disclaimer *** ( i orginally wrote this as making fun of domestice abuse, but now that i've seen the Rihanna pics that remind me of Emmit Till, I am just saddened. I still think it's a great post, but trust me, I am very senssitive to the situation. I apologize in advance if i pissed anyone off. )
The house was filled with sexy friends sipping cocktails and telling stories of past lovers, tension rising erect, music bumping, he looked at her, she crooning her song like a cat in heat on a hot August Louisiana tin roof, he felt her eyes wanting his attention. He looked around the crowd, it was his house, so he firmly whispered for everybody to leave him with his cat in heat, alone, so he could teach the pussy a lesson.
He called her to him, she purred that she just wanted to help him. The desperation in her words caused a stir in his lower belly, he felt his dick rise in his tight pants. Swiftly, he grabbed her close to his pulsating rage. She coyly resisted, thinking that he was just playing, purred some more, tried to push past him gently but he grabbed her wrist and bought it to that storming brewing in his lower belly. He looked in her eyes, hoping to calm the storm, make her trust him. He repeated the word “help” back to her, looked for a response to her eyes before he grabbed for her small waistline.
He pulled her closer, she fought in his arms for a second like an annoyed house cat, maybe she was just a tease, what did she really mean by help, what did he really mean by help, she tried to push forward, he struggled for her lips, found them, pressed firmly with his lips, kissed hard contradicting the trust he demanded.
He grabbed her by the neck, reached between her legs, tore her panties from her moist dripping wet center, held her closer, unzipped his pants never letting go her neck, released his fully erect angry dick, needed to teach the pussy a lesson. Like a burglar he pried open her legs, slammed down on her like a brick thrown threw a window. She screamed, tears flowed down her face as he fucked her to point of unconsciousness, slamming, raping, teaching. “Help, Ike don’t need your help!”
In the movie “What love got to do with it” that was one hot scene. I guess rape is not supposed to be sexy, but it’s an act of sex. They were married. So married women get to say no to their husbands? My grandmother claims that how she got her first three kids. I guess love is not supposed to be violence, but it’s often an act of violence. I purposely wrote the opening of the piece like a romance novel because without knowing all the details, a particular scene, a glimpse, no one would know the truth about domestic abuse.
Some say it’s a crime behind closed bedroom doors but I beg to differ. I say it’s a crime that happens in plain daylight but no really cares. People usually don’t have respect for a woman who stays in a relationship with an abusive man.
I had this neighbor back in Chicago, really pretty girl. She lived with her boyfriend and child in the apartment above me. The first time I heard her screaming I went running up stairs, banged on her door, she opened it and told me to leave her the fuck alone. I replied, at least you can get your ass beat quietly, I got to go to work in the morning. The second time I heard her screaming, I called the cops. The boyfriend came banging on my door, I opened it, he asked if it was me messing with his life, I told him she was screaming loud enough I’m sure the police heard her the streets. I slammed the door in his face. And then it kept happening. It was driving me crazy. I called women shelters. I left pamphlets on her door step, some for her, some for him, they both needed to get help. I would find the pamphlets back at my door. I would see them in the hallway, and I didn’t understand it. She clung to him like she was so damn happy, but the next day, I found her in the stairwells bleeding. He had pushed her head into the wall, knocked a big dent. The landlord came knocking on my door a week later and wanted me to explained the dried blood in the hallway and the hole in the wall. The couple upstairs were white, so of course I being the only black in the building I had to had gotten into some gang/drug fight or something. I told him to go fuck off and he should speak to the couple upstairs. He looked like he was surprised. He must’ve forgotten that night I called him, held the phone to their door and made he witnessed what I had been enduring for months. I eventually moved. I don’t know what happened to that girl. Maybe he finally killed her. I used to think she deserved it.
They is something about women that allow themselves to get beat makes the rest of the world wants to kill them. Yes, in the beginning there is sympathy. Yes, in the beginning a friend might confront the situation, but if she stays, every back away. They shut their eyes and ears. They get use to it. Domestic abuser/abusee are not the only ones in the relationship. They abused never report it. They never cooperate with the police. They make everyone around them feel helpless event their children. I would ask myself, why should I feel sorry for her. She stayed. I tried to help. She refused. She stayed.
Domestic abuse is like watching someone assisted suicide. I’ve known it since I was born. My father didn’t beat my mother, thank god. It’s one good thing he didn’t do. I saw my uncle beat down his wife one Christmas. He dragged her through the house, tore her blouse off, and I still remember her twisted looking nipples. It was strange. My grandmother stopped the fight by holding a gun to her own son head and made him leave. The wife went back to him two days later.
