I’m not much of a flirt. Never have been. Except, very occasionally, when it comes to work.
Now before you get excited, no i don’t go about bending over in front of Stewart-in-accounts desk, pencil to lips cooing “oops i think i must’ve dropped a contact”. It’s just that, on occasion i might take on the role of the damsel in distress, flutter my eyelashes a bit, while asking for some help with something i can’t be arsed don’t have the skills to do.
It’s not something i do intentially, it just kind of happens. It’s like i intuitively know when it’s right to use it. A piece of my armoury more subtle than a suicide bomber (oops, am i allowed to make trite comparisons like that?) , yet more deadly than a double spike bayonette.
Now i’m a pretty smart lady. Sassy. I’m not going to cynically whore my way to the top of the career game. But being smart is about using all your assets surely? And sometimes it really does work. No real damage or embarrassment.
Feminists out there will be shouting at me that i sound no different from the pole dancers that say they love the art in their job, or the sex workers that tell you they do it purely for the love of sex, that i’m really succombing to male stereotypes and giving men what they want. I just don’t really buy it. I hate the objectification of the 21st century woman as much as the next person (perhaps even more), but in this case, it’s most definitely me with all the power, the ones whose needs are being met.
Really, if anyone should have any kind of gripe with this it’s the men. A steely browed top exec cynically out-maneouvred by feminine charm? Unforgiveable. Well, that’ll teach them for ignoring my precense in meetings over the years, assuming i must be there to take the minutes.
And all that without wearing a short skirt. Go Milk.