I tried to write this story over and over and came to the conclusion it would be better heard from my own mouth…so here it is. Please take the time to listen…because while I have found a way out thousands of other girls are still trapped…and people need to understand the truth before real change can be made…
Unfortunately this is so common its a call girls warped version of normal
In Minnesota 38-year-old Arteco Marvell Rhodes has been charged with the sex trafficking of a minor but that may be the least of his offenses. Investigators say that Rhodes prostituted a 15-year-old girl from Chicago on Backpage in the St. Paul area. When he picked her up from Chicago he asked her if she wanted to be part of the family to do tricks. For the uninitiated that means he wanted her to work for him as a prostitute. Rhodes is said to have had sex with her twice (child rape) and took photos of them in the act. He then turned her out on Backpage for $85 and kept all the money.
The worst part came when the girl said she didn’t want to work for Rhodes anymore. He then allegedly beat her for 3 hours including hitting her with a baseball bat and then choking her unconscious. While…
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So this morning when I woke up I had an expceptionally bad toothache. Now aside from the early morning scramble to find a tube of oragel it was a particularly stressful day because I keep replaying in my mind the scene in which the toothache began. My toothache is a direct result of an exceptionally bad injury and sustained when I was still under the control of my first pimp. He was by far the worst of them all. Always angry and a drug problem that you wouldn’t believe.
I can’t tell you what he was mad about that day because when I think back I never really know what he was angry about. It was always something that pertained to me being stupid or incompetent or not good enough.
This particular day was that like every other. I had a couple dates, made some money, and he was very very mad. He was shouting and screaming in the face and I was trembling for my life. If I screamed and cried it would only get worse and he would call me weak. He was one of those people that paced he got mad so you would have to follow him from room to room. I do not remember how the argument started but my memory starts when we were in the living room. He was holding me by my throat, dangling me in mid air and I couldn’t breathe. I was flailimg like a fish out of water, gagging for air. I stopped moving and I was almost dead but he let me go just in time. I was incredibly dizzy but he was screaming for me to get off the floor. I tried multiple times to push my body up but it was too weak and I kept slamming my head into the ground because my head would not allow me to pick it up. He was yelling at me more because he thought I was slamming my head on purpose because he knows I had a self injury problem. I hit my head five maybe six times when I could finally get up he was still yelling and I followed him to the bathroom. When I look in the mirror I had bruises all over my forehead and they faded into bruises from a broken nose I had from the week before. Eventually I took a roundhouse kick to the left side of my face. My jaw snapped like a tree and my tooth cracked. Once again I fell to the floor and my face was in a searing pain. I started crying even though that’s typically not allowed in the stable. I was screaming bloody murder and he had realized what he done. I couldn’t open my mouth and my face was swollen 2 times its size. I didn’t even recognize the girl in the mirror with so many bruises. To this day my smile is still crooked but I know how big I am allowed to smile before anyone notices. Most people would be upset by being kicked in the face like this but I was relieved because once he hurts me that badly that means the argument was over. We attempted to go smoke some weed to calm down after all of this but I bit the inside of my lip and it stung to hit the bowl. He had to hit the bowl and blow the smoke into my mouth if I wanted to get high. And I promise you this day I needed to get high. I wasn’t going to go to the hospital so we went to the mob doctor instead and he snapped my jaw back into place. It took days for the swelling to go down and I couldn’t even work. I tried to take a date once but he walked out because my face was horrible. I wasn’t worth his time or money with my disfigurement.
The cracking of my tooth went unnoticed for the most part. I knew my tooth was hurt but with the other injuries it was the least of my worries. I walked around with my cracked tooth for 3 years and it never hurt. About 7 months ago I bit into an apple in half of the tooth came out. It still didnt hurt but I freaked out when I reached to the back of my mouth and half of my tooth was gone. Over the past 7 months it is only hurt once in awhile but over the past few weeks it’s starting to catch up. I know I’ll have to go to the dentist soon and possibly have it removed to work app. But until then I have this nasty little reminder in the back of my mouth about how disgusting this game really is.
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…
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“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.