Foot fetishes make up a large part of my clientele. My feet were ignored for the first eighteen years of my life—the ends of limbs that slid into fashionable shoes before leaving the house. But in the webcam world, my feet are my bread and butter. The fact that this client is Asian has nothing to do with his fetish—it is a worldwide turn-on, and more common than I ever imagined. Most men have a slight fetish—like a ‘leg man’—they enjoy seeing nicely shaped feet, either bare or slid into four-inch heels. Other men focus solely on feet as their erotica; they do nothing but stare at my toes, soles, and arches and jack off while doing so. It is my favorite type of clientele in that all I have to do is wiggle my toes and rub my feet together seductively. The feet that I had abused for years—carelessly stubbing on doorjambs and stuffing barefoot into old sneakers—possess a high arch, symmetrical toes, and narrow ankles. I rock bare feet like Pamela Anderson filled that red swimsuit two decades ago.
The Asian is getting close, his face tight in concentration, his eyes glued to my feet. I lie back and slowly run my left arch over the top of my right foot, letting out a soft moan as my feet take him over the arc of ecstasy.
I take a fifteen-minute break at noon, cutting open the box and unpacking its contents. It’s my food: two weeks’ worth of Jenny Craig meals. Jenny is my current meal plan. I use diet plans because they make my life easier—shipping me a complete breakfast-lunch-dinner combination, two weeks of tasteless meat at a time. The fact that these companies ship me the food saves me from having to leave the apartment to get groceries. I’ve found I can typically tolerate a brand for about two months, but then I have to switch it up. This is my second shipment from Jenny Craig.
Popping a barbeque chicken with rice into the microwave, I think about killing myself. It’s a frequent daydream of mine—a rational thought process, and one that seems to solve the threat of me causing harm to others. I have yet to walk too far down that path. I could blame it on fear, say that I am too cowardly to do it, or too selfish to take my own life. But it’s not that. For some reason, I can’t. Can’t bring myself to take the only life worth taking. Whenever I go there, consider the act, there is a word spoken as clearly as if God were standing in front of me, saying it himself. Wait. I don’t know what I am waiting for, but I do. I wait.
The bell dings. I open up the microwave door and get out my steaming hot dish. Bon appetit.
I killed once, a long time ago. That was one of the reasons I decided to lock myself up. Someday, someone will figure it out, and they will come for me.
When I killed that first time, I fooled myself into thinking it was a one-time thing. That while I had acted in that moment and taken that life, it wasn’t who I was, but rather just what I had become in that one horrific instance.
The dark obsession with killing came when my family died. It left me alone long enough to grieve, to spend hours curled in bed, sobbing for my own situation: loneliness and despair over the loss of my family taking over any normal thought process. But eventually, I had to recover, leave my bed, and reenter the rat race known as life. But soon, it came a-calling, searching me out in moments of unguarded weakness. In the shower, I would be struck with a vision of slicing a throat open and letting the blood fill the drain. In class, I’d find myself focusing on my science teacher’s neck, fantasizing about wrapping my small hands around it and squeezing until the life was gone from his body.
When the urge got too great—consuming every spare breath and thought that came into my mind—I tried to satisfy it in other ways. Ways that I hate to think about, ways that fill me with embarrassment and dread. Nothing worked. And when I started making serious plans, started picking out victims and sharpening knives, that was when I knew I had to do something. That was when I decided to lock myself up.
I finished up the fall semester at the community college, packed up my dorm, quit my I-spray-crap-perfume-on-you-at-Abercrombie job, and moved into the shithole that I now call home. Settled in, turned on utilities, and locked the door.
I haven’t seen a live person since.
CHAPTER 13: threeinchpenis
HUMILIATION: Humiliation play is connected to sexual fetishism, and can be associated with exhibitionism in the sense of wanting others to witness one’s sexual degradation. Activities such as name-calling are a way of achieving ego reduction or getting over sexual inhibitions.3
I was caught off guard the first time a small dick entered the room. Outside of my private chat room, there is a waiting room of sorts called Free Chat. When I am not in a Private Chat, I log into that room. It is designed as a place for camgirls to meet the members and convince them to take them into a private chat. The waiting room is free, and there I’m supposed to chat with all the members at one time until one of them decides to hit the “Take to Private” button, which is when everyone else is kicked out and the credit card charges begin. I am lucky in that I don’t typically sit in the waiting room for more than a minute or so. I am, in terms of camgirls, a hot commodity. But one Monday, things were slow, and I was lounging on my side, smiling into the cam and chatting up seventy-two different members when threeinchpenis popped up on my screen.
threeinchpenis: hey Jessica
richone45: can u show us more skin?
OSUfreshie: hey bb how much 4 private?
I laughed, leaning forward so that my cle**age was enhanced. “Hey Three—no Rich, you know the rules in free chat and it’s $6.99 a minute, Fresh.”
OSUfreshie: damn. i can’t afford that
richone45: i can
allaboutpussy: do you like cunnilus Jessica?
OSUfreshie: yeah right rich - then why r u in free with the rest of us?
Jacob1982: cunni…what? *grabs the dictionary*
fantasyplayer: can you show me your feet?
threeinchpenis: Jessica, is it okay if my penis is only three inches long?
richone45: b/c i like free chat freshie. anyway, i’m about to take her private.
“Of course it’s okay that your c**k is three inches long. Do you want to go to private, and you can show it to me?”
Jacob1982: I can’t find cunnilus in the dictionary. What does it mean?
OSUfreshie: then take her rich. We r all waiting
NFLJunkie: ur hot
—-frankiedoug enters room
Assman22: LOL u r all so stupid. it’s spelled cunnilingus u idiots
allaboutpussy: u should feel dorky for knowing how to spell it
BlueDog1: who says cunnilus anyway? sounds like something my grandmother would say
—-Packersfan13 enters room