I woke up this morning and I was so nervous. I started dying my hair back to a normal color so it be good for court. And then my advocate picked me up and it was time to go. I smoke cigarettes the entire way, I was shaking, and I didn’t know what to do. When we got there, as we started to walk through the metal detector, I started to really freak out. We sat in this private room with all of the police officers that worked my case, my advocates, and the prosecutor. And then they took me into this back room where they asked me all kinds of questions and they were prepping me for grand jury. They were embarrassing questions like how we use to have sex for money and sometimes we would get paid in drugs. How we didn’t get to keep it and how’s he would intimadate or threaten us. I had to talk about being sold for 7500 dollars for one person to another and all kinds of things that I bury real deep inside and never talk about. I sat in complete fear and anxiety until finally they called my name and it was time for me to speak. All of the questions that I had to say in front of the grand jury were the ones that the prosecutor had already asked me in the private room and I had to swear in that I was telling the truth. I had to repeat everything in front of a group of a bunch of people that I didn’t know and I was shaking and almost started tearing up a few times. People were shaking their heads in disbelief and at the end of it I guess they decided that it was a disgusting enough story for them to go on with court because jury decided it was enough to officially charge him. He was formally charged with three counts of promoting prostitution in the first. Which carries a sentence of a maximum of 20 years in jail per count. I’m glad that everybody believes me that was the thing I was most worried about because sometimes they think that girls want to be a in this shit. I guess they took one look at me and decided that I was too small and too cute to want to do this on my own. I’m really I’m just happy that they believed me. His bail is only a hundred thousand dollars which isn’t enough to keep in jail but probably don’t want to put it up anyway will probably just wait until the official trial. I get to relax now, but I don’t feel much better. 60 years is a long time. I’ve been to jail, I know what it’s like to be there, I’ve never been for a long time but the idea of putting anyone away until they are 86 or 87 just gives me just makes me feel horrible. Tomorrow I have to go back to court, but its for my own stuff. I hope they don’t revoke my probation. I’m really not a bad person, its just when I had my first pimp I was stealing food because I was literally starving and I had drugs on me. My old pimp was a drug dealer as well. I’m praying and wishing for the best. Even though I don’t know if I can test pass a drug test I went buy to detox drink that should help me out in case it hasn’t been long enough for my system to clear out.. I only smoke weed, it’s really hard to turn tricks and not. I just put a very scary person in jail, and now showing up in jail would be the worst. Now I’m a snitch and they would probably tear me alive in there. I’m on the 76 pounds so I’m not exactly the strongest person in the world and I know that I cannot defend myself. I’m just hoping and praying to God to the best and hopefully everything works out because I don’t know how much more I can take right now. God be with me.
Most women spend half their lives dreaming of the day a man puts a ring on her finger. They imagine a beautiful diamond and a man that gets down on one knee. The ring is a symbol of love. They are unavailable. Well, I have a ring like that too. What would you do if the ring that special man puts on your finger is not a symbol of love? My ring is worn on my pinky. It too means that I am unavailable. I am owned. Waikiki pimps see it…they know I am taken, so don’t try to turn me out*. The man who put this ring on my finger was also down on one knee. Let me paint you a picture…
I was still on my grooming phase*. I hadn’t been turned out quite yet. I was scared to death. I had already aquried a nice purple and black eye to go with my outfit from my boyfriend early that morning. And after being drug to his uncle’s house by my hair and stabbed with a needle in my back right shoulder with God knows what drug, I literally couldn’t move. I couldn’t scream for help. All I could do was lay on the floor of some empty room and wonder what was next.
The room was a dirty white. It looked like it was white at one time but smoke damage had turned them slightly yellow. Someone needed to lay off the cigarettes. The walls were breathing. I dunno if that was the drugs or my own freaked out mind. Things almost didn’t feel real.
