It's Tough Out There for a Gentleman

So I'm walking out of the mens' room yesterday at the office, and just ahead of me, walking out of the womens' room, is one of the premier office hotties. Let's call her L.

Naturally, my eyes descend to her hindquarters -- which are quite remarkable, I might add -- and I see, to my horror, that she's trailing about a foot and a half of toilet paper fro the back of her skirt.

And suddenly I'm faced with a dilemma. If I call her on it, suddenly I'm the perv who's checking out a fellow worker below the waist (which, any good HR person will tell you, simply isn't allowed. It's best to think of your coworkers as disembodied heads that you only need make eye contact with to ask about the McClasky file or Sheila in Purchasing's birthday). If I don't... well, I guess I'm a sort of tool for letting her walk onto the floor, amongst all her catty female colleagues with a paper tail.

So... I called her on it. And she swiped it away, embarassed but thankful. As I saw it, fuck, I'm already the office perv. I sure as hell don't want to be a tool as well.