I don’t know how to be woman. I don’t know how to be soft and feminine. I don’t know how to smile or giggle. I don’t know how to walk in high heels. I feel like a human stick, with no trance of feminity. I don’t feel human. I want to feel womanly so I can feel alive again. I’m tired of feeling like a robot. I need a woman, someone to be my best friend, mentor, advisor, girlfriend. I need a woman to show me how to be womanly so that I can feel like a human being. I feel frantically lonely to the point where I will lose my mind if I don’t get help. I am tired of talking to men all the damn time. I feel suffocated by testosterone. I am tired of men. I think I hate men.
PLATONIC FRIENDSHIP ONLY. I am not interested in gay women. STRAIGHT WOMEN ONLY.
If interested, please contact me: 555-xxx-xxxx
She came over to my place, opened my fridge, took out my fajita leftovers from last night’s dinner, warmed them, and ate them.
She took out potato chips and chocolate cookies from the cupboard and gobbled them down.
She took out vodka from the freezer, poured herself a tall drink and gulped it down.
She threw herself across the couch in my room, turned on the TV, and watched game shows.
I sat down next to her and she ignored me. I watched her while she watched TV.
She guffawed and screamed with laughter while we watched reruns of Jerry Springer.
I didn’t want her to sit in my apartment and watched TV all day.
I needed a woman to show me how to be woman.
I tried to get her attention.
She told me to shut the fuck up when I asked her how I can learn to walk gracefully in high heels.
“Nobody gives a shit if you can’t walk in high heels,” she screamed at me. “Why the fuck do you care so much?”
“I want to feel graceful,” I explained. “When I put on high heels, I feel like I’m on the red carpet. I want to walk in high heels and pretend I’m a movie star, a very powerful actress who commands high-paying roles in Hollywood.”
“You wanna be a movie star?”
“No, I’m not an actress. I just want to pretend I’m one, to feel beautiful, powerful, womanly.”
“I have a dream,” she announced. She dropped the remote control and stood up from the couch.
“What?” I asked, a little afraid of what she would do.
“My biggest fantasy is to move to Latin America and be a famous Bollywood pop star in Spanish speaking countries. I want to make all these Latinos fall in love with me and buy my Hindi records and try to dress up as me at my concerts and pretend to be Indian. I will be the greatest Bollywood star in Latin America.”
I looked down at my high heels. My red-painted toes were wedged in and they hurted. But they looked beautiful. Everytime I got up from the couch and I tried walking across my living room, my feet kept sliding down in heels.
“How do I become more womanly?” I asked her.
She narrowed her eyes.
“Get a lobotomy,” she whispered.
“Find someone to shove an axe pick in your brain and suck out all your emotions. Then you will have no emotions and you will be quiet. You will make the ideal woman.”
“What do you mean?” I asked her, befuddled, bewildered.
“Men,” she explained. “Some guys want a bimbo, a woman who never expresses herself, who never gets mad, she always does what he tells her to do, she has no soul, no heart, no mind of her own. Some people think that what makes a ‘real woman.’ Tell me, honey, what the fuck does a ‘real woman’ mean to you?”
“I don’t know. I just want to wear dresses. I want to know how to walk in high heels. I want to feel beautiful. I want men to desire me. I want men to go after me. I want a woman to give me advice on how to be a good lover to a man, how to be a good girlfriend, and um, maybe give me some sex advice for doing stuff in the bedroom with a man.”
“Just be a human being,” she shouted. “Women are humans! Half of humankind in the world is made up of women. Stop acting like you’re a fucking alien!”
She then lifted one butt cheek and ripped out a huge stinky fart. I gagged.
“But, I don’t want to be human,” I told her. “I want to be woman.”
“You are already a woman,” she said. “What the fuck are you? An alien-cow hybrid with third gender sex organs or something?”
“No. But, I don’t feel it. I feel like a robot.”
“The problem is YOU , not your sex organs,” she said. “Maybe you should try praying to a god or something.”
“Pray to a god? Why? What for?”
“You say you feel like a robot, so maybe your soul is dead and maybe you need some kind of a rebirth, an awakening. Why don’t you get a vacation and go somewhere down south and warm? Then you’ll feel better.”
That was all she had to say? I sat down on the couch. I cried and burst into tears. I held my face and sobbed, my hands soaked with my salty tears.
“What are you crying for, you fuckin chutiya?” she snapped.
“I wish I’m dead,” I said.
“Because I just... I feel there’s no point to life anymore.”
“Ok, then go to the kitchen and get a butcher knife. I want you to stab me over and over.”
“What?” I said, shocked. “But that’s murder.”
“Yes,” she said. She reached for the bag of chips on the coffee table and grabbed some, throwing chips in her mouth and chewing lazily. “There’s no point to life. So go take a knife and stab me and kill me. Come on.”
“No,” I said, shaking my head furiously. “You are nuts.”
She smiled and laughed. She turned to watch the TV set and remained silent. I waited and waited, expecting her to say something, but she stayed silent for a few minutes. Then she turned back to me and stamped down her feet.
“YOU ARE THE FUCKING NUTCASE!” she roared, stabbing her fingers at my chest. “You are fucking CRAZY!!! You put a personal online seeking a woman to teach you how to be woman even though you are already a woman, and I’m the one who’s nuts here? No! No! I’m not nuts! You are, you stupid whore!”
