I know I’m not special when I say I hate Mondays. But I really fucking hate Mondays…
On Mondays, the first alarm is so much louder than any other day of the week. The blankets still have the lingering scent of Sunday sleep-ins, making it exponentially harder to peel out of from between the sheets. Even the shower takes longer to wake up because it can’t even either after the couple of days of breaking away from the grinding routine.
My Monday morning stretch triggers a head rush that literally knocks me back down on to the bed. On the second attempt to stand, I manage to steady myself. I walk across the room and pull the curtains open to get a sense of what the day has in store.
It’s overcast. Gloomy. Not at all inspiring.
What is the point?
Get up and go to work, make money so I can give it right back to The Man…?
Jeez, I totally can’t imagine why it’s so hard to motivate myself at the dawn of every new work week.
When I finally get my ass out the door, I realize that I’ve forgotten where I parked my car. I wander around the block, pressing the button on my key fob in an attempt to coax my little hatchback out of his hiding place
(half-hoping that I’ll never find the thing)
but there it is - that telltale beep.
I guess I’m going to work after all.
Everyone on the road is angry.
Horns honking. Muted swearing in rear-view mirrors. Jerking and weaving around each other. Signal lights left on past the point of necessity. Presumptuously wedging into gaps without signaling. Aggressive arms wave outside open windows point to spaces between bumpers—spaces they believe that, of course, they’re entitled to. Squeezing into any other lane than the one they’re in. Because it seems like it’s moving faster
(and they’re the only one in a hurry, obviously)
right until the moment they pull in and its stops for a good several minutes.
A savage game of leapfrog.
Fuck off, guys. We all have somewhere to be.
Why are we even here?
Roll up to the office.
Listless. Despondent. Because I know how it’s all going to go before I even get inside.
Say hi to Sheryl at the front desk—she’s always there before you, no matter what. Even on those rare occasions that you try to get and early start to your day.
(Oft-debated conspiracy theory: Sheryl never actually leaves the office and sleeps under her desk.)
Grab a cup of coffee from the lunchroom—bless you, Sheryl—on the way to my quadrant.
Mumbles and nods to the other groggy-eyed drones going through the same motions.
Walk down the hall, past the line of offices for the superiors to my left, a sea of cubicles to the right. Just beyond that, a lagoon of long tables in the corner to promote conversation and collaboration.
Ha, collaboration. Sure.
They would actually serve as decent cafeteria-style community lunch spots. That is, if we weren’t made to feel guilty for taking any proper break throughout the day. Instead, we shame ourselves into eating at our desks, in isolation, like the mere act of eating is punishable by law, never prying our eyes away from the screens that enslave us.
I’m so over this place.
The teenage punk anarchist in me
(who was never allowed to fully evolve
because fine—life was never that bad)
is rebelling hard. Bucking against the bindings. Twisting against the restraints of conventional “adult” society. I’m well past my expiry date here, and I can feel myself rotting from the inside out.
But I don’t know what the next move is yet, so I’m forced to bide my time for now.
This is better than being homeless, right?
More nods across the aisle to my fellow worker bees buzzing in the comb of cubicles all around. We don’t take the time to settle in. We drop our effects and make our way to the board room.
It’s almost Monday Morning Meeting time.
I can’t begin to explain to you how much I loathe this part of the week. On paper, it sounds great. Check in with your teammates, take in some inspiring messages from the boss man. But instead, it’s just Doug—
(the only guy who seems to genuinely enjoy this futile exercise in so-called team-building
because somehow, the bastard is the highest performing superstar on our company roster)
going on about what a great weekend he had with his fiancée
(Can that be right? Is she his fiancée?
How that beady-eyed, mouth-breathing, loud-talking little weasel ever managed to find someone to spend the rest of his life with him is beyond me…)
while we wait for Bossman to show his big, bald, red face.
I swivel in one of the many identical leather chairs—the ones that look a lot plusher than they are; the ones that squeak even when you sit deathly still—at the far corner of the sizeable oval table. Farthest from the whiteboard where Bossman likes to show off the new buzzwords he learned on the internet over the weekend.
I know that today, of all days, he won’t have anything worth listening to. Last week’s number were trash. We already know this. But this week’s meeting is going to give the ol’ Bossman an opportunity to platform to shove our collective nose in our shit. I actually had a really good week, but it doesn’t matter. Because it doesn’t matter how any individual did. We are not individuals; we are a corporate hive. And the hive’s overall numbers were garbage, ergo the whole hive failed, ergo we all have to the take the heat now.
Mark… That’s Bossman’s legal name.
Mark is in denial about the, ahem, rotundness? of his figure. His gut is trying desperately to bust through the lowest button of his white dress shirt. It’s tucked in, but the front tails only stay hidden at the waistband because his belt is fastened much tighter than is healthy.
