I am Not a Woman

Four-inch red killer heels. Black stockings stretching over a pair of long sexy legs. The edge of a skirt’s hem just reaching slightly above her knees, clutching her narrow waist. Her low-cut blouse generously displaying her curves, covered by long blond hair, straight and silky, shimmering in the sun. A narrow jaw cupping a fair and radiant complexion. Astounding features of a supermodel: Lips, full, shining from the application of a branded lipgloss. Nose, narrow and long. Striking blue eyes that sparkle, alert. She let out a gorgeous laugh when her friends shared a joke. A second later, her gaze fell upon mine and she looked startled.

Just by looking at her as a centrepiece, the word beautiful has become a major understatement. No, in fact the word is dismissed of any meaning at all. Standing before me, this is… the creation of God. This… is a perfect masterpiece. Women. Gorgeous women. America is full of gorgeous women.

The woman looked uncomfortable and tore her gaze from me. She pretended not to have noticed me staring at her and continued the laughter with her friends as they headed towards another direction, turning right to cross the street where a library stood.

Okay, I was being rude. I stared too long. I have a good reason for being rude. I haven’t seen women for the past ten years I was at the monastery. I was kidding. I didn’t go to the monastery. And no, I wasn’t away for ten years. I went for an intensive training for martial arts for six months. There was a life and death situation taking place just two days ago and prior to that, I have been training in an enclosed institution for those six torturous months to work on moves and techniques that may keep me alive. But, it really did feel like ten years and I am not exaggerating when I call it a monastery.

Imagine waking up with ten men on your left and nine on your right every morning, brushing your teeth with them around and sharing a toilet bowl with them. Thank God, at the end of six months, I didn’t turn myself gay or something. The loneliness was daunting and I was ready to give up my training just because I was in need of a little female companionship. Even hearing my mother nag sounded better than the shouts of men practicing their punches and kicks on a punching bag. Life became colourless again, and so did my food. No kidding, the food we had at the monastery, ahem, the institution, were veggies, fruits, bread, rice and oats (our master is an Asian). We are Americans. We have tacos and Coke for breakfast, lunch and dinner. Okay, that is pulling it but I’m proud to declare tacos and Coke as our daily staple food. You can pretty much tell that I wasn’t born into a martial art discipline. No, it’s not like my father is a martial art teacher and I needed to follow his footsteps and run his institution one day. No, that is not my kind of story.

Well, I just wanted to impress the chicks. I got myself in quite a mess about six months ago. There was this chick I really needed to save, you know and this other dude who challenged me to a life and death combat – like those mortal combat kinds. Okay, it wasn’t quite life and death because, I didn’t kill him. See, deep down inside, I’m really a nice guy. The chick needed to see some testerone in me so I just needed to show it to her to win her. It’s a guys’ thing, a medal you keep as a prized possession by measuring the number of chicks you impress. At least, that is, for me.

So, this was the story. Apparently, this dude (who is a black belt student) is the chick’s boyfriend and she caught him cheating so she wanted to get even with him, and… I… happened to be someone she picked in the streets whom she chose to be with to get even with her boyfriend. So, when the dude was flat on the ground six months later in the ‘mortal combat’, this chick, instead of smothering her hero, me, for saving her life from the rescue-the-damsel-in-distress stunt she pulled that lured me to have this combat in the first place, she ran to her boyfriend who was lying with his back on the floor and asked if he was okay (of course he was not. Women.). Therefore, instead of feeling like a hero, I have had that dude lying on the floor, even with his bruised, bloody and battered face, broken teeth, a bald patch (you seriously don’t want to know what I did to him), a twisted wrist and a broken leg, smiling triumphantly with his swollen eyes twinkling while he wrinkled in pain for sympathy.

Women.

I should have killed him while I could. But like I say, I’m nice.

The competition wasn’t even over yet but I left the institution where the competition was held right after that. I was not even hurt. Well, physically. The dude did not even touch my hair. I knew nothing about martial arts until he challenged me six months ago and I had to go through gruesome training and diet. But I can’t say it was a bad thing for me at all. Look at my biceps now. I didn’t use to have them. I have just become more desirable among women. Women like a bit of muscles and biceps. I have always envied men with them and now, I have just officially joined the club.

I was still standing at the spot where I’ve met the gorgeous blonde. She had just walked out of University of Southern Princehood. Judging from her looks, she must be around 18 to 20 years old. Most probably a freshman. I smiled. In my head, I was already devising a plan to get close to her.

Women.

They drive you crazy but you still want them.

I crossed the road to where the library belonging to University of Southern Princehood stood. Fortunately, I was dressed for the occasion, as always. My hair was smartly gelled up. My jacket was worn over my casual navy blue T-shirt and I had my jeans on. I may have reached my forties but my diligent duty of serving as a true blood Cassanova to American women, I swear, has made me look young. It’s like a vampire in need of blood to live. Dating keeps me alive. I look like I’m in my twenties, no kidding. My parents always thought it is some kind of sick disease that I inherited from another parent they never knew I had who conveniently put me in the hospital bed bearing their son’s name (or that the nurse on duty did that to get even after my mother scolded her with nasty vulgar words for not bringing her a glass of water when she was thirsty after 36 hours of labour). No, they are not proud that I am their only son. They are also skeptical of my presence, or that I even breathe and live in the same house as I proved to be so different from them. Okay, you see, my parents, my family are Indians. They have migrated to America two years before I was born. I have blue eyes. My parents have brown. If the differences weren’t obvious enough, we have different blood types. Mine is a negative O. My parents’ are a positive AB. Both of them.