Mic’s uncle came and and closed the door behind him. He was tall and muscular. Scary, just like his nephew. He walked over and stood over me. After reaching down and stroking my cheek he got down on the floor. He wiggled my skirt up to my thighs and when I opened my mouth to yell, no sound came out. He ripped my thong off violently. He rubbed between my legs and I felt like I was trembling only I wasn’t. He shoved his fingers inside of me and it hurt so much my body managed to cringe a little. I felt like he was punching my insides. He stopped long enough to drop his pants and penetrate me with his dick. He fucked me hard and then harder and harder and tears ran down my cheeks. He pounded my childhood away until moaning in pleasure and finishing. I swear it took him a lifetime. When he was done he got dressed, tied a string around my pinky and left without saying a word. A piece of me died that very second.
After a year and a half of wearing that string I became good enough to have the string removed and it was replaced with the ring you see above. It’s a nasty little reminder on my left hand that I do not control myself. Ownership is in order. And I am the slave. I am but a puppet to his game.
Nice pimps don’t make you wear them. The super mean ones just brand you. I have one of those too. When I got it I was over 18. It was a symbol that I was no longer a baby prostitute. I had graduated to the real game.
I can’t take the ring off. It’s been a part of me for much too long. Panic attacks set in when I go to remove it. It doesn’t just prove my slavery to my pimp but my slavery to The Game itself. I may have been “saved” but every day my life still revolves around The Game. I am still a slave.
The day I take off this ring is not the day the pimps and tricks are over but at the end of the court cases, cops, victim testimonies and safe houses are a thing of the past. That is the day I will take it off. When this is all a distant memory I will take off my slave mark and it will symbolize that this mess is officially over. So ladies, next time you are sitting around day dreaming about the day a man puts a ring on your finger, remember this story and know you might get exactly what you ask for.
*turned out-term used for the official moment a girl is turned into a prostitute
*grooming phase-the time before being turned out in which you endure beatings, threats, rape and mind games.
When I was 16, my mum forced me to sleep with men to pay for our flat in Romania. One client, Sorin, suggested babysitting work in the UK. Mum wanted us to go but I didn’t trust him when he provided a false ID.
Sorin drove us from the airport to a house in Birmingham. There, a man and woman controlled three girls who worked for them in their spa salon doing massage. I was bought vulgar clothes, taught bad English words. They called me Roxie. It wasn’t massage we did in the spa, but other things. I was forced to provide sexual services for more than a year.
One day the police saw me with my make-up on getting out of a car. They asked questions. I didn’t understand English. They took me to a police station. I spent the night in a cell. I told them everything through…
View original post 38 more words
“Bree! Bree! Wake Up! You’re going to be late for school again!” Abbey, one of my “wifies”* is violently shaking me awake. I am so tired. So, so tired. I roll onto my side and rub my eyes as I try to focus on the time. 8 am. Yup, definitely going to be late again. Fuck. I force my body out of bed. I step over girls who are asleep everywhere. Passed out on couches, and chairs and the floor. A very familiar scene.
I walk in a daze to the bathroom, peaking into my pimp’s room as I go by. Asleep as usual. Half smoked blunt of weed in the ashtray next to him. I snatch it from the ashtray and put it in my pocket. When I get to the bathroom I grab a washcloth. As I let the water pour over it and onto my hands, I ask myself why I bother still going to school. Most everyone around me has dropped out. The balance of schoolwork and tricking is too much to handle. I ignore the thought as usual and begin to wipe smeared mascara off my cheeks. I wince a little when I go over fresh bruises on my left eye, cheek, and jaw. It hurts more than I thought it was going to.
After making a failed attempt to cover my bruises with makeup I take a look in the mirror. Hair is a little messy, but good enough. Clothes probably won’t pass school dress code but I am already late and too tired to change. I grab my bag and leave the stable*.
I have a mile and a half walk to school. I light to half blunt of weed and begin to puff myself into sanity before attempting to show face in the real world. The walk to slow and steady. The weed makes me feel a little better, but stings the inside of my cheek. I bit the inside of my cheek after taking a round house kick to left side of my face. It doesn’t look normal, aside from the half-covered bruises, it’s pretty swollen and a little hard to talk. That’s okay though. I have one rule for going to school. No words. Complete silence.
After finishing the blunt, the high is just enough to make it through the next few hours. Being stoned is just the escape I need to deal with whatever bullshit is about to lie ahead. I am starting to approach school now, so I light a cigarette. The closer I get, the more anxiety levels rise. My stomach turns into knots. I hate school. I used to have friends. I used to be really popular. But peers don’t take well to their enslaved, prostituted counterparts. They don’t understand it could as easily been them…but it’s whatever, I have dealt with this for far to long to give a fuck.