It makes me gag in my mouth to look at him right now. Why can’t you just wear clothes that fit, Mark?
I scan the room. Everyone’s cheeks are melting down to their knees.
Glad I’m not the only one, I guess.
Mark’s wife has him on a juice cleanse, so he is perpetually hangry, which is especially apparent in these gassy meetings. But at least he’s lost some water weight so the number of the scale can validate his misguided attempts to achieve some illusion of “good health” status overnight.
Mark is a twat.
Sitting at this far end of the boardroom, all I can think of now is how satisfying it will be—the day I walk up to his office and tell this twat that I quit, I mean.
“I fucking quit, Mark!”
And then I’ll strut out of there,
middle fingers in the air,
thanks for everything, Sheryl,
the rest of you can lick my lips)
head held high, knowing that I never, ever have to come back.
Sometimes, especially before the caffeine kicks in, while some part of me is still back home caught up in the weave of my bedsheets, the notion of executing the perfect rage quit moment actually gets me more riled than any of my past lovers ever believed they could.
I squirm in my seat, adding another note to the symphony of haphazard leather squeaks creeping out into the room as Mark buzzes on about projected figures and sales goals for the week and the month. The only thing that matters to Mark is that we stay ahead of the Hillside Park Branch. HP is run by his significantly more successful nemesis, Harrison.
Mark doesn’t like Harrison because Harrison is young and hungry and successful. Gregarious and likable and reasonably attractive in his own right.
Basically, everything Mark is not.
Mark takes his self-loathing out on us because it’s the only place in his life where he has the illusion of control.
I’m as bitter as my black coffee, which is finally starting to kick in. It tickles at my extremities, tingling in the squished shadows between my crossed legs. It’s urging me to consider excusing myself to use the facilities.
My eyes train slowly away from Mark to the clock on the wall above him. He’s likely to go on for at least another 17 minutes…
No. I really don’t want to wait that long.
I pivot back and forth in my chair a couple more times and decide finally to get up and slink out through the glass door. I avoid Mark’s questioning gaze as I do so.
I walk with a little swagger in my step as I make my way down the abandoned hall that draws a stark line between the administrative powers-that-be and us cloistered plebs. Now that I’m standing, it’s clear that the coffee has worked its way into every corner of my body.
I wonder what it would be like to have sex with Mark.
Not because I want to. Gross. Because I can’t imagine how his poor wife does it.
I nod at Sheryl. She nods back without looking up from her keyboard. I’m pretty sure Sheryl has supernatural powers.
I imagine Mark’s wife her using his credit card to withdraw the cash she uses to spoil her young stud of a sugar baby. Reaping the spoils of her spoiled marriage to red-faced Mark.
I smile at the thought.
I imagine seducing Mark under the pretense of having (hate) sex with him. Lighting him all the way up, and then at the last second, pulling the rug right out from under him, leaving him with his sad, thirsty dick in his hands. Lubing his palms with tears of embarrassment at his desk, because Lord knows his wife doesn’t want to fuck him when he gets home either.
I wish Mark was even remotely attractive so I could stomach this hate sex fantasy.
I’ve never met the wife. But for some reason, I suspect that she’s a babe.
He so doesn’t deserve a babe like her.
Mark obviously peaked in high school, if he even made it that far. I hope for her sake that he was somewhat attractive back then so she has something to think about when he sweats and pants over her during their bi-annual copulation.
She probably hosts a secret harem of young Adonises when he’s busy here proselytizing corporate hogwash to the deflated troops.
Good for her.
God, I hate that guy.
I’m halfway down the main hall that connects our office hovel to the bathrooms when I catch the eye of a young man from a neighboring office.
Before I can stop myself, I smile at him. You know, to be polite.
It would be nice if Mark would hire a face like yours now and then.
Mark tends only to hire airhead doll girls and his white, mouth-breathing, dickless brethren.
Don’t ask me how I got hired…
I’d like to think I don’t fit in either of the above categories. They were just desperate and so was I.
The boy smiles back at me and we continue walking in opposite directions until we’re completely beyond each other’s respective consciousnesses.
I push the bathroom door harder than I needed to—I like the sensation of exerting physical force of something outside of myself.
There are three stalls. All empty. I select the one farthest from the door. I know the toilet is close to the wall in that one.
I pull my pants down and assume the position on my temporary throne. I have my phone in my hand. I feel the tension in my jaw, at the back of neck, in the pit of my skull, and it’s spreading. Dispersing and diluting itself throughout the rest of my body as I scroll through the endless feed of videos and promotional material
(that I ignore on purpose, even if it’s something I’m genuinely interested in. I can’t let them have the satisfaction of knowing that their advertising ploys got me.)
I continue to scan, but my eyes blur right over. I don’t even notice that my thumb slipped to bring up another browser window.
