The office is officially the new singles bar. Americans spend 164 more hours at work than we did 20 years ago. One in three of us always eats lunch at our desks, and a third don't use up our vacation days. Much of a working woman's life is spent elbow-to-elbow with the opposite sex, men who see us at our most competent, smart, and creative (while we're seeing them at their least lame as well). So is it any wonder that the daily grind often leads to a different kind of grind altogether?

According to one survey, 47 percent of workers have had an office affair; another found that only 34 percent of them felt it necessary to keep their relationship a secret. And while the threat of sexual harassment remains a clear and present buzz kill — and sleeping your way to the top will often land you on the jump page of The Wall Street Journal — the commingling of lateral associates, Jim-and-Pam style, has become standard business practice. With nothing less than our careers and love lives at stake, we thought it high time to assess the steep risks and heady rewards of love among the cubicles.

The Safest Way to Be Dangerous at Work
On behalf of personnel honchos everywhere, if you can find your action someplace else, please do. The hunting may take more effort, but the kill and cleanup will be so much easier. Can't resist temptation? A few rules on mixing office with orifice:

Rule #1: Choose your partner wisely. If he's above you, then he can't be above you. If he's under you, then he's not under you. If you're on the same level, then give it a go. Although sideways is complicated in so many ways, it's the best way to avoid popping up on HR's radar and becoming another casualty — like former Red Cross president (and subordinate-shtupper) Mark Everson. After six months on the job, he was very publicly axed. Gruesome.

Rule #2: Have the talk early. Right after you've endured those key conversations about protection, sexual history, one pillow or two, no pulp or some pulp, discuss worst-case work scenarios and establish rules for downshifting back to platonic colleagues, if that becomes a necessity — i.e., no tears, no anger, and no loose talk in the break room about how his stuff bends to the right.

Rule #3: Play it cool. No physical contact, no telling glances. First of all, offices tend to have cameras in every corner these days. Secondly, while most people never pick up on the cues we give off, the smart ones do: They can tell when you're pregnant, shifting alliances, or looking for another job. And they can certainly spot the way you sweetly finger his tie, or suddenly snipe with a fury that sounds more like "What the f*** am I doing f****** a married guy?" than "You forgot to put the 11-by-17 in the copier!"

Rule #4: Confide in no one. Not even your closest officemate, who held your hair while you repurposed that unfortunate fourth Appletini at the quarterly sales conference. Because no one can be trusted to hang tight to this secret. And when she does tell all, everyone will assume the plum projects and promotions that come your way have nothing to do with your unparalleled brand-marketing skills and everything to do with those liaisons at the Marriott downtown.

Rule #5: Deny, deny, deny. If there's no e-mail trail and nothing on the cameras, how are they absolutely sure you two have hooked up? They're not going to dust him for prints. Then again, best to keep your résumé up-to-date and know that one or both of you may have to move on. Most importantly, do your job really, really well. Most places hate to lose great people, even if they exhibit — all together now — really poor judgment.

But the real point is about companionship. Americans work their a**** off. We don't take lunch (scarfing a veggie burger while scanning cnn.com doesn't count), and our dog has forgotten what we look like. We spend more time with colleagues than anyone else; it's natural they become our friends — and sometimes our lovers.

Not that things always go smoothly — my first office romance proved that. A charismatic rising star, he dumped me after a whirlwind three-week "relationship." I was just out of college, with a big crush that ended up crushing me. I sobbed silently in the office bathroom stalls; I alternately suffered and seethed while having to endure his presence every day. Though business and pleasure can mix, so can business and raw, murderous hatred.

But I'd hazard that dating at work is inevitable. As corporate America insists on a workforce of hyperproductive automatons, we're rebelling. We steal paperclips, surf the Net, and have a quick fling to affirm that we're more than just another cog in the machine. My risky interlude on my boss's desk might not be everybody's idea of a perfect date. But it sure beat an anonymous grope in a mirrored room at some trendy loser mecca with a cover charge. Besides, with my schedule, I'd never have made it there anyway.

I had just been hired to work on a brand-new magazine, the brainchild of a publishing tycoon who interviewed me himself in three languages. I had a smart title, a swanky business card, and, for the first time in my life, a respectable salary.

There was a real buzz in the air at the magazine. Our equipment was all state of the art. More journalists arrived daily, many of them big names, wooed personally by the formidable publisher. I was especially looking forward to meeting the incoming news editor — we all were. But I wasn't prepared for the first time I'd actually lay eyes on him, and the extraordinary effect that his sudden, dazzling smile would have on me.

Wasn't I way too smart for such an obvious, tawdry thing — an affair with the boss? Had I really struggled this hard and earned my way here just to jeopardize it for some thrills with a married father of two?

