Editor’s note: Literature has long explored, if not outright exposed, despicable characters. Indeed, the darkness of the mind has been disturbingly and delightfully explored by the likes of William H. Gass and Richard Kalich, et al. The same is true of Nizar Ajanovic’s short story. Nowadays, illiterate readers (an unfortunately necessary oxymoron) fail to distinguish between authors and fictional characters, not to mention ideas espoused by the latter rather than the former. If you suffer from such an inability, then read the following story at your own risk.

I have never approached a woman in public.

The general concern, I suppose, lies in the fear that I might, through the mere act of speaking to, or even looking at, a woman, unwittingly channel my inner Harvey Weinstein. I blame scented candles. The phthalates lowered my T and shrunk my perineum. I’m a shriveled cukezoid beta, the product of millennial feminism, both concerned for, and the cause of, women’s fears of being in public. Every time I run into a beautiful woman, any woman, for that matter, my throat tightens, my hands sweat, visions of court proceedings flood my mind. Decades of media osmosis have conditioned me to believe I am a predator, even though I’ve never ran a mile, or lifted weights, at best, I’m a hapless herbivore, a grazing manatee pervert envying sharks from the safety of my porn-addled lagoon. I couldn’t rape a mollusk, even if I tried.

Recently, I’ve decided to do something about it. I started, like anyone in need of existential consultation, by scouring 4Chan threads. Some internet love gurus suggest maximizing your physical attraction in a practice called “looks maxing,” advocating the use of experimental steroids legal only in Thailand. This seemed like a good start, until I came across /u/ cabinboy1492, who reported that the illicit anabolics caused him an impregnable addiction to ladyboys. Others suggested optimizing your financial prowess by investing in emergent cryptocurrencies. Strangely, crypto seemed fraught with similar side effects: /u/ schizopaulallen commenting that crypto financially hobbled him, not from lost investments, but from spending his dividends on sissy catboy financial dominatrixes. I’ve tried falling asleep to 144.72 HZ Savage Male Charisma – The Meditation Awakens The Untamed Wild Masculinity | Testosterone & Potency – an 8-hour-long tantric sound frequency that promises to elevate your, well, what the title says. Unfortunately, it keeps me up all night. I fall into a paranoid stupor, overcome by the vague sense that lions are clawing their way through the walls. I read David Deida’s The Way of the Superior Man, a masterclass in semen retention. In it, Deida proposes that by inverting the orgasm and channeling the energy up your spinal column, into your brain stem, the highest chakra, you can reawaken the authentic masculine within. I must not be doing it right because every time I try, I end up stuck in spiraling memories of my mother and all the degrading indignities she has caused me, all the years spent pining for her approval, incapable of holding her attention, like a leper thirsting for water as it leaks through the sieve of his fingerless hands, and then I cum, all over myself. At night, the pangs of isolation creep in. Though I have attempted to live a sexless ascetic existence, to forget women, their touch, their smell, my libido, a flickering ember battling against the extinguishing forces of Christ and David Goggins, has been kept aflame by the siren song of BBW feeder videos. I am weak. At almost 40, most of my friends have succeeded in finding wives—wonderful, subservient, trad-wives who cook, clean, and satisfy their insatiable breeding fetishes, the ultimate bangmaids. Meanwhile, I lay in bed every night watching obese women mukbang, covered in my own filth, while I fantasize about catching a ride on a calzone, and going down, down their throat, through the byzantine conduits of their fatted guts, where it is warm and safe.  

I decided I was going to kill myself, but not before I tried, just once, to overcome my fear. I made my way to Cloister Casa, a coffee shop operated by a non-denominational mega-church in downtown Santa Ana, California. Young horny Christians frequent here for bible study after church. Their bibles have QR codes in them you can scan for scriptural video accompaniment. The flock is ethereally beautiful, as if ripped from an LL Bean catalogue, or an Aryan family propaganda poster. Their hair, the shade of volkish wheat, virile blue eyes set in marble cheeks, happy and content in a way I’ve never known. They sip cortados in thick-knitted beanies, even in the summertime. If I was going to find my trad-wife anywhere, it would be here.

My approach was simple, earnest—I would walk into the back patio and sit across from the first girl I noticed sitting alone. If she reciprocated eye contact, I wouldn’t choke, I would stand up and approach her, talk to her, and ask for her number. If I failed or chickened out, I would go home, rig the trigger of my pump-action Mossberg to the door handle, duct tape my head to the barrel, turn 144.72 HZ Savage Male Charisma – The Meditation Awakens The Untamed Wild Masculinity | Testosterone & Potency on full blast, and wait until my mom barges in to complain about the noise.

