Currently, I am volunteering my precious time for a very unworthy cause: The Battered Women’s Shelter. It’s an old joke between my friends and I that the women at the shelter all adore me because the very first thing I do after I clock in is slap them all around a little. I tell you, these chicks just eat it up!
But seriously folks, I have absolutely no sympathy for these women. Why should I pity the poor little fools? They LIKE it! If they didn’t, they wouldn’t keep going back. It’s that fucking simple.
I grew up in a volatile home. My younger brother and I watched my mother get the crap beat out of her every time that ignorant little twit failed to live up to her wifely duties. (Which was often) I used to feel sorry for her, I really did. I was even the one who got her ice packs when Tony (stepfather) popped her a good one. However, one particular evening, I was holding an ice pack against her play doe-like nose when I looked into her miserably vacant little eyes. I saw something there that I never noticed before…could it be sexual excitement? Nah, it couldn’t be! I peered a little closer. By God it was! My mom had just got the shit kicked out of her and she was so hot she was creaming in her panties! Let’s just say: I never felt sorry for her again.
In fact, the following Christmas when the parental units were having yet another knockdown, drag-out, Podunk, trailer trash, hillbilly, shit-stomping war, my brother and I sat on the steps with a bowl of popcorn and watched with maniacal glee. When Tony grabbed mommy dearest by the hair and flung her into the 6ft tall Christmas tree, my brother shrieked, “Do it again Tony! She LIKES it!” while I applauded. Tony gave us the thumbs up and put the bitch in a figure four. Us kids pumped our fists around in circles and barked just like the dog pound on the ‘Arsenio Hall Show’. Dumb bitch shoulda put the tape away…
Some people would call me cruel and insensitive . They would tell me that these women are suffering from self-esteem problems and that it’s not as easy to leave as it looks. They would claim that I have no right to pass judgments on battered women because I have absolutely no idea what it’s like to be a battered wife. As is the case with most assholes, these people are WRONG.
I know exactly what it’s like to be a battered wife because I, myself was battered by my husband…once. I want to make that perfectly clear: ONCE. The bastard hit me ONE TIME and that was ALL it took to prompt me to get my shit and leave.
Let me tell you the story…
It was a dark and stormy night when I confronted my handsome hubby with proof of his own infidelity. I curtly explained that I wouldn’t tolerate such despicable behavior and made it clear that I was seriously considering a divorce. I left the room with the intention of putting some music on to calm my nerves. I was sitting in front of my stereo when Mr. Hard Ass approached me quickly from the side and kicked me upside the head field goal style. Before the stars had even faded, he had me pinned up against the wall and was screaming obscenities into my ringing, bloody ear. I did the only thing any woman in my position could have done: I cried. I pleaded. I swore that I would never leave him and threw myself at his feet and begged for mercy. After he calmed down, I even gave him an ‘apology blowjob’…but I’d be lying if I said that the use teeth in the heat of the moment was an accident. Poor, poor Mr. Hard Ass. His wife couldn’t do anything right!
It was a long time before he went to sleep that night, but I waited him out. As soon as I heard that first fateful snore, I quietly slipped out of bed and began packing my shit. I took everything but the sheets he was sleeping on—I didn’t want to wake the dear man! But as I loaded the last of the belongings in the car, I knew the score was far from settled.
I fetched an item from the kitchen and headed back into the bedroom. I stood by the bed watched my handsome hubby sleeping in smug, naked bliss. I looked down at the spot where my teeth had ‘accidentally’ mangled his precious little jewels. Oh, I was going to enjoy this!
I unscrewed the cap of hot sauce and proceeded to drench his crooked little pecker in the stuff. I backed up a little and waited…
Ten seconds later, my dear, handsome hubby’s eyes snapped open and he shot out of the bed like a bullet. He howled into the night:
“OH IT BURNS! OH MY GOD IT BURNS!!!”
Mr. Hard Ass stumbled/lurched into the bathroom whereupon he (I kid you not) put his abused dick in the bathroom sink and ran cold water over it while crying hysterically. Obviously, my work there was done, so I got into the car and drove away.
The next time I saw him, we were in court completing our divorce. I asked him how Mr. Happy was doing. He Cringed.
The moral of the story is: Any woman can easily leave an undesirable relationship if she has the want and self respect. Otherwise, she can stay there and take her medicine. But if she tries to pull the ‘poor asshole loving abused me’ routine, I have but one thing to say to her:
Cry me a river bitch, but do it quietly because I’m trying to watch TV.