by Chip Friday
Everyone has self-esteem issues. Most people focus on deficits,
worrying they might not be good enough. My self-esteem issues
are a little different—I know I'm good enough. My focus
is on surplus—I wonder just how much better I am than everybody
else. And why don’t people agree?
I always test my new guy’s admiration early on. I want him
to say, “I’ve never been with anyone as sexy as you,”
and so saying he slides his hands under my butt and pulls my vagina
toward him. I have really long hair in this fantasy—so long
that part of it lies flat on the bed as he picks me up by my pelvis,
his hungry tongue warmly exploring my folds. Sometimes when my
new guy is on the couch, I’ll sit at one end and throw my
long legs over his lap. Once, my new guy (it was our second date)
sat there with his fucking arms folded, just staring at my legs.
I screamed at him; jumping up, I said, “I knew this would
happen! I always have to call first! You sat there like an idiot
when the bill came! Who do you think you are? You have a belly!”
He looked shocked, like this was no way to hold court. He said,
“It’s getting late.”
All these guys I meet are the same. They’re passionless,
tepid. I’ve grown to hate the word “tepid.”
When I answer an ad, I always use this word: “I’m
sick of tepid guys. I want to be seduced. I want to be taken care
of.” They reply with shit like “Everyone wants that,
honey,” and “Me too! Let’s meet.” I’ve
had to be very bold about asking for what I want; I now say things
like “I accept there aren’t any good men in this town,
so I’m willing to settle. Your job: Take care of me, enjoy
my body, realize how special it is.” The ones that take
the bait always play the same game: They stumble through the evening
with their hands in their pockets, waiting for me to ask them
questions. I thought guys all wanted sex! I thought they were
actually attracted to women!
I’ve been masturbating a lot lately: Once a week, at least.
When I masturbate, I don’t think about my guy’s body
(none of them have good bodies anyway)—I think about having
stuff done to my body. It might be as simple as intercourse from
behind, or up against a wall; or, it might be as complicated as
having my clothes removed after I return to my apartment with
my guy, his thick stubby fingers undoing my blouse, belt, bra.
He keeps his clothes on, of course. And I lay on the bed and he
licks every inch of my body with his tongue: my crack, ears, feet,
eye sockets. I haven’t been able to satisfy this fantasy—the
closest I’ve come is having a guy lick 47% of my body. The
worst part is I had to initiate it! I had to ask!
This has been my life for ten years. Yesterday, I did something
about it. I asked my new guy to come back to my place. I initiated
everything because I knew it was useless to wait around. When
we were in bed and I was going down on him, I popped his dick
out of my mouth and lurched toward his feet. I took his big toe
in my mouth and bit hard—not as hard as I could’ve,
but hard enough to cause exquisite pain. He screamed really loudly
and jerked his foot away and his still-erect penis waved back
and forth like a ship’s mast on the high seas. Jerking his
foot away caused a layer of skin to peel off the toe and I could
feel and taste the delicious metal of his blood. He shouted, “What
the fuck! Are you crazy?” He was standing up now and his
penis was actively deflating, pumping down, as if controlled by
hydraulics. I wanted to remove his testicles and put them in a
fruit bowl. I said, “Were you thinking about yourself when
I was blowing you? Get the fuck out of here, you tepid piece of
shit!” He ran outside naked, covering his groin with his
boots as he hurried across the parking lot. I stepped onto the
balcony and screamed down at him: “You’re a fucking
homosexual! You’re not attracted to women—you like
the idea of them being attracted to you! Self-absorbed piece of
So cathartic, so delicious. It wasn’t exactly what I wanted,
but it would do.
began his life in Buffalo, New York where he spent his first 18
years, after which time he moved to the Deep South. He is currently
living in Mobile, AL where he works as an adjunct instructor.
Before beginning a career as an academician, Chip held such jobs
as radio disc jockey, news writer, newspaper correspondent, high
school English teacher (or, crowd control), and purchasing agent.
Recently, Chip completed a PhD at the University of Southern Mississippi's
Center for Writers. Most importantly, Chip Friday eats prunes
every night before bed.
Case Copyright 2012
by Chip Friday