• Pornography Will Destroy Your Marriage and Your Heart Bleeds

    April 4, 2009 6:47 pm 5 comments
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  • Michigan Winter. 1977.

    The cold shards of snowy ice shoot into my body without remorse and the pain is deep.

    That whore Mother’s Nature’s pimp Old Man Winter hates me but I never cared. Not until that day.

    I was a boy. 14. Like every winter before, the cold grip of Satan’s deathhand dealt me the worst pain possible and I took it. The pain is how I knew I was alive.

    My brothers 3 and me, homeschooled.

    Every day before lessons we hurried to bundle 5 pitches of wood. If we failed the raw hide belt from our father would sear our flesh worse than icy sleet that beat down on us that winter day we were cutting wood.

    The smell of nicotine aftershave and stale whiskey. Heavy footsteps in the pass. Father was coming..

    My father chugged his whiskey like a whore chugs sin. Only the mouth of a dead hooker in Sing-sing would find more sin parting its lips and filling her belly with vile malts of shame.

    It was the guilt of sleeping with a whore that drove father mad.

    He was a pastor who could not resist the gaping diseased fruit of a prostitute at the local bar and everyone in town knew their gossip about it would rub the salt in his spirit wound deeper.

    Everyone loves when the righteous fall and my father fell just like the crotchfruit that fell from between that hooker’s legs 9 months later. My oldest brother, son of a home-wrecker and living in eternal shame from the looks of a small town and being raised by a woman who was not really his mother.

    He is the one who mouthed up to father that day in the pass. The Sun could not break the winter’s morning sky and it was cold, dark, wet. The icy snow’s bite sank through the skin deeper than broken glass through the foot.

    Not so deep it kills you but far enough that its sting will make you wish you were dead.

    “Why the hell do you never cut this wood?”

    My brother’s burning hatred for father clung to each word and warmed the damning snowstorm of that morning.

    “You cut the wood, you drunk family hating…”

    My brother was 17 and his eyes glinted powerfully even under the storm of that early mornings dank gray sky. The power in his eyes were no match for the power of our father’s hand.

    As father rained blow upon blow to my brother’s face and blinding those strong accusatory eyes with blood and swelling and tears, my little brother joined me in trying to take down the beast.

    He was hurting our big brother, who was more a father than he could ever be.

    We failed in our endeavor until a sweet strong calm voice came. It was mother.

    We seldom spoke but I loved her. Deep down she knew me better than I knew myself.

    “Get off him right now…”

    Father did not like her rebuke and ran over to her, fist in the air and ready to strike. I quickly ran in front of my mother and dared my father’s 6’4″, 230 pound frame to challenge my hardly adolescent body.

    I look into his hateful little eyes. He looks into mine. He then gestures at my mother, like a drunken sailor looks at gyrating sluts at a weekend’s peep show.

    “Get in the house and I’ll deal with you later”, he said to her.

    “No”.

    With one move of his arm I was sent flying around in circles like a drunk rope walker falling to his death. My face slamming hard into the cold ground let me know I again had control of my body. The taste of my nose’s blood will never leave my mouth.

    I looked up and was shocked to see the same fate had not come to my mother. She was crying, holding my oldest brother. A boy who was not her son but she loved with all her heart.

    My little brother was at her side crying.

    Father was crying too, but a different type of crying. It was pain. Deep hurt pain. In the faint light of the morning a large pool of blood could not be hidden fast enough by the slowing snowstorm.

    My oldest brother had plunged his small hand axe deep into father’s shoulder. The proof of the most powerful whiskey would not have been enough to calm the pain that man suffered in that moment and it is what he deserved.

    We hurried inside and called the police. The law ruled my father to be tried, my brother acting in defense and mother moved us from that small town with enough secret sins to put New York to shame.

    My father once walked the righteous path. A man of character. And honor. On the outside.

    Inside, he was a beast. The proverbial Hyde that wore Jekyll as a skin, a facade to hide his dirty secrets from the world.

    My father was a secret pornagrapher. Books were not enough and he had to get his fill with harlot’s and women in the church who he should have led to morality.

    He exploited their weakness and had his way with them. How many wives did he turn into adulterers? How many babies did he tell women to suck their brains out until they could grow no more?

    The arrogance of his ability to get away with his sins caught up with him. It consumed him and spilled from him like the stench of death fills a body with it’s gassy contents of puss and then drenches the air for all to inhale deeply.

    He could not hide the filth of his sin and it ate him up. The town could smell the rot of his sin. It drove the once ‘righteous’ pastor mad. It cost cost him his family and his freedom.

    The bottle could not save him and he felt too sorry to ask God for forgiveness. He fell to the law and then a few years later, fell to his death.

    This is my story of how I started my 14th winter on this Earth. It is my life’s story that I hope will let some man know, man who may harbor secret sins to get over yourself.

    You are living a lie and you cannot hide from the eternal eyes of God. You cannot hide from yourself.

    Admit your faults and don’t be a hypocrite. Do not delude yourself into thinking that beating your family with fists and words and intimidation can be righted by the drunken excuses a bottle gives your mind.

    An abusive man who hates himself and makes his family suffer because of it is the worst whore of all. A whore of Satan.

    And every whore of Satan dies a death worse than any disease on this Earth can bring.

    D.D.M.

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    About The Author
    Dean Miller God is all I have and I hate emotions.

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