The Ballad of Chee-Easy
Chet Banks, or Chedda Money if you knew him in high school, or Chee-Easy now on social, is standing in line at Starbucks. His morning routine. Got that pin-stripe blue suit with the tapered legs, but he skipped the gym for a few weeks so his belt’s strugglin’. Sure he could take it down a notch, but that would be taking an “L” and Chet’s not about it. Plus it reminds him he’s got to get back to his gym routine. The coffee’s on his mind now. It excites him knowing that black bitter fuel will jump-start his nerves. He’s got that anxiety, but he likes it that way. It’s more energy. And more is more. No sugar for him. He’s good to himself like that. He hates routine, but can’t help falling into it. Two cups in the morning, first shit at half past nine, two more by ten, and five shits total before noon. Thinks of the office and how he had promised himself he’d never end up in one. “That’s what happens when you get married,” he rationalizes. He checks his watch and calculates how much time he’s got left to wait in line before he’s late. A minor panic. Now he’s irritable and inhales deep. His belt wails in agony. He’s never late, but he always gets anxious about it. Never late, mate–that’s his motto. “Can’t let yourself down like that, bro!” He shouts mentally. The coffee arrives just in time to prevent a panic attack.
He doesn’t drink the coffee while he’s driving. Not even at the stop light. No, no, he’s wise. Got principles. He promised himself he’d never drink coffee in the car again after the great spill of ‘09. Scorched his bean bag and stained the seats of the Beamer. Double cockblock! When he pulls into the lot and parks the car, only then he takes his first sip. Shivers crawl up his spine and make the fine hairs on his neck stand. The rumbles of the first shit are initiated. “The first sip is always the best,” he says aloud like he’s explaining it to someone else. After that sip, he remembers the time and his motto and rushes out of the car spilling coffee on his jacket. “Are you shitting on my fucking balls?” he screams into the hollows of the parking lot, hearing his righteous anger echoing back at him. Fury possesses him and all the first sips in the world can’t make it up now. He thinks not only of the coffee but also his job and his office and his wife and kids and the goddamned dog and the hamster they had to bury in the yard last week that the dog dug up and ate and why the fuck he’s working on Christmas Eve. “Routine is the life of the office and the death of the soul,” he wanes poetically. Even during the holidays, with the dollar-store decorations, the Secret Santa games, and the red ties, it’s just another annual routine. Man, he hates routines!
Chet rushes past Barb, the secretary. He used to smile at her chipper bright-eyed-bushy-tailed morning greetings. He’d even join in and shoot the shit a little to make nice. Now with the holidays, she’s unbearable. “Her fucking rosy face with those horse teeth. Oh, good mooooorning Chet!” he mockingly recites in his mind, irritating himself even more in the process. Sure enough, her greeting proceeds as promised. She is extra cheerful this morning with the Spirit of St. Nick and some Baileys in her coffee instead of the low-fat cream. But that’s her little secret. Chet looks up at the clock and it's nine o-two. His watch was off, and so were his principles. This enrages him even more. Hell hath no fury like a Chet upset. So instead of a “good morning” or “happy holidays,” he blurts, “Happy day!”
As he walks into his office and slams the door behind him, he exhales the bubbling rage in a sonorous grunt. Looks at his computer and mentally formulates the game plan for his day. On his desk, he notices a wrapped gift with a little note. Chet, being quick-witted and all, recalls the memo about the annual Secret Santa. But quick-wits are no match for his slow memory as he realizes he forgot to get Janice-from-Accounting a gift. “Fucking rat cunt,” he mumbles as he searches his drawers for something resembling a gift for her. No luck! He’ll have to use his lunch break to go last-minute gift hunting. He glances at the wrapped package on his desk. Barb had let it slip a few days ago, during a little water-cooler shits-and-gigs, so Chet knew Debbie-in-HR was his Secret Santa. Debbie's been sending him signals for a while now. He never acted on it ‘cause it made him anxious. Damn, she’s fucking hot, but what if he got caught? One time she took him to an empty room at an office party when she was drunk. He got so anxious he began to shake. When she asked if he was okay, Chet made an excuse that he was sick so he could leave. He regretted it every time he jerked off. Twice a day sometimes!
Chet grabs the package. The little note reads, “Let’s see your Wild Side!” When he opens the gift, it’s an original 1987 vinyl of Motley Crue’s album, Girls, Girls, Girls—his favourite fuckin’ band and the album from his birth year. What joy! His heart jumps. She musta remembered their conversation that night at the staff party. Clever girl! He’s getting a chub as he imagines Debbie in her pencil skirt and white button-up. Schoolgirl fantasies from his browser history flood his mind. Overwhelmed with thoughts of little Debbie, the routines, the sickly holiday spirit, and the pure artistry of Motley Crue, he thinks “WWTD? What would Tommy do?” Chet exhales in Neanderthal. He imagines himself a primitive without recourse to reason and for that matter, responsibility. Cock first he bolts out of his office and toward Debbie’s. Testosterone flooding his veins and cum sweating out his pores.
Hot and bothered, he bursts through her door, standing in front of Debbie’s desk. Rigidly. Apelike. Without looking back, one-arms that door closed like a pro. “Hey cowboy,” she maybe said. He charges over and grabs her by the back of the neck, drawing her in. She smiles, probably. Their mouths meet. She turns her chair toward him, legs spread. Chet slides his hands up her skirt feeling the smooth freshly shaven skin, or probably lasered actually because she’d be the type. And there’s like, literally no stubble. Her panties, wet with excitement. She takes his swollen member out through the zipper and strokes it. Did he wash it? Who knows? He lifts her onto the table and begins to plunge his tool into her with years of pent-up aggression that manifest into two glorious minutes of rabid thrusting before he pulls out and shoots the framed picture of Debbie’s kids off her desk. “Bam!” He shouts. He’s muffling her sounds with his hand as his orgasm reverberates through his body with shit-stirring anxiety. His knees go weak. His breath sharpens. He notices his pants are stained around the zipper. Le crème de pussy. “Did you cum?” he squeaks with his hand still over her mouth. Debbie muffles something as he looks down at his pants again, then at his jacket. “The fucking stains! My wife just washed these,” he thinks. And now the coffee-anxiety shit’s really kickin’ in. He tucks his junk and bolts for the washroom, trying to keep it all in with anal Kegels. “Two stains already in one day,” he thinks, “can’t go for the hat-trick.”
He hurries past Barb, trying to avoid her Christmas eyes. But she’s locked on like the Holiday Predator. She notices his red face. Is it Christmas cheer? Is he blushing? And in routine excitement, Barb says, “Well mister mister, you musta really enjoyed the present your wife left in your office.” He pivots, turns to Barb, but his eyes catch the clock just as it strikes half past nine. With panic in his eyes and a sharp breath, his belt pops. And in routine fashion our boy Chee-Easy lands that hat-trick. Man, he hates routines!