I dropped my face and I sobbed again. She was right. I was the nutcase. I was the stupid person. I was a woman, but I didn’t feel or act like woman. I threw myself across the floor and wailed like a four years old child.
She came down and grabbed me and then smacked my ass a few times so hard, like I was a naughty child being being disciplined by a teacher.
“You stupid child!” she barked. “Be quiet! Stop crying or I will fuckin beat the shit out of you!”
“Please do,” I gasped and groaned, tears streaming down my face. “Beat me so hard and make me feel alive. Please smash my face in the window.”
“I want you to study Spanish,” she suddenly said, “I need someone to be my manager in Latin America, someone to help me become famous. Como esta usted?”
“No,” I mumbled, staggering toward the window, feeling the bloody welts on my butt. “No Spanish. None of that crap. I don’t care about making you famous. Please. Just kill me already.”
She agreed to beat the living hell out of me because she was furious with me for refusing to study Spanish and that I wouldn’t be her manager in Latin America. She beat me hard and hard, until my legs became weak and my skin felt as if it was on fire, being eaten and ripped apart by red ants. I couldn’t move an inch or crawl across the floor.
Good. Let me die.
She got up from the couch and walked toward her suitcase, which she left by the front door. She opened her trunk suitcase and took out a man’s suit, bowler hat, and walking cane. She took out a metallic make-up kit and when she opened it, there were packages of facial hair wrapped in cellophane. She came over to me and carefully glued moustache to my face. As I was too badly damaged to move or walk, she had to hold me up to dress me and put me in a man’s suit with bowler hat and walking cane.
I tried to stop her from dressing me as a man, and I protested.
“I told you, I want to be woman and I want to feel womanly. Why are you dresing me up as a man?”
“In order to be woman, you have to act and feel and think like a man so you can get in touch with your feminity, you silly cow,” she barked at me.
It made so much sense to me. “Alright,” I said, accepting my new fate as a reassigned man in a man’s suit with bowler hat and walking cane. We were both hungry so she ordered Jamaican food. We ate jerk chicken with rice while we watched the rest of Jerry Springer marathon on TV.
“How was dinner, my dear husband?” she asked me as she took away my empty plate after we finished eating.
“Don’t you think I’m a great cook?” she said.
“But you ordered it from the restaurant down the street,” I told her, “you didn’t cook it.”
She threw my plate across the room and it broke against the wall.
“Shut the fuck up!” she screamed, “I spent all day cooking dinner for you and this is how you treat me!”
She then smacked my face, and then the other side of my face.
“I’m sorry,” I said in a soothing voice, trying to console my wife, “sometimes I forget how amazing and great you are. Dinner was delicious. Thank you for cooking. You are a good wife to me. I’m ungrateful sometimes that I think I don’t deserve you.”
She stood up from the couch and walked over to her suitcase. She unzipped it open and took out a baby doll wrapped in a blanket. Very carefully, she handed the baby doll to me. I took it and held it up high, staring at the baby’s glassy eyes.
“This is our new baby,” she said, smiling, “the start of our new lives together.”
“What’s her name?” I asked, as I cradled the new baby in my arms.
Her face twisted into a gnarly expression, turning ugly. “It was your duty to pick a name for her,” she snarled. “I gave you nine months to think of names while I was pregnant with the baby, and you couldn’t even come up with a name?”
I thought quickly. “Mary Celeste,” I replied. “That’s her name now.”
“It’s beautiful,” she beamed.
The Mary Celeste was the name of a ship that went missing in the 1870s, with tons of missing sailors that went unaccounted for. People often claimed the ghostly ship could be seen sailing late at night in the deep of the Atlantic Ocean, even to this day. As a kid, I used to read about the Mary Celeste all the time.
My wife and I, we raised Mary Celeste in the living room of my apartment. We watched her grow into a mature, beautiful, intelligent, young girl. And then she started blossoming into a woman. At midnight, my wife replaced the fake baby doll with a bigger doll with longer limbs. Mary Celeste was now five. At half past one in the morning, Mary Celeste was already twelve, replaced by an American Girl doll with shiny fake hair. She was going through her teenaged years now.
It was almost 3AM. I became sleepy and I wanted to go sleep. I slumped down and started to rest my eyes. My wife got mad at me and screamed at me that I was a horrible father for not paying much attention to Mary Celeste. She announced she was gonna leave me and take Mary Celeste with her. Mary Celeste was now fourteen, replaced with a Bratz doll in a low cut shirt with low rider jeans. She was beautiful and intelligent. She was my teenaged daughter, and I was her father. I didn’t want to lose my wife or my daughter, but my wife wanted to walk out on me and force Mary Celeste to go with her.
“No, don’t go,” I wailed. “I love you. My life means nothing without you both.” I held my arms out to my wife and my daughter, but they had already stormed out of the apartment. The woman grabbed Mary Celeste (the Bratz doll) and stuffed the doll into her bag. They stormed out of the apartment, they galloped down the stairs, they opened the front door, and then they disappeared into thin air.
“Mary Celeste!” I screamed. “Come back here. I am your father!”
It was as if Mary Celeste never existed.
Once again, I was alone.
I tried to be a good man, but I didn’t know how to be man. I tried to rise up to the challenge of being a man, but I couldn't fulfill my duties as a responsible husband and father. Why?
Because I didn’t know how to be a proper human being.