The Man in Me by David Villarreal

His fingers gently pressed the keys of the obscure piano.

“Oh, the man in me.” – The handsome, young man sang.

He was vocalizing his emotions. He was expressing all the sadness he had inside. In a gloomy, careful piece, he spoke of his agony. And although no ears heard such desperate cry of pain, no eyes witnessed the way he delicately played the song of his life, he still performed at the deserted theater. He poured his heart into music for no one else but himself. The spotlight lit up the piano, and his top hat, and his suit, and his favorite pink bowtie, but not his eyes. He was hiding them behind the shadows of his misery.

“Oh, no. Oh, no.” – He suffered to utter his words.

He began to hit the keys roughly. The song had a violent turn along with the man’s body. He was under uncontrollable motion as his lonesome performance continued. All of a sudden, he stopped hitting the keys and distanced his hands from the piano, but the keys kept on moving by themselves, following the melody he played. He stood up and sang on. He stepped away from the piano and to the center of the stage, carrying the spotlight with him. He stared into the dark, at the empty seats of the theater, screaming at the top of his lungs “What do you want from me? What do you fucking want from me?” He pushed his shoulders and his upper body back and covered his face. A tear had fallen onto the stage.

The same hands that gracefully created the melody being played grabbed his top hat and threw it as far into the absent audience as they could. In that moment, the light hit the man’s bright brown eyes. He had a distinct world inside his eyes. His pupils contracted, revealing all the true colors of his essence. These colors were full of desires and wonders that were too far from him to reach; desires of things he had no hands to mold. The man turned his back to the audience and slipped his black blazer off erotically. He unbuttoned his trousers and let them fall slowly to the floor. The curves that were now showing on his body were beautifully unusual. They had femininity sculpted all over them. He was gorgeous. He was perfect.

His fingers reached for the buttons on his shirt. He turned back to front the rows of abandoned seats and stripped off his white shirt. And as soon as it was off, his pink bowtie came off without an effort made. This man had breasts. He had the body of a woman. It was extraordinary how such a baffling creature could be so alluring. His eyes were filled with tears, and his tears were now streaming down the man’s body, wetting his bruised and damaged skin. He stood still, waiting, letting the music condense into the air.

When the music finally ended, the one-man show performer took the bowtie and sat on the floor. He grasped it tightly, hugged his legs, and covered his abominable breasts. His eyes and body dried the tears, but they left stains. The stains remained. And without having any other way to conceal his eyes, he covered his whole face behind his legs.

“Oh, the man in me… Oh, no, the man in me…” – He uttered tragically one last time.

The Man in Me by David Villarreal

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