Domestic abuse is like watching someone murder another human-being slowly. It’s so gradual you stop paying attention until there’s death. If leaves those around who witness to feel helpless. I say it’s no different than drug abuse, alcohol abuse or watching someone eat themselves to death. What I know for sure, in order for domestic abuse to be successful, it has to be the perfect chemistry and partnership. It is a partnership, strange relationship that works for the two in question. It has to be deep wounds of fear, low self esteem, deep rooted anger and stupidity. That she can love him enough, make him trust her enough so that one day his fists would turn into warm kisses on sunset beaches. It’s about power like rape. The abuser gets drunk off the blood. The more he or she can get away with, the more blood they want. The first hit is the warning. For some it should be like an atom bomb went off. There is not going back after the first hit. It’s over. At least that’s what we are told to think.
Growing up when I got my ass beat I was always told it was for my own good. Growing up I was always told it hurt the person beating me than it hurt me. I would’ve argued the contrary if there wasn’t the fear of being beaten worse. Domestic abuse is not just between a husband and wife, boyfriend and girlfriend, but often between parents and their children, grandparents and their children, grown people beating up on children, and then it lingers for life. Growing up, parents could just beat on their children in the middle of grocery store and others were just supposed to look the other way. It was their child. It was how it was always done. People would say, my Mama beat me when I was kid and I turned out okay. Yea, you went on to beat up others in classrooms, maybe your wife, but you turn out okay.
If he hits me, would I leave is what every female probably has to ask themselves. How would one know to leave an abusive relationship if abuse has been a silent misconception of that person entire life? I still speak to my Mama, I never stop kissing Grandma. Yes, I still want to kill my Uncle Fred but that’s a different story.
I never liked getting beat when I was a child. I thought it was a crime. I knew sometimes it was abuse. Yet, because I did get beat as a child, I thought putting my hands on others in order to teach a lesson was okay. I fought in school. My first relationship was very violent. We were both really young, head strong and hadn’t learned to communicate our hurt feelings instead we grabbed, pushed, sometimes got into fist fights. We were both gay, so most didn’t really see it as a problem. Later in life he would tell me that I was abusive. I disagreed. He said I was verbal abusive. I agreed, he was an idiot. I told him he started it. He always started it from what I can remember. But in the end, I wished we would’ve never started off so rocky. It’s hard to come back to peace when the relationships because a competition of who can hurt the most. In the beginning I used to take his snide comments, his rough grabs as him being passionate. And then it started to annoy me, so I grabbed back rougher and made more hurtful comments. Yet, we thought we loved each other. I don’t know what young love is. It’s trying to find yourself pushing against another person who is trying to find themselves. We made a lot of mistakes. We both had big egos.
If he hits me, would I leave? Yes, the correct answer would be, Hell Yea. I hear Tamika screaming if he put his hands on me, it’s over. But is it really? I mean, what is hit? What about some soft joking? What about a firm grabbing of the wrist when he refuses to be rejected? What about that scene in the movie where he rips the girl shirt opened? What about jackhammer fucking, pounding the coochie like an enraged horny rabbit. When is violence actually violence, when it’s done with a smile and soft words or when it’s the argument after you found out the bitch gave you Herpes.
"Words cannot begin to express how sorry and saddened I am over what transpired.”
I think Tatem Onell used those same words when she got busted for trying to buy cocaine. Michael Steele said that when the bong picture came out. I said those words when my lover came home three hours early to my afternoon sex party. I promised to seek counseling if he didn’t put me out on the streets. Apologies just buy time to the next fuck up.
As far as my past lover, I’m not sorry what transpired. I’m sorry that I stayed in the relationship for so damn long thinking we could work it out. I’m sorry I stayed the first time he insulted me on purpose and then tried to laugh it off. I’m sorry that I stayed when he grabbed me forcefully and I pushed his head into the car window. I’m sorry it came to blows. I’m sorry for wanting to push him down the stairs after the night we came back from the club and he gave that bitch a ride and I told him not too. Looking back, at that screaming, pushing, hitting wasn’t passion. It was two young idiots in love with big egos and didn’t know how to get alone.
But the difference between me and Ike, I never got pleasure from abusing or being abused. I never understood why anyone would stay in a relationship when they can’t stand the person. Whoopings as a child was about discipline in the hopes to raise self functioning adult. Sometimes in the black community it goes too far. I don’t understand why a grown person needs to discipline another grown person. It never works. I’ve tried it. When you eighteen nobody can change you. Not the church. Not even slapping a bitch up.
Yet by no means is this a defense by the current guy accused of being a little too rough with his girlfriend. The only difference is that you don’t choke a person on the plain street to the point of unconsciousness and then flee the scene. That’s just tacky. If you’re going to slap a bitch up, get them home, turn up the music really loud and give them a good whooping with a belt. He or she may like it.