I had a million reasons why it was a bad idea to succumb to what was, by now, a mutual attraction. But once we had crossed the messy Rubicon of our first frantic night together (we had a wee-hours deadline and two nightcaps, and my apartment was just a cab ride away), all reasonable behavior just went by the wayside. We threw ourselves into the kind of blinkered, egocentric, mutual self-absorption that is the hallmark of every illicit liaison.

The job itself was complicit in our relationship. There were scores of very late nights and early mornings as we toiled toward the magazine's launch date — plenty of occasions when he couldn't make it home to the suburbs and "settled" for convenient, anonymous city hotel rooms close by. There were romantic lunches and dinners, all courtesy of the company credit card — we did not pay for a single oyster, flute of champagne, or balloon of XO cognac.

The longer we got away with it, the smarter and more invincible we felt. We grew so blind to our own indiscretions, we didn't realize that the team had bets on how soon after I left the bar beneath the office he would make his excuses and slip off. And what about his wife stuck at home? With a tiny baby and a demanding toddler? I am ashamed to say that I never gave her a single thought. I had my own guilt to deal with, casually lying to my boyfriend of three years about crazy deadlines and imaginary meetings, and trying not to mention Nigel's name too often.

Would I ever wake from the dizzying dream? You bet: When sales went into a free fall, Nigel was one of the first to go. He was summarily fired one Friday night; I didn't hear about it until I came in the following Monday morning. I wandered around in shock — bereft.

He was replaced, and I was moved into the features department. Stuck at home, at the end of a commuter rail line, with his wife and kids and a substantial mortgage, he was desperately trying to find a new job. It became almost impossible to snatch a couple of words on the phone. "You do know how much I love you?" "And you know I love you, too."

But had I ever, really? He found a position at another newspaper, and we were briefly reunited, meeting for drinks during his short evening break, sometimes even managing a quickie, like teenagers, on the cramped seats of his car. But stripped of his former title, his influence, and his company credit card, he suddenly seemed emasculated. The sharp wit that had so charmed me sounded petty; the intelligence I once found so fascinating was now arrogant and irritating. Gradually, the rendezvous, and then the phone calls, tailed off.

At an industry dinner not long ago, I sat next to an editor from the newspaper in which I sometimes saw Nigel's byline, and I couldn't resist asking after him. "Great guy. Excellent writer. Underrated, too," said my companion. "Trouble is, he always has some girl or other in tow. Usually one of the junior journalists or a secretary. I really don't know how his wife puts up with it."

I WAS the Boss of HimBy Megan Frampton

When I was 24 years old, I grabbed my intern's a**.

It probably won't come as a shock to learn that the music industry can be very casual. Super-casual. Über-casual. People don't think anything of hooking up with subordinates, bosses, the musicians — it's cool as long as the two who get together agree on the rockingness of at least one band. Harassment? Lawsuits? Huh?

When I met Scott, I was the editor of an industry tip-sheet on college bands, and he came in a few days a week to answer phones. At first all I noticed was his long blond hair, so long he could belt it. Then I caught on to his quick wit, deep, throaty voice, and crazy long legs — not to mention that bum. I invited him to my housewarming party, and when he arrived, I was already on my way to blotto. So when he reached into the fridge for a beer, I took the opportunity to grab his a**.

As we both climbed the ladder, our mixing of work and sex — we would do it in two different offices — never seemed to be a problem for our coworkers. But for Scott and me, it wasn't always so breezy. In fact, once he moved into my apartment, it felt relentless — living, working, commuting, sleeping together. And when we ended up at cross-purposes, it was difficult. Like, really difficult.

For starters, it's hard to maintain authority with your staff when your hotheaded boyfriend has just slammed his office door in your face. It's also sort of challenging not to fire his a** on the spot.

Or how about when he calls your product "substandard"? Or points out mistakes you could have avoided in sloppily written reviews? Try going home and cuddling on the couch after he says you're too wimpy to fire inept staffers.

It's true — I'm not always the most assertive manager. But Scott has stratospheric standards for his colleagues. I can't say he never heard bad things about me, but I know I was often asked to mediate when his demands exceeded others' abilities. I would listen to their complaints, nodding and making noncommittal noises — to sound sympathetic but not appear a traitor. Still, there's nothing like hearing your boyfriend is a pr***. Especially when you kind of agree.

Sometimes it got especially rough — like during an office renovation, when we were asked to share an office and a phone, considering we already lived together. Not a happy few weeks. But other times it rocked — when we played off each other's strengths, challenged each other to work harder. It was enough to keep us at it for 10 years — the job part, that is. The relationship is still going; we've been together for 18 years, married for 12, and I've never regretted that I violated all sorts of professional codes when I grabbed his a** that night.