Trigger warning for sexual content
My son would never rape a woman. It is brutal, disgusting and immoral. He simply isn’t capable of such a thing. She has obviously enticed him.
She was at the club when it happened. Short black dress, tall black drink. She stood in the middle of the dance floor, moved her hips slowly. She made eye contact with him. She even smiled. He walked up to her and asked her to meet him at his car. When she declined, he grabbed her arm.
What a scene she created! She fought, screamed and kicked. You want this, he told her as he pulled her out of the club. NO, she screamed, yelling as he dragged her to his car. You don’t know what you want, you’re drunk.
She sat alone in the parking lot a few hours later. Disgusting girl, she reeked of smoke and alcohol. What a drama queen. That girl, no morals, no values, has the audacity to say she was raped. She should’ve thought twice before getting that third drink.
My son would never rape a sober girl.
She boarded the bus after school. The school bag on her shoulders, accentuating her breasts. It was raining and she didn’t have an umbrella. Her kurti clinging to her body in the most indecent way. You could practically see it. The shape of her breasts, her hips, her thighs. She stood there, absentmindedly adjusting the straps of her bag. The bus moved jerkily down the narrow road. Her chest heaving, up and down, up and down.
Of course she was going to be touched. This girl has no sense of modesty. He went up behind her and grabbed her chest as she got off the bus. Chutiya, she yelled, looking around for help. No one cared. What did she expect. An army to come to her rescue?
My son would never rape a girl who was wearing a dupatta.
They would whistle as she walked past them. She’d ignore it, walking fast until she made her way down the street. How could you blame them! She was beautiful. Such girls especially should learn to dress modestly.
She, she’d wear jeans, bright red lipstick, draw her eyes and wear high heels. She thinks she’s Rakhi Sawant. She is doing it for attention, and then she complains when she gets it. She wanted them to look at her. She probably enjoyed it.
She had it coming. One day, they followed her. They cornered her and tore her clothes off in broad daylight. She screamed and cried. They didn’t care. They broke her heels, smudged her kajal, smeared her lipstick. They dragged her unconscious body down the dark street and slashed her face. They laughed. No one would whistle at her again.
My son would never rape a girl who dressed appropriately.
She went for a movie with a boy at 10 pm. She probably comes from one of those modern families. Going out alone with that boy like a common whore. She must have had sex with him also. These girl are like that. So loose. They don’t care about virtues, values and tradition.
They stopped them outside the theatre and beat the boy up. They pushed the girl to the ground and held her there as each took his turn with her. Some of them, twice. They walked away when they were done, leaving her out on the street for hours until she found the strength to go home.
What difference does it make. God knows how many men she has slept with anyway.
My son would never rape a homely girl.
He wobbled in at 11 pm. She did the dishes quietly, her heart racing as she heard his footsteps get closer. Tears stung her eyes as he put his hands on her waist. She could smell the whiskey on his breath. He tugged at her pallu, letting it fall to the ground. Not today, she begged. Her back ached and her head felt like it was going to explode.
He grabbed her hair and pulled her to their bedroom. She scrambled to find her pallu as they walked past the hall. Their son stared in horror. He shut the door behind him and slapped her. He told her to stay quiet and take her clothes off. She did as she was told.
What do you mean my son raped his wife. There is no such thing.
My son would never rape a woman. We’re simply confusing rape with consensual sex. If you look close enough, consent is just around the corner. You just need to try hard enough to find it. Consent is everywhere, disguised in short dresses, drinks, make up, high heels, late nights, marriage certificates and even screams and tears. In fact, there’s a little consent in all of us.
Original post published at: Epiphany In The Cacophony
Featured image source: Wallpoper
