When I found out I was pregnant at 22, the first person I told was my co-worker Emma. This made sense, since Nick, who had impregnated me, was also a co-worker. In fact, much of that relationship—the flirting, the smooching, the analyzing of every detail—had taken place in or around the office.

Emma and I had been close ever since I got the job at a top management consultancy. We went to the gym together after work and often had a drink at the pub around the corner.

“Come on, we need wine,” she said after I showed her a photo of the pregnancy test I had taken in the ladies’ room after my shift ended.

Emma took my hand and led me to the bar around the corner, where we quickly drank two bottles and took turns calling abortion doctors to get an appointment. I wouldn’t tell one of my other friends for another week.

Our workplace was a social environment—probably because most of the people we worked with were in their early 20s like us. It was 2016, the year before #MeToo, and we hung out together regularly, invited each other to our birthdays, and often got drunk together.

And at these drinking parties, sex was almost always the topic everyone talked about. How many people we were with. The electrifyingly good fucks. The embarrassingly bad ones. We even ranked our other colleagues according to who we would most (and least) like to have sex with.

Looking back, it wasn’t the most professional environment, but most of us were single, fresh out of college and, frankly, too naive to know any better.

I’m in my thirties now and work in a very different office, but I was reminded of that time when I heard about Charlotte Tilley, the HR consultant whose frequent discussions about her top-notch sex life in the workplace led to a disciplinary investigation, which in turn led to her resignation and claim for constructive dismissal.

Tilley, 29, boasted to colleagues about her “Johnny Depp”-like lover – also a colleague – and even showed them a sex tape, according to reports from her employment tribunal this month. She showed photos of naked male torsos on her laptop at work and kissed another woman at the office Christmas party. Tilley denied the allegations about the sex tape and the Christmas party.

After Tilley resigned, she sued the company for sexual discrimination and harassment, claiming that coworkers had bombarded her with a barrage of intrusive questions about her sex life. However, the judge dismissed her case on the grounds that she had a “high tolerance for matters of a sexual nature” and the discussions about sexual matters were not unwelcome.

It was 2016, the year before #MeToo, and looking back, the office wasn’t exactly the most professional environment, but the majority of employees were single, fresh out of college, and frankly too naive to know any better.

My first reaction when I heard all this was pity. Frankly, I wondered why a young woman was being singled out for behavior that seems relatively normal among young men.

My male colleagues often behaved similarly in the mid-2010s and no one batted an eyelid – yet women were reprimanded for it. I remember some of the men criticizing a new female employee, calling it inappropriate for her to talk about her love life. The hypocrisy was shocking.

It was also normal for colleagues in my office to go out with each other. There were once about five official couples. And although there was a rumor that going out with colleagues was frowned upon by the bosses, no one ever imposed rules on us. And this was despite the fact that these relationships sometimes crossed serious boundaries: people slept together even though they were on the same team. Younger women went out with their older male bosses. And so on.

Some men in the office achieved mythical status. One, James, was particularly sought after. All the women were attracted to him and he had a reputation for dating several women at the same time.

For those of us not involved, it was an entertaining chat around the coffee machine, but I can’t imagine it was particularly funny for either woman when they found out he had been dating them for four months, despite sitting next to each other in meetings.

Thankfully, my relationship with Nick didn’t cross any of those boundaries. He worked in a different department than me and was also my age. We dated for about six months and it was fun for a while. We would sneak around the stairwell together. We dragged him to the bathroom at the office Christmas party for a few secret kisses.

That changed when I got pregnant. When I told Nick, he reacted horribly, blaming me for not buying “proper” condoms and not taking the pill. I realized he wasn’t a very nice person and our relationship wasn’t going to progress.

So I ended the thing. To be precise, I did so that same evening in the pub with Emma, ​​who helped me write the text.

I would never have gotten through that separation and abortion without Emma. Not only did she listen to me patiently and hold my hand as I cried that night (and drank away my sorrows), but she also took two days off work to accompany me to the clinic where I had to take two tablets one day apart for a medical abortion.

Charlotte Tilley, the human resources consultant whose frequent discussions about her “Gold Star” sex life at work led to a disciplinary investigation, which in turn led to her resignation and a claim for constructive dismissal

Be careful with workplace romances, because in my experience they are rarely worth it

Emma drove me there and back, cooked for me, comforted me and helped me through the following, equally painful months.

Luckily, Nick quit shortly after and I didn’t have to endure any more unpleasantness at the office. To this day, Emma’s behavior at that time was the nicest thing anyone has ever done for me.

Of course, I understand why it is frowned upon to talk about sex in the workplace. It undermines your professionalism and blurs the lines between work and play.

While some people suggest that the answer to #MeToo must be a total ban on workplace relationships and all conversations related to personal life in the office, that’s simply not realistic.

Banning any conversation about dating and sex suggests that men and women are incapable of having these conversations in a non-exploitative way, which is (hopefully) not the case in most countries.

Talking about your personal life creates strong bonds. That was certainly the case for me. Emma and I are still best friends, even though we now live in different parts of the country.

Because what better way to cement a friendship than to gossip about each other’s love lives? About the person you just went on a date with who isn’t responding to you, or the guy at the gym you like, whether you should keep someone or not, and so on. That’s normal, right?

I’m not saying people should start showing nude photos to their coworkers, although it’s quite normal for millennials like me and Gen Z to send them to the people you date (I often show them to my friends first to see if they think I’m good looking).

You need to choose carefully who you show your vulnerability to (ideally not someone significantly above or below you in rank). It’s important to maintain boundaries, which is something Millennials and Generation Z, who are fluent in therapy language, are used to.

And as far as workplace romances go, I would be very cautious. In my experience, they are rarely worth it.

But just talk about sex? A little gossip about everyone’s love life brings people together, forges friendships and adds to the joy of the world. Don’t forbid it.

All names have been changed.