I guess looking back at young love, I don’t think we tell our youth the truth how some of us started off all wrong. There are things you want to do, but you don’t do it. It’s always cute to date a bad boy until he starts acting bad for real. It’s always cool to date a sexy cool until she is too sexy. I say learn to masturbate until you are about thirty years old and save yourself some jail time.
Lazy cheap fat drunken BASTARD
He called her to him, she purred that she just wanted to help him. The desperation in her words caused a stir in his lower belly, he felt his dick rise in his tight pants. Swiftly, he grabbed her close to his pulsating rage. She coyly resisted, thinking that he was just playing, purred some more, tried to push past him gently but he grabbed her wrist and bought it to that storming brewing in his lower belly. He looked in her eyes, hoping to calm the storm, make her trust him. He repeated the word “help” back to her, looked for a response to her eyes before he grabbed for her small waistline.
He pulled her closer, she fought in his arms for a second like an annoyed house cat, maybe she was just a tease, what did she really mean by help, what did he really mean by help, she tried to push forward, he struggled for her lips, found them, pressed firmly with his lips, kissed hard contradicting the trust he demanded.
He grabbed her by the neck, reached between her legs, tore her panties from her moist dripping wet center, held her closer, unzipped his pants never letting go her neck, released his fully erect angry dick, needed to teach the pussy a lesson. Like a burglar he pried open her legs, slammed down on her like a brick thrown threw a window. She screamed, tears flowed down her face as he fucked her to point of unconsciousness, slamming, raping, teaching. “Help, Ike don’t need your help!”
In the movie “What love got to do with it” that was one hot scene. I guess rape is not supposed to be sexy, but it’s an act of sex. They were married. So married women get to say no to their husbands? My grandmother claims that how she got her first three kids. I guess love is not supposed to be violence, but it’s often an act of violence. I purposely wrote the opening of the piece like a romance novel because without knowing all the details, a particular scene, a glimpse, no one would know the truth about domestic abuse.
Some say it’s a crime behind closed bedroom doors but I beg to differ. I say it’s a crime that happens in plain daylight but no really cares. People usually don’t have respect for a woman who stays in a relationship with an abusive man.
I had this neighbor back in Chicago, really pretty girl. She lived with her boyfriend and child in the apartment above me. The first time I heard her screaming I went running up stairs, banged on her door, she opened it and told me to leave her the fuck alone. I replied, at least you can get your ass beat quietly, I got to go to work in the morning. The second time I heard her screaming, I called the cops. The boyfriend came banging on my door, I opened it, he asked if it was me messing with his life, I told him she was screaming loud enough I’m sure the police heard her the streets. I slammed the door in his face. And then it kept happening. It was driving me crazy. I called women shelters. I left pamphlets on her door step, some for her, some for him, they both needed to get help. I would find the pamphlets back at my door. I would see them in the hallway, and I didn’t understand it. She clung to him like she was so damn happy, but the next day, I found her in the stairwells bleeding. He had pushed her head into the wall, knocked a big dent. The landlord came knocking on my door a week later and wanted me to explained the dried blood in the hallway and the hole in the wall. The couple upstairs were white, so of course I being the only black in the building I had to had gotten into some gang/drug fight or something. I told him to go fuck off and he should speak to the couple upstairs. He looked like he was surprised. He must’ve forgotten that night I called him, held the phone to their door and made he witnessed what I had been enduring for months. I eventually moved. I don’t know what happened to that girl. Maybe he finally killed her. I used to think she deserved it.
They is something about women that allow themselves to get beat makes the rest of the world wants to kill them. Yes, in the beginning there is sympathy. Yes, in the beginning a friend might confront the situation, but if she stays, every back away. They shut their eyes and ears. They get use to it. Domestic abuser/abusee are not the only ones in the relationship. They abused never report it. They never cooperate with the police. They make everyone around them feel helpless event their children. I would ask myself, why should I feel sorry for her. She stayed. I tried to help. She refused. She stayed.
Domestic abuse is like watching someone assisted suicide. I’ve known it since I was born. My father didn’t beat my mother, thank god. It’s one good thing he didn’t do. I saw my uncle beat down his wife one Christmas. He dragged her through the house, tore her blouse off, and I still remember her twisted looking nipples. It was strange. My grandmother stopped the fight by holding a gun to her own son head and made him leave. The wife went back to him two days later.
Domestic abuse is like watching someone murder another human-being slowly. It’s so gradual you stop paying attention until there’s death. If leaves those around who witness to feel helpless. I say it’s no different than drug abuse, alcohol abuse or watching someone eat themselves to death. What I know for sure, in order for domestic abuse to be successful, it has to be the perfect chemistry and partnership. It is a partnership, strange relationship that works for the two in question. It has to be deep wounds of fear, low self esteem, deep rooted anger and stupidity. That she can love him enough, make him trust her enough so that one day his fists would turn into warm kisses on sunset beaches. It’s about power like rape. The abuser gets drunk off the blood. The more he or she can get away with, the more blood they want. The first hit is the warning. For some it should be like an atom bomb went off. There is not going back after the first hit. It’s over. At least that’s what we are told to think.