I positioned myself across from a charming young girl in a fetching hand-sewn prairie tunic and cowboy boots. I read my book, a history of bullfighting, a spirited defense of bullfighting against the limp-wrists in Spanish Parliament, glancing over to her on occasion, hoping, wishing that perhaps if I angled the cover of the book just right, she’d take note and that maybe if she took note of the book, she might be inclined to raise her gaze just a few degrees and take note of the reader – then, just as suddenly as I had, she looked right at me. It didn’t appear as if she’d even noticed the book or anything on the patio. This was a complete devastation of my plan. My opening line was going to be: “how do you feel about animal cruelty?” and then wink. Now, there was just me. I quickly pivoted to plan B: pretending like I was there to write. I retrieved my notebook and a…where was my pen…I don’t have a pen…all I have is a brand-new moleskin notebook. My face flushed. When I looked up, she was bending slightly over her table to gain a better vantage. I’m sure she saw that the pages were blank. Then, I spied hope: a pencil pouch beside her laptop. I stood, knowing the alternative if I didn’t.  Heart pounding, I scuffled towards her.

“May I,” the pitch of my voice oscillated between a pubescent castrato and a sharecropping blues singer with cancer of the larynx, “borrow a pencil?”

“Of course!” she responded with more enthusiasm than I expected.

As she fumbled through the pouch, I plotted to compliment her outfit, but asphyxiation besieged my airways.

“All I have is a pen, I hope that works.” 

Sweet air vented into my lungs.

I scrawled prodigiously through my notebook, page after page of manic self-affirmation: you’re a king, a conqueror, the paternal vizier, an Olympian among plebeians, aphorisms lifted from motivational YouTube videos. Most of them were generic speeches from Coach Carter and Gladiator layered over stock footage of CrossFit athletes being waterboarded with hot wax. As the algorithm got to know me, however, the videos became more tailored to my specific insufficiencies, admonishing me for “laziness,” “consumerism,” and my “addiction” to “BBW feeder-fetish porn.”

I wrote and wrote, looking up on occasion for a thumbs up, or shaka, to make sure I wasn’t overusing her pen. She always looked back with a smile and a nod, so I kept writing. After an hour, I capped the pen and walked it back to her table, holding it like scissors. My throat was clear, and I had a “thank you for letting me borrow your pen” loaded in the chamber, but before a word could eek from my mouth, she opened hers and discharged: “what are you writing?”

I look at the notebook in my hand.

“Nothing much, just an essay about the effect of technology on male psychology.”

“That’s interesting,” she said, more interested than I expected, “I study psychology too.” 

I sat down.

“Where do you study?”

“Paul Mitchell.”

“Is that a liberal arts school?”

“It’s a beauty school.”

“They have psychology classes in beauty school?”

“Well, not exactly. But you learn a lot about people cutting hair.”

I laugh.

“What’s funny about that?” she retorted, more angry than I expected, “it’s true.”

After a moment of reflection, I concur.

 “I guess you’re right.”

“People reveal their most intimate secrets to me when they’re in the chair. Who they love, who they hate. Don’t you open up to your barber?”

I go to Great Clips. My barber is a sixty-year-old cross-eyed Thai ladyboy named Daisy who doesn’t speak English. I have the sneaking suspicion she was trafficked here against her will.

“Yes, I do,” I lie.

“See? A beautician is more than a stylist, we’re also therapists.”

“What’s something intimate a client has confided in you?”

“That’s a good question. I had this client once, she was very tense, her hair looked like shit. She came into the beauty school for a cheap cut on her way to a job interview. Her bangs were tangled up in gunky clumps, so I took her over to the spa for a wash. At first, she was really defensive when I asked her when the last time she’d had a spay was, but as I ran the shower through her hair and massaged her scalp, she began to relax. She told me it had been years since she took a day to herself. Not like I needed to ask, her split ends said it all. When I asked her why it had been so long, she told me she had a son who was born with Down’s syndrome. Because of his condition, she couldn’t take him anywhere, or leave him at home with his sister.”

“Why not? They’re usually very pleasant.” 

“Well, the disability wasn’t the condition she was referring to.”

“What was it?”

“He loved humping things.”

“Oh.”

“With his pants down.”

Same, I thought, I want to hump her with my pants down. “Yeah, that’s a tough one,” I said.

“She’d find him playing with himself, sometimes with the sister in the room. She was afraid to leave him with her but couldn’t afford a babysitter. That day she came into the school, she walked in on him in the pantry, and he, you know…”

“He was eating goldfish?”

“Let’s just say I found out why her hair was gunked up.”

“That’s disgusting.”

“You can imagine how I felt, my hands were covered in it by the time she got to that part.”

“That poor guy too, he probably just needs to get some, it’d probably cure him…of the chronic masturbation,” I clarify, “not the Down’s syndrome. That’s for life.”

“What about you,” she asks, “what’s a crazy secret you’ve confided to your barber?”

I hesitate.

“Please.” Her eyebrows are penciled in, and her hair boyish. I can’t help but fall in. 