I was watching porn on my phone last night. That’s weird because I’d never done that before. But I read an article earlier in the day that compared iPhone and Android user porn searches and I wondered what the hype was about.
If we’re being honest, my wrist got tired from holding the phone screen at just the right angle, which hindered my ahem, progress. But I didn’t have anywhere to lean the damn thing, and by then I was ready to get my other hand up in there. I should have anticipated these variables, but I didn’t.
But now, in this little patch of isolation, as I blatantly ditch Mark’s Monday Morning pow-wow, all my dark spaces—arteries, pupils, pores, etc…—opened and dilated from the regular dosing of
(socially accepted addiction)
hot, black coffee coursing through me, I’m faced with this small pixelated freeze-frame of two cocks nestled into the two holes of a willing lady recipient that I’d found in my search last night.
The plot was ridiculous. Some fancy man seems to have employed the services of a special detective to find our whether or not his assistant was a “replica,” whatever that means. So, the detective interrogates this deliberately slow-talking sass-bot about her sexual preferences and history, and the only way they can really know if she’s a replica or not is to see “how she handles two men.” Ha.
I never pay attention to plot anyways. I really don’t have the patience for it. Usually, I just scroll right past it before they can say anything stupid.
I’m obviously skipping ahead right now.
Well past the foreplay now, I make sure to mute the video and lean it upright on top of the toilet paper dispenser. It’s fallen into a shot of the two male performers standing, facing each other, with the blonde bombshell “replica” between them. She has her arms wrapped around the neck of the stud who holds her in place, rocking her pussy lips over his cock. The other one steadies the trio while pumping up into her ass. A shimmering, slippery cock in each hole.
That’s my jam.
I have an affinity for double penetration.
Never done it in real life. Just a fantasy.
Back to the blonde. She’s rocking a deadly pin-up look—some flawless victory rolls, drop pearl earrings, and fierce red stilettos. Her hand is between her legs, rubbing her clit furiously as the two men work her holes in tandem. I mimic her movements with my own hand.
I’m already on fire.
Maybe it’s the caffeine.
Maybe it’s the thrill of my mini-rebellion, ditching the morning meeting.
Maybe it’s the fact that I’m watching porn on my phone and touching myself in a public bathroom stall where anyone could walk in at any time.
It’s probably all of the above.
Their cocks are shining wet with a healthy mix of lube and the bombshell replica’s juices; my hand is wet with my own.
I hear voices in the hall. I slow the roll of my stroke, gently flicking my swollen bud between two fingers as I wait to see if they pass or come inside.
I skip ahead on the video to a new position. Now the blonde is sitting, bouncing on one while the other guides himself to her waiting mouth. She’s filled with bliss; fulfilled with cock.
Her sultry eyes close. My head tips back and my eyes follow. I place my phone back on the flat top of the toilet paper dispenser and scrub more ravenous circles. My other hand slides towards the heat oozing from my center and dips into my wetness.
I’m almost there.
I sprint towards the finish line. Short, shallow, feverish thrusts at my threshold, while my other hand is a blur over my clit. God help me if someone walks in, because I’ve reached the point of no return. There’s no stopping me now.
My eyes bulge wide and my mouth gapes, miming through a deafening roar as I tumble from the peak of an unexpectedly powerful release. I hear the echo of my juices plink down past my fingers into the water below.
The stale hallway air sneaks in when the door whooshes open. I slump back on my porcelain backrest and steady my heaving chest as the other body locks itself in the stall closest to the entrance. The replica’s mouth is smiling wide, gratefully lapping up the men’s declaration of pleasure being shot all around her face, catching what she can on her hungry tongue.
I wipe my own depraved pleasure from my fingers with toilet paper and flush the evidence.
My second big stretch of the day sparks another head rush. I steady myself, both palms flat on the stall door, before unlocking.
I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. My face is flush, and I’m grinning as widely as a semen-slurping replica. I fluff some volume into my hair and walk out.
If I had swagger before, I’m full-blown peacock now as I strut back into the office, beelining it to my little honeycomb. My neighbor gives me a customary smile of acknowledgment as I settle into my teetering, poorly-assembled chair.
I’m still waiting for the home page on my computer to load when stupid Mark comes up behind me. Apparently, he’d given me a shout out in the meeting for slaying it last week. He shakes my hand and tells me to keep up the good work.
I rub an itch away from the end of my nose with the back of my fingers and grin smugly to myself.
For any of you who weren’t paying attention, I never washed my hands.
More by Queen Jayne:
The Birthday Bash
Comings and Goings
Curry On, My Haywardson
Diamonds and Pearls
The Dinner Date
The Edge of Glory
Expressions of Grief
For Dommestic Use Only
The Slap Bet
Strangers on a Train