A Day In The Life: An Untold Version of Normal

“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.

My Pimp’s Arrest…Salvation?

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.

The Newspaper…

I had to luxury of anonymously speaking to the Honolulu Star Advertiser.  They have done a few different pieces on Honolulu Prostitution over the years and it was nice to shed some light on the business and actually be heard.  The piece actually pissed off a lot of people on the island. GOOD.  I want them to be mad.  I want them to understand that this isn’t a joke.  I reported being sold from one pimp to another for $7,500 and even though people don’t know it’s me, that’s okay.  They don’t need to know who it happened to, just that it happened.  Once people heard that girls around here actually get sold like property the topic in finally getting the attention it deserves.  I will link below to two older pieces that the newspaper has done that you can read.  The one I spoke in, which came on on Father’s Day and actually made front page news cannot yet be read without a paid subscription to the paper but I will scan it into the computer later tonight (when I am awake alone and no one knows what I am doing…so it might take a day or so)  I am sure that they wouldn’t care but the safe house still trips me out even though the people here are more than great.



The Call I Have Been Waiting For…Sort Of..

Within the last ten minutes I received a call from my advocate.  Honolulu Police Department is almost sure that they have tracked down my pimp and are following him until they are sure it is him to arrest him before he leaves for Las Vegas tomorrow.  They asked if I had any definitive description of him that may help make the positive identification.  He has no visible scars of tattoos…so it’s not very easy.

I have been waiting for this call for three weeks…but now that I have got it, I am not as settled as I would like to be.  I am more than happy to be out of the game, but as someone who has done a few short stints in Jail, I would never want to put anyone there.  I have been trained to not be a ‘snitch’.  I would be lying if I didn’t secretly hope that he made it to Vegas without getting caught.  I do not want to stand up against him in court.

I do not want to look at him in the face and be the reason you go to jail for so long.  We have been through things together, ya know?  In a sense, for a very long time he has taken care of me.  He was the nicest pimp I ever had.  He didn’t hit me or abuse me.  We had a level of understanding…I won’t run or snitch or steal and you don’t hurt me or threaten me.  Aside from being my pimp, I can say that we are somewhat friends.  I have been in the Game a long time and I have a deeper understanding of it that he shares with me that a lot of the newer…and dumber girls don’t have.

I got this call and I am very anxious.  I do not know if I feel good about this.  It is actually making me a little sick.  I imagine that I will not sleep tonight.  I don’t know if I will have to go to the station and identify him, but I imagine that I will.  At what point will he know I am the one that snitched?

I was one of his most loved and trusted girls, and I feel very unloyal.  This goes against anything in the Game I have ever been taught.  He even boasted after I disappeared that “she(me) isn’t a snitch and can be trusted”.  It makes me feel pretty guilty for defying someone that has put so much trust within me.

I am very anxious right now.  Especially since he has not yet been arrested and they are just watching and following someone they believe to be him.  A little sense of relief will come when he is arrest I am sure but at the same time it is going to open up a whole new world of things….ugh…I didn’t think it would be this hard…but at the same time I did…

An Open Letter to Men Who Would Buy Me

Dear John,

If you like sex…that’s okay.  If you love women…that’s normal.  If you are a good man, listen up.  If you are a man who thinks it is okay to buy women for sex…this is to you.  If you think that you are paying for sex in a “mutually beneficial” arrangement, think again.  If you think you are “helping me” in any way…I am directing this at you.  If you are a evil man who treats women with disrespect, feel free to disregard.  This is letter to all of those johns who consider themselves a “good” man.

I have met so many of you.  Too many.  In all shapes and sizes.  Old men, young men.  Fat, skinny, married, single, drug dealers, lawyers, police officers, I have seen them all.  You are not special.  Not one of you.  I do not understand how you justify yourself.  You think putting your penis inside of me is okay because you are kind.  Those places are the most private part of me.  And even though they are for sale, they were never meant to be.  I never wanted them to be.  Could you ever see your daughter in this business?  No?  Guess what,  I am someone’s daughter, too.

That money that you give me?  You’re not paying me.  You’re paying some man just as disgusting as you are.  You buy me like property in a store.  You compare my looks to the looks of the girls next to me and decide that I am most your type.  Before you bought my like a doll behind closed plastic did you ever once stop to think that there is a human being with a mind, heart and soul of their own behind that body that you lust for so much?

You think you are okay.  You didn’t hit me or rob me.  You didn’t roofie my drink.  You asked me how my day was going.  Maybe you asked me how I got caught up in this…here’s a hint, I lied to you.  You stroked my hair and gave me a back massage.  Maybe even got me to smile.  Here’s another hint…I’m the best actress you have ever met.

But you never asked about my scars.  You never asked about the bruises, and the burns.  Or maybe you did.  Some of you ask if someone is hurting me.  Did you ever take a look in the mirror as you asked this?  Because there is someone right there.  You are the sweet, kind rapist.  A victimless crime, you say?  The damage is unreversable.  Damage that you as well as the man after you and the man after him all helped to cause.  You call yourself my friend…you bring me gifts from time to time.  I hate you all the same.  My smile allows you to trick yourself.  Why do you think they call it a trick anyway?

Sure, maybe you lost a few dollars.  I had to dish out something too.  I had to swallow my pride.  Fake a laugh.  And pretend that I don’t feel like it’s rape every time you penetrate me.  You think because you hold me after that it doesn’t hurt so bad…but it’s even worse.  Don’t hold me like I am yours because I am someone else’s.  He treats me like property, just like you.  And he paid a lot more for me than you did.  He is probably hiding in the next room over.  Your warm, sweet embrace makes me even more sick than when you were pounding away at my body…and more importantly, my sanity.

Everybody loves me, but nobody loves me.  Do you understand that?  I know you do.  Because you love me, but you don’t love me.  You have fooled yourself into thinking that your sweet demeanor makes you less harmful.  And that since I smile or laugh, that you are not so bad.  You think I enjoyed your company just as much as you enjoyed mine.

You say you are a “good man”.  The words I speak could never pertain to you.  Open your ears.  And next time you meet a girl like me…ask yourself not how she got there, but who put her there.  Who is benefiting from her having sex with you…because it is not her.  If you look in her eyes and don’t see your daughter than you are just as sick as the man before you.  and the man who most certainly will come after.  If you have convinced yourself that your actions are warranted and that you are not hurting anyone…than the trick worked on you after all.  Welcome to the Game, buddy.


That Girl You Say You Never Hurt