Ladies and gentlemen that read KING Magazine, please allow me to use this column today as a form of therapy. I need to talk about something. Something rather traumatic that happened to me a few days ago. I was...violated, so to speak. One could even use the term...raped.

Before I go any further, let me make one thing clear: Nothing happened to my butthole. I have not been involved in any form of man-on-man action, and my bootyhole maintains it's sanctity to this day. It's never been desecrated, and it never will be. So don't get any Adebisi flashbacks from "Oz" or anything like that.

To clarify things, I was eye-raped. No contact was involved, but I still felt the need to go home and shower myself repeatedly to wash away the stains of indignity and injustice. The worst part about it was, it was some middle aged chicks guilty of this heinous act!

I'm riding the train home from work one day, minding my own business, when these four loud women with Verizon shirts on entered the train. The big one catches a glimpse of me from across the train and says "Mmmmmph!" This leads me to wonder if she's attracted to me, or she saw the pack of M&Ms in my jacket pocket and all of a sudden got hungry. Unfortunately for me, my question was answered when she started talking to the other three hard-looking b*tches about me being sexy and wondering if I have a big d*ck.

I wanted to get up and say "You'll never find out, you sloppy ass, thick neck hooker hoe b*tch!" but these women look like they lived hard lives. The type that walk around visually carrying the scars of supporting unplanned kids with dead-end jobs. If they look that bad with their clothes on, I can imagine what they must look like naked. Pu**ies probably look like they lost a fight with Sugar Shane Mosely...All defeated, abused and lumped up.

I knew if I engaged in a war or words with these heffers, it would be pointless and would only bring more attention to the situation. Since I was getting off the train two stops later, I just acted like I couldn't hear those cackling wildebeasts until it was time to get off. Then I said "You f*ckin' nasty, filthy b*tches" right before the doors closed after I got off the train.

Yes, I was a little b*tch-assed about the way I cursed them out, but like I said, I didn't feel like having a drawn out battle that day. I felt too...soiled by their ogling.

Whew...That felt good to get off my chest. Therapy really does work! I thank you readers for allowing me to tell my story of shame and degredation to you. This will help me in my long-term recovery from the traumatic event. I love y'all.