STORIES OF THE DILAPIDATED HUMAN.

MICHAEL’S STORY.

By Brian Nzomo

I was seemingly satisfied with the type of lifestyle I was leading until I made a three-day stay at a cousin’s place.

Frank was an year older than me, and I considered him more handsome and outgoing. He was also fly, enigmatic and passionately ethereal.

But one thing about him struck me to the core. His ability to swoon all kinds of beautiful women and have them addicted to him like crack junkies. I was enamored, and slightly jealous.

I will admit it. I am not good with women. It has always been that way since high school and now that am in college. It’s daunting to face the grim reality that because of this, I am still a virgin.

In my second year in campus, it nearly broke me that I resorted to joining bitter men on the internet to ruffle women. It gave me an odd sense of pleasure, but all of it vaporized immediately I logged out. And all over sudden I realized the inevitability of my loneliness.

Thankfully, I did not succumb to the darkest depths of black pill philosophies. I sought out to alienate women and focus on more rewarding prospects like hobbies, beefing up my skills in a myriad things and writing. But the desire for a woman would not be numbed completely.

Now here is Frank. We are tipsy and he doesn’t shy away from showing me all these pictures and videos of him with different stocks of beauties doing intimate stuff. It’s amusing, astounding yet mildly depressing to me.

That night, I would ponder deeply upon my inability to be like Frank. What did he have that I didn’t? It’s not that I am hideous or something, but every time girls look at me, it’s as though something abhorrent makes them turn away.

Now, Frank has this friend. A girl. Who comes to visit him one afternoon. Her name is Olive. She is fair and looks dainty. I instantly feel attracted to her liveliness and graceful expression. But like all women who have existed in my life, my presence is largely expendable. She is no different from the rest. She is probably unwavered by anything about me. But I nevertheless try to request for her phone number.

The look she gave me was one of sheer ridiculousness. I could read it in her eyes. “Dude WTF?” She then burst out laughing. That cackle of laughter ripped my chest apart and felt a gush of shame clog my gut. I was broken. But I decided to eat the humble pie. I didn’t get the number anyway.

Two days later, Olive visited again. Frank was out for an hour but he would be back, I told her emotionlessly. I was busy reading a PDF novel in my phone, trying hard not to veer into a conversation with this girl whom my heart yearned for. But whose clear abhorrence of me hurt so much.

But she was a rabidly talkative person and she instantly began telling me about Frank. How she felt sad that he would never look at her the way she wanted. She wanted Frank to be her man. But Frank had relegated her to just being a friend. It hurt her so much, she said. But it hurt me triplefold.

“What haven’t I don’t to show him I am a prospective woman for him?” She lamented. “What do men want anyway, am I not beautiful and attentive to him?”

I could just nod my head and hum about her lamentations. Admiration for Frank’s lovable nature turned into raw envy. I could feel distaste building in me. Memories of past streamed inside my head topping up my bitterness. It had always happened.

“How many times have I done his laundry?” She lamented on and on. “Or even brought him food I have cooked myself. I want him so badly!”

I don’t know what she wanted me to do with this information, but I guessed it right. She asked me to make Frank see her as a potential lover. It was preposterous! I said. I can’t tell another man to choose you. Every man has his own mental faculties and desires. But she pleaded with me. I am a man, she said. I can influence his decisions.

Olive left. I couldn’t stay a minute longer in Frank’s place. I instantly left back to my house. It was evening. The perfect time for me to think and ponder deeply upon my life’s magnitude.

Was I cursed or something? It had to be. Otherwise, why would I be so repulsive to all I desire? I remembered the words of one woman I hoped to have a relationship with. She told me bluntly that I was repugnant sexually. And that my slimmy ass exuded no passion whatsoever.

Maybe she was right after all. But what am I supposed to do Brian?

Tell me? What? Because numbing my desire for women is not an option.