I’ve been following Bill Cosby’s trial in Norristown, Pennsylvania distressed for him, the woman that’s been testifying against him, and his family, especially his wife of 53 years.
The man is 79 years-old, half blind, drenched in humiliation.
It doesn’t get much uglier than this.
What bothers me the most is…all these women, saying, he drugged them in order to have sex without too much effort on his part, is why they were in his presence to begin with.
Let’s do the math here.
He was a handsome, brilliant, groundbreaking, black man, and they wanted to be with him…but all of him. They wanted foreplay, in words, wishing to hear what he had to say. His likes and dislikes, what made him smile…where that creative genius stemmed from. One has to remember how amazing he was, especially back then, owning the stage as the African American Elvis, of comedy.
But good old, entitled Bill didn’t want to be bothered with all that. He had a need, an itch to be scratched, if you will, and knocking them out like Kewpie Dolls seemed the quickest solution.
Andrea Constrand, having come forward so publicly, must feel it’s both a grace and a curse. To have to sit on a witness stand describing in sordid detail what happened, has to be very painful, yet finally, dropping the weight of it, incredibly liberating.
She liked Bill, trusted him and probably would have had consensual sex with him, but he just didn’t care enough about her, or any of her peers, to take the time to be the consummate gentleman they all assumed he was.
Oh Bill, what were you thinking?