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When I was a child, I was all for women’s rights. My mother was subservient to my dad, as was my sister to her husband, but I still formed my own opinion and thought, “my wife will do whatever she wants!” I was perplexed by housewifery and women’s decisions to consciously, and happily, slave for their husbands and families.
It wasn’t until my twenties that I realized that some women enjoy the role. My girlfriend is one of those women: subservient and pleasured by my joy. Disgusting.
Every morning I ask her what she’d like for breakfast. “I don’t know. Whatever you want!”
“You said that yesterday.” I walk into the kitchen and scramble a handful of eggs, fry up some bacon, and squeeze a couple glasses of orange juice because it’s her favorite breakfast. We eat, happily, and when I’m done, I begin cleaning up. The struggle begins with my trying to take her plate.
“I want to do the dishes,” she says cutely. I pull even harder and succeed at removing the plate from her hands, but at the cost of two of her fingernails. “I’m sorry,” she says.
Now, I’m not one to take lip, so I give her a quick five across the face and say, “I’m not one to take lip!” She sits down and apologizes—subserviently and with a smile. Pleased anew, I ask my girlfriend to get on the computer and find out when the game is on while I go relieve myself. When I return to clean up, I notice my girlfriend elbow deep in a sink of suds and dishes.
“Look, I don’t want to hit you again,” I say sternly.
“What should I do then?”
“Not the dishes.”
“Then what should I do?”
“Not the dishes!”
“What?”
“You asked for it,” and I popped her in the nose. Boy, can she take a punch. I helped her to the dining room and started on the dishes. I turn and notice she’s wiping the blood off the dining table. “What did I say!”
“Not the dishes.”
“That’s it.” I marched over and cracked a plate over her head. “You better not try and clean this mess up, either.” At this point I carried her to the room and set her on the bed where she hugged me before I left to finish off the dishes. I was happy, enjoying the fact that I cooked and cleaned all by myself when I heard the vacuum start up.
I ran in there about to clock her in the chin when she yelled in fear, “not the dishes! Not the dishes!”
I stood in disbelief, unable to understand why she couldn’t allow herself to be happy and let me treat her like the princess she is.
It wasn’t until my twenties that I realized that some women enjoy the role. My girlfriend is one of those women: subservient and pleasured by my joy. Disgusting.
Every morning I ask her what she’d like for breakfast. “I don’t know. Whatever you want!”
“You said that yesterday.” I walk into the kitchen and scramble a handful of eggs, fry up some bacon, and squeeze a couple glasses of orange juice because it’s her favorite breakfast. We eat, happily, and when I’m done, I begin cleaning up. The struggle begins with my trying to take her plate.
“I want to do the dishes,” she says cutely. I pull even harder and succeed at removing the plate from her hands, but at the cost of two of her fingernails. “I’m sorry,” she says.
Now, I’m not one to take lip, so I give her a quick five across the face and say, “I’m not one to take lip!” She sits down and apologizes—subserviently and with a smile. Pleased anew, I ask my girlfriend to get on the computer and find out when the game is on while I go relieve myself. When I return to clean up, I notice my girlfriend elbow deep in a sink of suds and dishes.
“Look, I don’t want to hit you again,” I say sternly.
“What should I do then?”
“Not the dishes.”
“Then what should I do?”
“Not the dishes!”
“What?”
“You asked for it,” and I popped her in the nose. Boy, can she take a punch. I helped her to the dining room and started on the dishes. I turn and notice she’s wiping the blood off the dining table. “What did I say!”
“Not the dishes.”
“That’s it.” I marched over and cracked a plate over her head. “You better not try and clean this mess up, either.” At this point I carried her to the room and set her on the bed where she hugged me before I left to finish off the dishes. I was happy, enjoying the fact that I cooked and cleaned all by myself when I heard the vacuum start up.
I ran in there about to clock her in the chin when she yelled in fear, “not the dishes! Not the dishes!”
I stood in disbelief, unable to understand why she couldn’t allow herself to be happy and let me treat her like the princess she is.
Best thing I've ever read. And I've read the Bible.
ReplyDeletethat is the sickest and sweetest story yet. i said "ugh" and "aw" while reading it. ^5!
ReplyDeleteI asked the woman if she was okay with my posting this and she asked "are you okay with posting that?" I gave her a fat lip, not from punching, but from kissing. With my fists.
ReplyDeleteYou let her get away with that stuff? I am appalled. I thought you were a man.
ReplyDeleteTell me about it. I'm just as appalled. It's no wonder women I date are so miserable all the time.
ReplyDeleteI work with a 21y/o female and she lives with a 42y/o male, he is is still married to his 2nd or 3rd wife, she waits on him, his father and police buddies hand and feet. Complains at work about being tired but when you advise her to go home and get some rest she can't because she has to cook and clean up after them being at his and the last wifes house all evening. She does not talk to women at work because in her mind not one of them know anything, but I must let you know all of them are married(5yrs or better) with children, all the male deputies we work with knows everything.
ReplyDelete