“You tell me a secret you’ve told your barber, and I’ll tell you one about me.”

I groan, pretending like I’m gatekeeping something fascinating, something self-complimentary and edgy—as if I’ve ever said a word to Daisy Hong.

“I know what’ll help,” she digs into her pencil pouch and retrieves two vials of nail polish, “pink or black.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’ll give you a manicure. It’ll put you in the mood.”

I think about retreating before I have to reveal that I have no personality or, worse yet, that I get my hair cut at Great Clips. Before I can, she grabs my hand and places it in front of her.

“You’re getting pink.” She shakes the vial and uncorks it. The lacquer is assaulting.

“My hands are clammy,” I protest.

“That’s okay, mine are warm.”  

They were warm, warm and enticing, like herself. I scanned my mind for something interesting, struggling between a boisterous lie and an embarrassing truth. Then, I remembered the words of David Daida: authenticity. Perhaps I could channel it without directing my orgasm inward.

“Well, I’m embarrassed to admit this,” I genuinely was, “but I’ve never approached a girl in public before,” I pause, waiting for her to release my fingers, and walk away, but she goes on painting, “I’ve been nervous about it my whole life. I think it stems from when I was a kid. I had a crush on this girl in daycare, Cassandra.”

The pain of anxiety was melting into excitement as she held me. I had never shared this story with anyone, it was my first heartbreak, my only heartbreak, the most painful rejection of my life, and yet, I felt safe, like I was riding a calzone.

“I remember we were going to the pool, and the teacher asked us to pick who we wanted to buddy up with to rub sunscreen on each other. One by one, the teacher went down the line of kids. One by one, the boys picked the boys, and the girls picked the girls. But when it came to my turn, I said, ‘I want Cassandra.’”

“Aww,” she pauses to look up from my hand with unforgettable eyes, “that is so cute.”

“She started crying and the boys laughed at me. We couldn’t have been older than four years old, but for some reason I have this memory of them all chanting  ‘Gay! Gay! Gay!’ Anyway, I haven’t approached a woman since. I’m almost forty now and decided it was time to give it one last chance. I guess it worked.”

“What if I just started crying?”

“As long as you don’t chant ‘Gay! Gay! Gay!’ I’ll count it as a W.”

She smiles.

“It’s your turn,” I say.

She takes a break from my pinky and leans back. I recognize the aversion.

“Come on,” I grab her hand gently, “I’ll give you a manicure.”         

“I don’t know if I want to tell you now.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t want you to think I’m weird.”

“Have you never approached a girl either?”

“Remember that mom I was telling you about?”

“Yes?”

“Well, there’s more to that story.”

“Tell me,” I pick the brush wand from her and cradle her palm as she had done mine. My hands shake but I blow gently on her fingers to dry the coats of color. Up close, her nails appear more cracked and yellowed than I’d expect from a beautician.

“Well, Down’s syndrome. It can be a curse, but it can also be a blessing,” she began, “after she told me that story, I felt so bad for her, that I wanted to help. So, I started babysitting for her.”

Suddenly, I realized that her hair was cut haphazardly short, as if something had been cut out of it.

“I offered to do it for free, until she got her new job started.”

“How do you deal with his thing, you know, the condition.”

“You know how you said that thing about the cure?”

I pause mid-blow.

“You were right.” Shock invades my face. She takes her hand back. “I knew I shouldn’t have told you.”

“You’re telling me you fucked a retarded guy?” I say accusingly, trying to disguise my jealousy.

“Look, she was a really sweet woman, and he’s a really sweet boy, when he’s calm. I could see why she never had time to go out; he’s uncontrollable when he gets like that. Besides, what’s the harm? He wanted it.”

“Did you?” I choke out.

“At first I didn’t, but when he pulled his pants down, oof. The kid’s swinging a riot stick at a climate rally, I’m surprised he didn’t trip on it running over to me. Imagine the Eiffel Tower if it was made out of horse cocks. It was sweet, at the end he even remembered to ask, ‘Ca’ ah cum enew?’” she says, affecting a raspy Down’s syndrome voice, “I knew there was no risk of pregnancy, so I let him.”

The blood rushing to my ears deafens the world, but I can still make out the words, “Honestly, if you could put the brains that went to his cock back into his head, he’d be Stephen Hawking,” as the sunlight bleeding through the trees bleaches my eyes. 

Nizar Ajanovic was born in Sarajevo, Bosnia and Herzegovina in 1994 and immigrated to the United States with his mother and father as a war refugee in 1997. He lives and writes in Patagonia, Arizona, a small mining community on the southern border. He is the managing editor of the Arvida Review, a literary magazine based in Tustin, California. Nizar graduated from Pacific University with a BA in anthropology and from Chapman University with an MFA in screenwriting. He completed Richard Bausch’s Community Writer’s Workshop in 2022. In his spare time, Nizar is a volunteer firefighter and photographer.