both cases--albeit portraying a male-dominated society--came with lame excuses. Saving precious gyno time just in case he needed to check something. Emphasizing a hierarchic relationship between analyst and patient for a better therapeutic impact.

And sure, I once had a boyfriend who enjoyed me bottomless in public, flashing dangerously. Walking around the city bottomless in miniskirts as he smiled from across the street. After our naughty tour (as he used to call it) we were barely able to reach our bed, usually leaving a trail made of our discarded clothes leading to the bedroom. What I had never confessed to him is that just when he was enthusiastically fucking me I fantasized about an intruder following the path we left--like in the Hansel and Gretel fairy tale. A Black man fucking me in the ass when I was in the upper position, silently leaving without my lover even noticing

But this? Just doesn't make sense.

"Don't you worry, Ma'am." the secretary should have detected my puzzlement "Doctor Quentin is a perfect gentleman. And the coldest man I have ever met" she says matter-of-factly, shaking her head, looking quite sincere. I guess she could have checked on him more than once. Quentin Razor is the quintessential 'eligible bachelor', a forty-something handsome millionaire any girl would like to date.

She also provides an explanation for the odd, outrageous request. "Doctor Razor says it is about aesthetics, you know." Aesthetics? At first sight, an excuse even lamer than that of the patriarchal gyno and the sleazy shrink. But it makes sense, as the man is notoriously fastidious about any infringement of what he believes are universal values--his aesthetic values--and some of his worst gaffes about prominent female politicians were about panties' lines showing through classy dresses' thin fabric. Differing from many other critics, I had found myself in agreement with the misogynist man.

Lost in memory, I must have shaken my head, because I suddenly realize the secretary is clearing her throat, gently, to wake me up from my elucubrations, "Oh sorry Doctor, I had not recognized you." She looks at me with a different attitude now. My firm is not as internationally famous as QQ Computing, but it is in our town. The local industry magazine has interviewed me a few times, and they have even published a couple of photographs of me in my office, crossing my legs in my presidential chair. I suspect the photographer--instructed by the magazine old-fashioned publisher-- was more interested in showing off my legs and other female body parts than in my brains, but any recognition is good for a start-up firm operating in a pioneering area.

"Oh... I don't know if our peculiar dress code applies to you, Doctor." She gives me a once-over, and she smiles brightly, and almost giggles as she checks my bandage dress. She can't resist caressing the perfectly streamlined hems, realizes the infringement of corporate etiquette, and blushes a bit as I smile sweetly at her approval. I never wear panties under Hervé Léger's iconic dresses. It would ruin the masterpiece. It would insult the Maestro. Hervé Léger.

Her problem solved, the secretary let me enter a posh waiting room. Great Man Doctor Quentin Razor is in a meeting. He is discussing an important deal with some Asian associates, in his virtual-reality conference room, and the meeting lasts longer than expected. He was so kind to let me know that he apologizes for the delay and will be with me as soon as possible. Bullshit. Probably just a simple technique to let me know who is important here. Would I like a coffee? I wouldn't, and so the classy secretary gives me a last all-over, then--satisfied--leaves me there in the CEO's office anteroom, softly closing the heavy door behind her.

Alone in the sancta sanctorum. So, this is not about sex, Doctor Quentin, is it? This is about power. Do you think women don't understand power? Well, we do.

Cautiously, I open the door leading to the CEO's office. As expected, it is a spacious corner office. The interior design is not as soft and reassuring as the rest of the corporate headquarters: it is designed to convey hard power. And to intimidate visitors. Not me, Doctor Quentin, not me. A crystal table is clearly the place where he holds small conferences--terrifying his collaborators on occasions, I guess.

His seat of power is clearly detectable, at the head of the table, just in front of the big corporate logo on the wall. But I have studied a bit of interior architecture myself and I know the tricks. It is a leather and steel Mies re-edition, slightly elevated over the other seemingly equal--but actually lower, and smaller--seats. The work of a clever interior designer.

Uninvited, I sit down on the CEO's seat of power, I open my purse, fish for my compact, and refine my light makeup to perfection. I calmly open my document holder and I spread the papers I need--reports, graphs, contract drafts--on the crystal table. Just in time.

Great Man CEO Quentin Razor strides into his office and stops cold. He looks at me, sitting in his Captain's seat. His jaw drops. For a couple of seconds, he doesn't know what to do. We look at each other, and I must admit he is even more attractive in the flesh than in that famous image on the cover of Time magazine. Broad shoulders enveloped in a bespoke Italian business suite (Caputo?). Clear eyes, strong jaw, dark two-days stubble, black, almost blue. The magic moment lasts just a heartbeat. The man is used to take fast decisions in business, so he recovers soon. His expression turns from surprised to angry. Will he call security and make them escort me out of the building? After being strip-searched just in case I had stolen industrial secrets? But just when he is about to speak, I ambush him again, smiling sweetly as I catch my opportunity for sharonstoning him. On the spot, taking advantage of my elevated stance. His expression changes again as his gaze is automatically attracted by my spreading legs. He is a genius, and a world-famous art connoisseur, and a sophisticated businessman. But he is also a man, and a million years of evolution overwrites his cultural armour as the naked ape takes charge.

Oh, did you think pussies were liabilities, Doctor Quentin Razor? Pussies are assets. I communicate with him through body language as I cross my legs again, very ladylike. You have studied a lot Doctor Quentin, but you have never attended the Vagina Monologues. You never read the Cunt Manifesto. Too bad.

He shakes his head as he looks up from my silk-clad legs, toward my face, but he is ambushed again by Hervé Léger Icon Dress sweetheart neckline, emphasizing my décolleté. I had always thought heels, stockings and bandage dresses were weapons. Business weapons that don't kill anyone. Well, they do kill, but only metaphorically.

Too smart not to admit defeat graciously, the CEO eventually smiles, proffering a hand. "Welcome to Quentin Quantum Computing, Madam.". I raise a slender eyebrow. "Welcome to Quentin Quantum Computing, Doctor." I magnanimously stand up, shaking hands with him before sitting down in one of the lower chairs.

Shaking his head, but smiling broadly, he sits down in the nearest one. The seat of power remains empty.

We are different, Doctor Quentin, yet we are equals.

We are equals now.

We are equals.