First period is ending. The bell rings and kids file into the courtyard chatting and laughing and getting to their next class. I sneak onto campus like I have been there the whole time. The kids stare. They always notice the bruises. They yell their typical slurs…slut, whore, they call me. No one ever asks if I am okay. As they stare and pin me like a cork board in their minds, I drop my books and trip. I pick them up as if no one noticed and proceed to U.S. History. I sit in the back.
The teacher hands out a paper to every student and I don’t read it. I slide it to the corner of my desk. My teacher is lucky enough that I showed up. He looks at my swollen face and shakes his head. He won’t report it though. They never do. As he begins to lecture, I fall asleep. My teacher doesn’t care. He doesn’t know about me, but he knows something is wrong and he allows me to rest.
When class is over my teacher wakes me. He slips a domestic violence paper at me as he sends me to my next class. I shove it in the mess of other papers I will never look at again. I don’t go to my next class. I go into the bathroom instead. I sit in the bathroom stall and just relax. When I know the next class has started I pull out a box cutter. I put the razor to my wrists and drag it across slowly. My silver savior. The pain takes me to a place that I know. Dark red blood bubbles up and spills to the cement floor and I do a few more. I tear up a little. I can’t handle this anymore. As I finish my mini mental break, I feel better. I knew within a few days these cuts will begin to heal and fade into a mess of the other cuts on my arm. I decide not to go back to class. I call my pimp to pick me up.
As I wait I try to cover my wrists. Anything the compromises my beauty is a huge no-no. As we ride back to the stable, I don’t talk. He tries to make conversation but I’m not in it. I am the master of disassociation. I am 16 years old. I have been in this game for two years now. I know how to separate myself from the world now, and it makes things a lot easier.
At home, most of the girls are already hard at work. My pimp tells me to go clean myself up. He can tell I am already done with today and it hasn’t even started. I jump in the shower and turn the water up hot. It is burning my skin but cleansing my soul. The water makes me feel new again, cleansing away the dirty feeling from the four? five? maybe six people I was made to fuck the night before.
I get out of my shower. It is time to get escort beautiful. It’s not the same as just getting ready. 6 inch heels, short skirt, perfect make-up…no half covered bruises this time. And beyond perfect hair. I am ready.
I daze into the living room and sit around the girls. I am in the circle now. Time to work. Someone hands me more weed to smoke, and I indulge. My pimp call me to his room. He wants to have sex. I am stripped down and he puts himself inside of me. It is not pleasant, but a pounding I have come accustomed to. When he is finished, I smoke another cigarette. He tells me I am great. And then he sees my cuts.
He starts screaming and yelling. He slaps me across my face, the same spot that I was kicked just the night before. It stings. I cannot move my mouth. I try to drag my cigarette but the pain is unbearable and I give up. I am given my first assignment.He was a young military boy. After him was an exceptionally old carpenter. Then a lawyer of some sort. I take the three dates back to back. Faking smiles and laughs. Bullshitting conversation. Thank God I am a good actor, because most importantly I must pretend I want to have sex with every one of them.
Finally, I have one more date. My goal should be met. He comes and goes as quickly as the other four. When he leaves, I try to go join the other girls but I am dizzy. It’s unusually hot and I feel like passing out. I sit on the bed for a few minutes until I can make to to the bathroom. Bad idea…I fall to my knees. It’s so hot that I feel like I am dying. I yell for help and someone brings me water. I try to drink it, but I start puking instead. Suddenly I feel slightly better. Usually I get breaks in between meeting men, but this is part of my punishment for the cuts. No breaks.
After fucking for people and throwing up, my pimp decides I can be done for the day. I have a migraine and my face is pulsating in pain. The weed gives little relief. I go into my room, where a few other girls are chilling. They have finished their $1000 target for the days as well. The are drinking Crown Royal.
