My coworkers, bless their hearts, they’ve got this thing for sharing. And I don’t mean staplers or a nice cup of Joe. I’m talking about their personal lives, their intimate preferences. It’s like they’re an open book, but unfortunately, it’s a book that nobody asked to read.

Now, I’m all for being open and honest. Heck, I tell people way more than they need to know about my love for KFC’s gravy. But there’s a line, right? A line that’s about as clear as the one at the DMV – you know it’s there, but boy, does it get blurry.

So, there I am, sipping my coffee, when suddenly, I’m unwillingly thrust into the middle of a steamy telenovela. One of my colleagues, let’s call him Jim, starts regaling us with tales of his weekend escapades. And by escapades, I mean his adventures in picking up “hot guys” at a bar. Now, Jim’s got a type – big, hot, and juicy. Sounds like a steak, doesn’t it? But no, he’s talking about men.

Everyone around him is nodding and smiling like they’re at a Ted Talk. “Oh, Jim, you’re so brave, so progressive,” they say. I’m just sitting there wondering if I missed a memo. Since when did sharing what gets your motor running become the equivalent of a heroic act?

Now, don’t get me wrong. I’m all for people being who they are. If you like a big, hot, juicy cock, good for you. I like a big, hot, juicy steak, and I don’t feel the need to make a public service announcement about it.

But here’s the kicker – the hypocrisy. See, if I started talking about my preferences, let’s say, my penchant for watching reruns of “The Golden Girls,” I doubt I’d get the same round of applause. “Oh wow, that’s so empowering. Tell us more about how Blanche’s Southern charm speaks to your soul.”

It’s a funny world we live in. We’ve got people oversharing left, right, and center, calling it empowerment. Meanwhile, I’m just trying to figure out the best way to nod politely without encouraging a sequel to the story and hearing more about how he’s still too sore to walk.

There I was, in my little cubicle, minding my own business, when I overheard my coworkers chatting about their weekend adventures. And let me tell you, they weren’t discussing their Scrabble scores. We’re talking tales that would make Hugh Hefner raise an eyebrow.

Now, I’m a guy who believes in equality, you know? I figured if they could speak their minds, well, so could I. So, I chime in about my own preferences. I’m a simple man with simple tastes. I like ladies who are, as they say, stacked. And by stacked, I don’t mean they’re good at Jenga. What I mean is that they have large breasts.

But here’s the thing – the second those words left my mouth, it was like I dropped a bomb in the break room. Next thing I know, I’m getting a VIP escort to the HR office. They wanted me to explain myself, my supposed “workplace offense.”

Now, I’m sitting there, and I’m thinking, “What in the world? Jim talks about liking big, hot, juicy cocks, and he gets high-fives. I mention my fondness for a well-endowed lady, and suddenly I’m Public Enemy Number One.”

So, there I am, in the HR office, feeling like a kid who got caught stealing cookies from the cookie jar. Except the cookie jar is just regular human attraction, and the cookies are… well, you get the idea.

The HR folks, they’re looking at me like I’m some kind of monster. They’re lecturing me about how “you can’t talk about women like that.” And I’m thinking, “I was just following the office trend. I thought we were sharing.”

But apparently, there’s sharing, and then there’s over-sharing, and my kind of sharing was definitely not the office-approved variety. I tried to explain – I was born this way. I can’t help it if I have an eye for the ladies, especially the ones who dress like they’re auditioning for a part in a 1980s music video.

It’s a strange world we live in, folks. You can talk about your weekend escapades all you want, but heaven forbid you mention that you appreciate a lady in a revealing blouse. Suddenly, you’re not progressive; you’re problematic.

I’m not a philosopher, but I’ve been thinking: Am I supposed to not be attracted to what naturally draws my attention? That’s like telling a moth not to go towards the light. It’s in its nature, right? Just like it’s in my nature to appreciate certain… let’s say, aesthetic qualities in the opposite sex.

So, here’s the conundrum. In my office, it seems everyone’s free to express their weekend tales of passion and preference. If someone says they like their dates tall, dark, and covered in tattoos, that’s met with cheers and toasts of coffee mugs. But the moment I mention my liking for the classic feminine charm, it’s like I’ve committed a social faux pas of epic proportions.

I’m a simple man, folks. I like what I like. I’m not particularly drawn to a woman who, let’s say, resembles me in a wig. No offense to anyone, but I just don’t find the non-feminine or the, uh, homely dame (as the poets might say) to be my cup of tea. And I believe that’s my right, much like it’s someone else’s right to not find me attractive. I mean, have you seen me?

So, I repeat this confession of attraction to HR, in all honesty, and boy, you’d think I’d just announced I was running for president on a platform of mandatory clown costumes for all citizens. They look at me like I’ve sprouted a second head, one that’s even less attractive than my first.

They hit me with a strongly worded reprimand, insisting, “You can’t discuss such things in the office.” Meanwhile, my colleagues are over there planning their next lurid rendezvous like it’s some kind of office-approved book club.

Now, don’t get me wrong, I’m all for everyone enjoying their own… tastes. But it seems to me like there’s a bit of a double standard. Everyone else is celebrating their preferences, talking about their wild weekends and all the leather, feathers, and whatever else they’re into. But the second I mention my preference for a lady who knows her way around a mascara wand, suddenly I’m the office pariah.

It’s a funny old world, isn’t it? You’re told to be yourself, be honest, be open. But when you do, you better make sure yourself fits into a very specific box, or else you’re out of the club.

You see, at my workplace, I’ve been effectively muzzled from speaking any plain truths. Why? Well, because my brand of truth apparently doesn’t jive with the company’s new, uh, “open” dialogue policy. Meanwhile, my colleagues have carte blanche to discuss their weekend escapades involving their various…let’s say, “hobbies,” involving their sexual proclivities. It’s like I’m living in a real-life version of The Twilight Zone.

Now, I’m no prude, but I always thought work was about, you know, working. Silly me. These days, it seems like the office is more of a forum for sharing what one might generously call alternative lifestyle choices. If you’re into the kind of stuff that would make a seasoned sailor blush, you’re the toast of the town. But if you’re a regular Joe who thinks that maybe, just maybe, work isn’t the place for discussing what you do in the privacy of your own bedroom, well, you’re out of luck.

Here’s the kicker: I’m not sure how any of this is supposed to help the company. I mean, last I checked, we weren’t in the business of personal recreation. We’re supposed to be making money, keeping morale up, and, I don’t know, maybe selling a product or two? But instead, we’ve got a daily rundown of everyone’s favorite things to do with their various parts and parcels, by which I mean organs and holes. Revolutionary? Not really. Interesting? Depends on who you ask. Relatable? Not to most folks.

It’s like the fringe has become the mainstream, or at least that’s what they want us to think. A small group of people, loud and proud, turning the workplace into their own personal confessional booth. And let me tell you, some of these confessions are enough to make a grown man weep for the future of humanity.

But if you’re not part of this “enlightened” group, forget about it. Your views are about as welcome as a skunk at a garden party. It’s like they’ve got a monopoly on what’s acceptable to talk about. And let me tell you, their standards are looser than the plot of a bad sitcom.

Now, don’t get me wrong. I’m all for people being themselves. But there’s a time and a place, and I’m pretty sure the office ain’t it. We’re here to work, not to listen to tales that would make a romance novelist blush. It’s a workplace, not a group reading of “Fifty Shades of Grey.”

So, for now, I’ll keep my mouth shut, stick to the script, and maybe throw in a few nods and awkward chuckles for good measure. But deep down, I’ll be yearning for the good old days when the most exciting thing at the office was the coffee machine breaking down.