The Eunuch

For the past three weeks, S. has been dating a guy she does not particularly like or dislike but merely keeps around in the hopes that either her attitude or his oddness will improve.

While there is nothing overtly wrong with him, there are certain things that are just a little off, the most bothersome of which is his refusal to kiss her. They give each other soft little pecks at her door, but have never really made out.

When I suggested that perhaps he just wasn’t a kissing person, S. replied “He hasn’t tried to touch my boobs either. I've never known a guy that doesn’t at least try.” Her boobs are quite nice.

Last night I got a call around 1am.

"It's not there! It's just not there!" S. sounded frantic and a bit drunk against a background of bar music.

"Did you lose something?" I asked sleepily.

"No, CB! His penis, it's just not there."

"You've been, like, looking for it?" I didn't understand.

"I've been kissing him, rubbing against him, I even stuck my hand there—nothing. I don't think it's there."

"Are you in public? Where is he?"

"That's really not the point. At the bar getting me a drink. The point is that there is nothing there. Not even a limp nothing."

"The guy you’re dating just doesn't have a penis."

"Yeah, I don't think so."

I didn't know what to say.

"I mean, I'm going to try to find it some more, but—oh, he's coming back." She hung up on me to continue with her night of exploration.

This morning I looked at my phone. I had received a text message. It read: "Eunuch."

I called S.

"He is not really a eunuch."

"Well, that's what I decided."

"Do you even know what that means?"

"Yes. But I was worried I didn’t spell it right."


After some discussion we agreed she should investigate the situation further before jumping to such improbable conclusions.