You Don’t Even Know Bill Cosby

He was 16 years older than me. A colleague at a child welfare agency who had a zest and drive to save young, Black men who had been disenfranchised and lost hope. The way he was able to turn those young men around and set them on a straight path appealed to me. I too had that spirit in me. He took an interest in me. I was flattered.

He created an alter ego. Told me all the things I wanted to hear. Appealed to my strong sense of Blackness. Bought me books. I was impressed and intimidated and intrigued. He wanted more from me. Kisses became not enough. I submitted.

I found out he was married. Ended our relationship. Left the organization where we both worked because I was embarrassed. Moved on with my life. He called a lot at first. He even showed up at my new job one time trying to get me to understand, but I refused to listen.

Time went by. Time stops for no one. Several months later he called. It was a Sunday and late. He stated he was watching a football game at a local establishment in my neighborhood and was headed home. He stated that he had a couple of beers and although he had went to the washroom before he left the establishment, he had to use the washroom again.

He asked could he stop by quickly to use the washroom as he had a long ride ahead of him home. I knew how far he lived and how his bladder worked after he was drinking. I was trying to be nice and accommodating. Sometimes I can be too nice and accommodating.

I lived in a secure building with a security guard. I buzzed him up. We said “Hi” briefly before he ran into the washroom to relieve himself. I stood outside the washroom waiting for him to finish so I could let him right back out of my apartment. He exited the bathroom with his penis in his hand and asked for sex. I refused and asked him to leave.

He pulled out a knife and declared, “oh you gonna give me this pussy today”. He grabbed me by my neck and threw me against the wall. I hit my head hard and slid down the wall. I became disoriented and weak. He took the knife and cut my clothes off me. I tried to fight, but I was so discombobulated I don’t know if any of that helped. I started to black out. My only thoughts at that time was, “he is going to rape me. I can’t believe he is going to rape me.”

I thought about my Daddy and how disappointed he was going to be in me because I let him in. I felt like it was my fault. He was struggling to get my panties off. I guess my little fight was helping. I came back to myself. I thought of my Daddy again. He taught me to hide weapons all over my apartment, just in case. He got my panties down and was putting on a condom.

Right in a shoebox next to where my head laid was a pocket knife I hid. He tried to enter to me. I grabbed his penis and balls with my left hand, squeezed them as hard as I could and twisted. I grabbed the knife out the shoebox and stabbed him in the leg. He slapped me and called me a “dirty bitch”. He pulled the knife out his leg. Grabbed his pants and shoes and ran out of the apartment.

I put on my robe and pushed the elevator button down. It took forever to come. I ran to the security guard in the lobby and asked did he see him leave the building. The security guard said that he ran pass him so fast he almost knocked him over. I told him that I was attacked. He called the police.

Why didn’t I call the security guard? Why didn’t I call the police myself? I was embarrassed. I felt stupid and guilty.

I got a restraining order the next day. I went to work right after that and pretended it never happened. I never told my Daddy. I never told my friends. I only spoke about it with my next intimate partner to explain why I didn’t respond to aggressive sexual energy. He became angry. He still is angry about it.

I revealed my story on an episode of The Pisces Life Podcast. A podcast critic took a clip from that episode to review for his show. He totally disregarded how I detailed this attack and jokingly stated that he loved my voice and would give me the dick anytime I wanted. Yes, that actually happened.

It doesn’t have that same type of power over me, but I get very upset when I read about people who defend people accused of sexual crimes. Like with Bill Cosby. You don’t know Bill Cosby. I don’t know Bill Cosby, but I know all of those women can’t be lying. Something happened. For all the Bill Cosby fans and rape apologists defending him against some larger agenda to bring him down, isn’t it just possible that he may have did something inappropriate?

My attacker was well respected in the community. By all accounts a good man. A Father. A mentor. I was a flirty young girl with tattoos, piercings and always had her belly and back out. I was concerned about being judged.

The comments I have seen floating down my timeline from both men and women have been rather disgusting. The disregard for the victims who had to publicly submit to being shamed, because that’s what we do in this country, is disheartening. I know what courage it takes to tell this type of story.

My assault was an attempt, but there are so many others that didn’t fair so lucky. They live in hell daily. Anything can be a trigger to re-live that trauma. A raised voice. A scene on television. A Facebook post. Your lover choking you and calling you a “dirty bitch” because he likes to get a little aggressive in bed.

The insensitivity around this subject is disrespectful to all victims. I now fear some of you who defend Bill Cosby and have these think pieces about his innocence. You are dangerous. I will never be alone with some of you again. Not ever.

You don’t even know Bill Cosby. Stop defending him. Just stop it.

Kai Love

Originally published at on January 4, 2016.

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