I lay down and take a shot as well. I cannot talk, it hurts to much. I listen to the girls talk about their dates. I don’t remember their names, or faces. I never do. I just remember the way they screw me, and if I was good at pretending I wanted it. Sometimes it is easier than others but I am not in this today. I take another shot. And another. And another. I wonder what my family is doing. If they miss me. If they wish I was there. I know they do.
I feel drunk and I don’t like it. My body is tired and achy. My face hurts. My mind is lost somewhere between hating myself and hating this lifestyle. I can’t decide which is worse. I want to go home. I wonder if I will ever get out. It doesn’t seem like I will. I have watched my best friend die, endured beatings, watched girls get bought and resold between pimps. I know no one who has really gotten out. There is no end to this nightmare. I know the best ways to combat this life though. Be the best. Make the most money, prove your loyalty. If you are truly devoted you help find new girls. Be the best, cut, drink and smoke. Someone you will make it out okay, baby girl. That is what I tell myself. Don’t think too much…not about friends or family or Church. That equals pain. But the thoughts come every night anyway. The thought’s of the outside world that I so long to get back to. I reach in my back pocket for my silver savior again. I hide under the sheets and cut myself one more time. The pain in my wrists distracts me from other other pain…in my body, my head and my heart. The blood rushes out a little faster than usual and I feel faint. I start to pass out and between the cutting and the alcohol, I can drift into sleep. I better fall asleep soon because I have to wake up and find a means to handle it all again tomorrow. It’s just the way things are for us. This is a day in the life…for a child prostitute, that is.
Amazing Update Regarding the Murder or Ivy Harris. Justice for You, Ivy Amazing Update Regarding the Murder or Ivy Harris. Justice for You, Ivy ❤
The murder of Ivy had an effect on all of Oahu, but especially those of us work “The Game”, the nickname given to Honolulu’s Sex Trade. That night more than 100 girls walked “The Track”, the nickname given to the streets in Waikiki prostitutes and law enforcement are known to frequent (it’s the most popular tourist destination in Hawaii, more than a million people, tourists and locals alike, pass through the area a day.) Another several hundred of us girls where sold over the internet that same night in that same area. I was one of them. It could have been me, or any one of the other girls. My hotel that I was tricking out of was but one street over from where Ivy was picked up. After police arresting Cosby, they let him go without charges due to lack of evidence, even though we all know he is guilty. Everyone was deeply upset. But last night on KHON news, they finally gave an update, the Military Police have picked up the case. Justice for you, Ivy. We are all praying for answers.
After receiving the call earlier that my pimp was being followed, even though the police were not sure if it was him, I just knew. And two hours later I got the call that they got him. I am a bit relieved but holy shit am I scared. He always told me that if he ever got arrested he would find a way to bring down the “little snitch” that brought him down too. I was told that I would have to go to the police station tonight and identify him but then they told me I could take the night off. Tomorrow I will have to go talk to the prosecutor. Bright and early so I better be ready. I am shaking right now and falling somewhere between relief and total panic. I don’t want to see him. I don’t want to be part of the indictment process that will follow a few days later. I am very scared. My advocate and the girl, Sierra, that I spoke about a few posts back will be there with me. I am racking my brain right now for real. Normally as stressed as I a right now I would totally not be hungry but for whatever reason I decided I need pizza.
I almost want to take this stupid slave mark off my finger. It’s a ring I wear on my left pinky that signifies my ownership to the Game. I have tried to take it off many times but every time I have I have freaked out a little. It has been on my finger to eight years now. At this point, now that he is in custody I feel like it would be a good time to take it off, but I also feel like I should wait a little longer. I am texting my closest church friend that I can trust for a little extra moral support but have been ordered not to say anything to my family and friends quite yet. I think this is the salvation I have been waiting for but I don’t understand why I feel so conflicted.
Do I have the strength to stare him in the face and lock him away for what could be twenty years? Do I have the courage to stand up to him once and for all? I am not so sure. I would like to run away from it now but that is the stupidest thing I could do. He would be let out, I would have no where to go and surely death awaits me if I am found.
I am very tired and not sure if I will sleep tonight. I am so confused and conflicted. If it makes sense this is the most depressing happy I have ever felt. I knew this day would come I just didn’t know when. And i can’t really say that I am ready for it…FUCK.