My parents went to argue with the nurses and the doctor who delivered me apparently. They just denied having mixed me up with another baby and asked us to be happy with God’s blessings that their child, me, is alive and well, healthy and growing because statistics showed that only 43 babies out of every 1,000 births survive it every year.

I’ve never told people my real name before because I have an Indian name for a real name. When I was 18, I disowned my parents legally just so I can legalize a name I created for myself. I called myself James Adams. My parents never found out and neither did the registrar. In fact, I have more problems registering my real name and my parents’ name than I have with my adopted name.

Despite my complicated identity, I was not deterred to succumb to low-self esteem. Instead, in my heart, deep down inside of me, I feel it so strongly - I believe my father is also a true Cassonova who fell madly in love with a beautiful woman and after dating 798 different women, have finally settled for one woman, married her and have had me. They have probably cradled the Indian baby in their arms who have grown up to be a fine young man and have problems falling in line with the Cassanovan gene embedded in line with… the Adams family. I frowned a little at that thought. Sounds like Frankenstein’s family.

In my new quest, I smiled, I have crossed the road and have now headed towards the entrance of the library. University libraries at this part of the town allow public access unlike most libraries in other parts of the country. At the entrance, I’ve spotted the girl leaning against the bookshelf, reading a geography book.

"Planning to go somewhere, love?" I have one hand clutching the sides of the bookshelf where she was at and the arm was just above her head. She screamed, clutching the book to her bosom. I could smell her breath from where I stood. She was just right in front of my face, her blue eyes boldly piercing mine. I almost felt faint but quickly regained myself.

Suddenly, she threw her head in my face and the back of my head hit the metal shelves behind me. It made a loud sound and caught the librarian’s attention. A loud slap came across my left cheek and suddenly, pain shot in my groin. She had just kicked me with her heels. I went down on my knees, trying to rub the pain away. My six months of training never prepared me for a woman’s assault for sexual harassment.

“He was making a move at me,” the woman complained to the librarian who approached her and asked if I or she were all right.

She had Australian accent, I looked towards her, surprised, while still rubbing the pain away.

The librarian took out the walkie-talkie from her back pocket and whispered: “Security, come in. Security, come in. We have a situation here. Over and out. ”

Two security men responded immediately and I knew it was my cue to get the hell out of there but I have yet to recover from my pain. The woman was still watching me, keeping a safe distance away with the librarian standing in front of her.

“This man over there tried to make a move on this young lady over here,” the librarian explained the situation.

“Yes, ma’am. We will take it from here,” said the first security guard. He and his partner walked towards me. They took my arm on either side and forced me on my feet. When I stood, grimacing in pain, they dragged me out to the exit and literally pushed me off the steps where I fell and hit my face on the pavement while my knees were cut and bruised by the steps at the library’s exit.

“Never come here again!” the two security guards chorused and left me lying face first on the pavement with curious onlookers looking at me, not knowing whether to help me out or not. Who on planet earth could actually be kicked out of a library? I’m a winner all right. I survived a ‘mortal combat’ with a muscular black belt student but was beaten black and blue by a gorgeous blonde who looked more like a dancer than a fighter. I should consider my options and return to the monastery for the rest of my miserable life.

Slowly, I picked myself up and walked home.


At home, I am Kumar Vijendren. I am 42 years old and I am a boring aging old man. My younger sister, who is 32 years old, is married to a rich man who owns the cooking oil industry because his product is a market leader. He never fails to remind us that in each and every of our meeting. I swear that I’m not surprised if I say it in my dreams every night and will even say it like a mantra when I am in a coma if I’m ever involved in a medical situation in future.

At home, what I do all the time is, I dream. Everything that I told you before I told you I am Kumar Vijendren is basically a lie. Everything about myself is a lie. (In fact, besides looking like an old man, I am grossly overweight.) I am a lie. Everything is a lie… Everything except that gorgeous blond girl. The thing about me asking her out at the library was true. I tried to ask her out, through a friend. Later I found out, he didn’t ask it on my behalf. He asked her out for himself. She agreed to go out with him on a condition - that he paid her school fees and he never saw her again ever since.

I am not surprised if she is a prostitute pretending to be a nice Australian woman who studies in a library and attends the University of Southern Princehood. Dudes like women like these. She is almost lady, a Greek goddess. Okay, I know she is a prostitute because I saw her. And I was surprised. It’s too bad. She is really beautiful.

Where I saw her?

I saw her standing along Princehood Town’s Red Light District area, wearing nothing but red lingerie (apparently, Devil Red is her favourite colour.)

Don’t even ask what I’m doing there. I’m not going to tell.

Okay, I actually went there to end my life because I couldn’t get the girl. I thought since I can’t live with girls, I could actually die with them.

That was when I saw her and when I did, I felt that my life is not as terrible as hers.

At least, that is not what I am.

A woman.