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.