Growing up when I got my ass beat I was always told it was for my own good. Growing up I was always told it hurt the person beating me than it hurt me. I would’ve argued the contrary if there wasn’t the fear of being beaten worse. Domestic abuse is not just between a husband and wife, boyfriend and girlfriend, but often between parents and their children, grandparents and their children, grown people beating up on children, and then it lingers for life. Growing up, parents could just beat on their children in the middle of grocery store and others were just supposed to look the other way. It was their child. It was how it was always done. People would say, my Mama beat me when I was kid and I turned out okay. Yea, you went on to beat up others in classrooms, maybe your wife, but you turn out okay.
If he hits me, would I leave is what every female probably has to ask themselves. How would one know to leave an abusive relationship if abuse has been a silent misconception of that person entire life? I still speak to my Mama, I never stop kissing Grandma. Yes, I still want to kill my Uncle Fred but that’s a different story.
I never liked getting beat when I was a child. I thought it was a crime. I knew sometimes it was abuse. Yet, because I did get beat as a child, I thought putting my hands on others in order to teach a lesson was okay. I fought in school. My first relationship was very violent. We were both really young, head strong and hadn’t learned to communicate our hurt feelings instead we grabbed, pushed, sometimes got into fist fights. We were both gay, so most didn’t really see it as a problem. Later in life he would tell me that I was abusive. I disagreed. He said I was verbal abusive. I agreed, he was an idiot. I told him he started it. He always started it from what I can remember. But in the end, I wished we would’ve never started off so rocky. It’s hard to come back to peace when the relationships because a competition of who can hurt the most. In the beginning I used to take his snide comments, his rough grabs as him being passionate. And then it started to annoy me, so I grabbed back rougher and made more hurtful comments. Yet, we thought we loved each other. I don’t know what young love is. It’s trying to find yourself pushing against another person who is trying to find themselves. We made a lot of mistakes. We both had big egos.
If he hits me, would I leave? Yes, the correct answer would be, Hell Yea. I hear Tamika screaming if he put his hands on me, it’s over. But is it really? I mean, what is hit? What about some soft joking? What about a firm grabbing of the wrist when he refuses to be rejected? What about that scene in the movie where he rips the girl shirt opened? What about jackhammer fucking, pounding the coochie like an enraged horny rabbit. When is violence actually violence, when it’s done with a smile and soft words or when it’s the argument after you found out the bitch gave you Herpes.
"Words cannot begin to express how sorry and saddened I am over what transpired.”
I think Tatem Onell used those same words when she got busted for trying to buy cocaine. Michael Steele said that when the bong picture came out. I said those words when my lover came home three hours early to my afternoon sex party. I promised to seek counseling if he didn’t put me out on the streets. Apologies just buy time to the next fuck up.
As far as my past lover, I’m not sorry what transpired. I’m sorry that I stayed in the relationship for so damn long thinking we could work it out. I’m sorry I stayed the first time he insulted me on purpose and then tried to laugh it off. I’m sorry that I stayed when he grabbed me forcefully and I pushed his head into the car window. I’m sorry it came to blows. I’m sorry for wanting to push him down the stairs after the night we came back from the club and he gave that bitch a ride and I told him not too. Looking back, at that screaming, pushing, hitting wasn’t passion. It was two young idiots in love with big egos and didn’t know how to get alone.
But the difference between me and Ike, I never got pleasure from abusing or being abused. I never understood why anyone would stay in a relationship when they can’t stand the person. Whoopings as a child was about discipline in the hopes to raise self functioning adult. Sometimes in the black community it goes too far. I don’t understand why a grown person needs to discipline another grown person. It never works. I’ve tried it. When you eighteen nobody can change you. Not the church. Not even slapping a bitch up.
Yet by no means is this a defense by the current guy accused of being a little too rough with his girlfriend. The only difference is that you don’t choke a person on the plain street to the point of unconsciousness and then flee the scene. That’s just tacky. If you’re going to slap a bitch up, get them home, turn up the music really loud and give them a good whooping with a belt. He or she may like it.
I guess looking back at young love, I don’t think we tell our youth the truth how some of us started off all wrong. There are things you want to do, but you don’t do it. It’s always cute to date a bad boy until he starts acting bad for real. It’s always cool to date a sexy cool until she is too sexy. I say learn to masturbate until you are about thirty years old and save yourself some jail time.
Lazy cheap fat drunken BASTARD
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