Sad Love Song

Bolo was a wispy man. He came in an odd shape. He had a phallic head which was supported over his scrawny, lanky frame with a thin neck. Not exactly a human being that eased one's eyes. If anything, based on the fallability of instant bias that comes with a being human, he was repulsive, repellent. He had little, if at all anything physical, that atoned for the cruel physicality bestowed upon him. He was the Hunchback of Notre Dame, The Beast, a man who could lose a beauty contest to a warthog and still go home feeling like a champion for at least making it far enough to be in the final two. He had reddish, watery and distended eyes, a disproportionate nose that seemed to gulp down oxygen through the outrageously oversized nostrils and a pair of thin, dry lips that folded into a crooked smile that went a long way in bringing to prominence the ugly wrinkles on his cheeks and the hideous forehead folds that his straight face hid. While others held their smiles as a redeeming asset, Bolo's smile would be what made him the undisputed repugnant entity. It did more damage and offered no discounts. Which was why he barely smiled, barely even creased the side of his cheek by a millimeter. The last time he had smiled was something of half a decade ago, in the midst of strangers. A joke had been cracked. It had been a raw one, a ribcracker of rare authenticity and punch which had been delivered with a deadpan humourist that had become his good friend since that day. Just like everyone around, he could not control himself. Yet by the time the laughter was smouldering , it was he that provided the humour, he had become the joke. His aversion to smiling had thus been born. For years now, he had cultivated in him a brood and now, five years on, he owned his melancholy and wore his solemn, grave and humourless face with pride. But forget about smiling. At least he had had a chance to smile until five or so years ago. He had never had sex. Never. And he was clocking twenty five. Not that he seemed to care much anyway. Sure he longed for a girlfriend, but he had long been let know of his shortcomings and had come to see it as the definition of whom he was. So he never bothered to hit on any woman, even those he felt he would die for. Why would they want to look at him while they could find pleasure staring at the waters leaking from a broken sewer? So porn and masturbation became his distressful comfort. His struggles yet his fulfilment. His pleasure yet his guilt. Something that did not fill him with pride yet something he did with zeal akin to passion. His fantasy was to get a decent woman. His reality was masturbating to phone sex with an Asian prostitute with curves to die for. How inverted life was. Definitely not fair but not wholly unfair either. At least he once got to screw a voluptuous bbw in a dark alley at K- street. Yet still, this other thing is what actually kept him going. It was his passion, his definition. This one thing he did that could make all people respect him, make any woman fall for him, earn him enough money to live a comfortable life. Thinking of it in that sense flattered him and gave him the fuel to keep working on it. If only they stopped and paid attention when he rose and spoke. At least just slice him an ounce of their time and he would blow their minds away. He reached for the guitar and held it in hand. He placed the notes before him and studied them keenly. Then he strummed the first notes of this sad, love song he was composing.