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| You Were Asking For It |
Of course you're into girls.
A lady's man.
Always good with the ladies.
And a partyin' babe-searchin' night it was.
Scoping, Cruising, Partying.
Then a connection with Group 2.
Lisa, Steve, Kathy, Debbie, Debbie's friend Brad.
And you with Mike, your ultra-cool mate,
To the races and games of spirits and smoke with you.
A grand beginning to a most promising eve.
And you sucked it down. Down down.
Had maybe 8, or 10, or 15.
And the room at the party spun.
Round, swirling, speeding.
With a burp and gurgle you felt it
approaching, ominous,
You ran to a toilet,
through someone's bedroom,
and sprayed it. Heaving.
And all went black.
The sun was next, beaming life into your sore, waking eyes.
Followed by pain
in waves. Tidal waves of Pain.
Hurting.
Groaning, rolling,
and real pain, again, again.
Mike, the friend, lies crashed on a nearby couch.
Blood dried on his face and shirt.
Sleeping, oozing, stinking.
He has bled badly recently.
You hack a mouthful of phlegm, then turn to spit it somewhere.
But Mike wakes, looks at you, sits.
Shakes his head.
—Mike Jesus Christ what's with the blood, man?
But he shakes his head, staring at you.
Your pain is visible now, shooting in rays across your vision, mounting.
your legs, your chest, your asshole. Intense agony.
Mike holds his head and speaks.
—My friend my friend I'm so sorry, man.
—You don't remember I'm sure.
—You were passed out on the floor
—when I found you.
—With Debbie's friend Brad fucking you up the ass
—Taking you.
—We fought, hard.
—He ran away. He's gone.
Shock. Staring. What? What?
No.
What are you saying?
Oh my fucking God.
The pain re-registers.
Proving Mike honest.
It happened.
And the tidal waves of pain transform
to humiliation, terror, horror.
You cannot look Mike in the face,
nor he you.
Speechless, the tears come.
Then to sobs
As Mike shakes his head, your friend.
If only,
If only,
Oh god I'm so stupid.
How could this
Jesus Christ
I'm gonna kill that fucker.
And you'll never ever be the same.
Because a disgusting piece of fucking shit
raped you.
But later, much later, in a rare moment of self-truth,
You come to grips with the facts,
you were a stinking fucking hypocrite
because you subscribed to a double-standard yourself.
And if it had been a girl, instead of you,
drunk and passed out on a bathroom floor, vulnerable,
fucking her would be okay.
The bitch was asking for it.
And so was your asshole, you asshole.
By: A Man of Conscience
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