Doggie Style

He was rough.
From a man who bragged about how hard he was,
About how powerful he was,
About how powerless he left all the other girls…
She shouldn’t have expected anything else.
Every night with him was a constant struggle to keep her insides intact,
A constant struggle not to anger him by falling apart and crumbling to the floor in front of him,
‘Cause you see he didn’t like to be interrupted;
Interruptions meant he had to start over,
So she kept still, her eyes riveted on the white washed wall,
And she kept up this constant recitation in her head:
“Don’t worry…He’s like this because he’s passionate about you…
Don’t worry…It’s only a matter of time before he realizes that there are other things he can do with you…
Don’t worry…If you can only take it just one more time, the next time won’t be as hard.
Don’t worry…”
But all she did was worry.
Would he come home, sweating and panting?
His appetite for her pain fueled by the empty bottles of Johnny Walker left behind the bar at Spirit’s pub?
Would he do it with her clothes on this time, or command her to strip naked?
Believe it or not, naked was the worst.
It meant she had to take the humiliation skin to skin and body to body…
Would he close the bedroom door so that baby girl Keisha couldn’t see her mother writhing in pain?
Would he fall asleep after a few strokes and not wake up to do it all over again?
Every night was just as bad as the night before,
And every night she expected to die from all the hard pounding….
But there was an ease; the only thing that made it easier,
The only thing that made it shorter,
Was for her not to fight; to just give in,
To accept it,
To simply bend over and take it the best way she could;
Bite the bullet and offer up her ass
Because the best way to please him was to give it to him the way he always wanted it…
Doggie style…
And this is not what you think.
Because if sex was all it was then all she would’ve needed was a tube of lube,
Or an inspirational porn video playing in the background.
But when your man insists on pounding you with fists
His knuckles connecting to your chest like a hammer to your tits,
His knee gorging out your stomach while he screams:
“Take that bitch!”
Then you’re in a very similar predicament to the dogs that roam Market Street.
You know, the one’s you kick away when they come too close;
The one’s that are only accepted by vagrants and amused tourists;
The ones with mange that hang their head low and make you wonder,
How on Earth do they survive?
This, ladies and gentlemen, is a whole different type of doggie style.
This is not the one you see on the X rated channels,
This is not the one that’s the bona fide way to make some women cum.
This is the one that makes 911 calls to Mount Saint John at three o’clock in the morning,
This is the one that will lead a body to a body bag.
This doggie style describes an even more painful level of penetration;
The kind that rapes a woman’s soul and scars her children…
And she takes it every night,
And he’s always rough.
From a man who bragged about how hard he was,
About how powerful he was,
About how powerless he left all the other girls…
I guess she shouldn’t have expected anything else.