This Love Must Go On

Leon

Leon

Years ago, I happened to overhear a heated tussle between two sensible-looking, ripped office-goers, standing toe to toe at the bus stop. Only after I'd picked up on a few lines, I speculated them as football fanatics belting out the best features of Real Madrid and Barcelona with furling fists.

That was all fine until they started punching each other to a pulp and inviting a web of people to save their lives, including me.

Later, I was told by someone, the matter turned out to be about whose girlfriend got that powerful Kylie pout, Mariah Carey's toned legs, and the roundest and hottest Jlo butt. Ever since that incident and many more, I distanced myself from the women's world.

And now, remembering that incident I still laughed like it never lost its freshness. Women, all sounded the same, smelled the same and looked the same, aborning from the womb of beauty surgical congress and embedding too-many-modern-values.

Well, their anatomy shouldn't be counted in the list of ninety-nine reasons I had up against women.

Their whole existence made the studio a stifling place. I wasn't enjoying a single bit of what was the complete and free crash course of what women want shooting from their vegan, just-blotted lipstick mouths. From comparisons, vaginal discharge, and how-to-guides, to digital detox, bathroom selfies, and oh, you look so lovely today. Women and their irrelevant talks at length started to give me freaking doses of nausea.

It became painfully hard for me to remain seated and anywhere I turned my head, I saw women and women droning on about other women.

What hurt my pride was that I was helplessly hitting their 'bliss point', sitting in a glamorous rolled-up plaid flannel and triggering their visual hunger, as if I was the desirable food item that had just debuted in a market and had every woman smack their lips, secrete extra saliva and wonder if I would taste any better than their regular meals.

Every woman who passed by gave me the wrong signals.

In contrast to the din and dazzle of the women's world, these twenty-seven years served me a hot, factual life lesson:

First, men are always attracted to the insidious pull of shiny things.

But anyway, thanks to my better health habits, and sheer negligence over the matter of hunting-love-again, I'd found a stable career in writing. As a result, my focus was clearer than it had ever been in yesteryears.

So, my eyes were lingering on someone who could be the last of the breed. I persistently peeked over a person whose wide back hunched over the camera setup like a giant igloo. A bulkier wallet skews the centerline of the navy blue pants. Widespread feet in dirt-consumed-white tennis shoes. The possibility of being a male rises significantly high when I find him getting a slow blow on the head from a flirty woman.

Well. He was a male for sure. Yes. I was proudly biased to be friends with such male patsies instead of zigzaggy females. Reason? Ever since ladies had shown me their dark sides beneath all smiles and kinky winks, I hopped onto another compartment of the train to start a new social life (knowing how monochromatic my social life is).

I focused my attention on that person again, until I saw a stitch of saucy red lipstick and a blonde curl crossing the eyelid. I beckoned my palm to my forehead: it is a hunky woman. Hence, my sworn enemy.

I didn't bother to say shit and slumped on the seat as though I never wanted to get off in the first place.

The next moment when I whiffed a bottle of Axe body deo, I hoped that finally, a male had entered the studio to shed the apparent paucity of us (men.) But I was wrong again. Rather a brunette wearing probably her boyfriend's shirt came to a full disclosure.