Biography of whores

Below she describes how she got involved in “street work” and why, after thirty years, she devoted her life to help other young girls not to get into the same trap. We warn that this article may unpleasantly hit. From the very beginning, life turned to me not the best side by my side - but I, as I could, tried to expand it. I grew up in E in Chicago West Side. My mother died when I was six months old.

She was only sixteen, and I never found out what she died from - a grandmother, who regularly looked into a glass, did not want to tell me. According to the official version, death occurred "for natural reasons." I don't believe it. Do they die "for natural reasons" at sixteen? The thought that God decided to take it to Him calm. I heard that she was very beautiful and had a good sense of humor.

I believe this, because I have it beautiful. My grandmother raised me. As a man, she was not bad, in places very wonderful. She read books to me, baked cookies for me, cooked the best potatoes in the world. The only problem was a drink. Sometimes she brought friends-drinkers from the bar home. When she got drunk and fell asleep, these friends clung to me.

This began when I was four or five years old, and was repeated regularly. I am sure that my grandmother did not know anything about it. She worked as a servant in the suburbs. She went two hours to get to work, and two hours on the road back home. Therefore, I was a typical "child with a key on her neck" - on a rope under a T -shirt I wore a key, went to kindergarten myself and then returned home.

Men in the neighborhood knew about this, and some did not hesitate to use it. On the street near our house, I sometimes saw women with lush hairstyles and in brilliant dresses.

I had no idea what they were doing. I only thought that they were very beautiful and bright; Like many little girls, I also wanted to be bright. Once I asked my grandmother what these women are doing. She replied: "They take off their panties in front of men, and they give them money." I also thought: "Oh, I will do that too! I remember how, being one at home, I had fun in the company of imaginary friends with whom I sang and danced.

I think it helped me in life. I was a rather sociable girl and laughed a lot. At the same time, I constantly felt fear. I did not understand why I was to blame for what was happening to me. Perhaps something is wrong with me, I thought. Although I was smart, I gradually abandoned my studies. At the beginning of X, I no longer knew how to say no. If the neighboring guys said that they like me, or they did something good for me, I did not refuse anything to them.

At fourteen, I already had two children from neighbors, two small girls. Grandmother began to say that I should earn something to feed these children. There was not enough food in the house, there was almost nothing. So, one evening - it was, moreover, a passionate Friday - I went out onto the corner of the streets divine and Clark and took a place in front of the Mark Twain hotel.

I had a costume worth 3 dollars 99 cents, cheap leather shoes and bright orange lipstick, which, in the opinion, would add me to years. I was fourteen, and I cried all that night. But I did it. I did not like it, but the five men with whom I managed to meet that night showed me what and how to do. They saw that I was very young, and it seemed they liked it.

I earned dollars, but did not spend money on a taxi. I went home to the subway and gave almost all the money to my grandmother, who did not ask where they came from. Next week I returned to the same place. Grandmother seemed to be happy when I brought money home again. But for the third time, two men, threatening with pistols, stuffed me into the trunk of their car. They did this because I "did not have a representative" on this street, as they called it.

But at that time I saw only a little light in the trunk, and then again - again the face of these two men with pistols. At first they took me to an open field and raped me there. Then - to the hotel room where they locked me in the closet. All this is the typical behavior of pimp, the purpose of which is to break the will of the girl. They kept me there for a long time.

I begged me to let me go because I was hungry, but I was released only when I agreed to work for them. For some time, about six months, they traded me as property. They didn’t let me go home. Several times I tried to run away, but they caught me and made me very painful. Later I was resolded by other pimps. Physical violence was terrible, but the worst of all was mental violence.

They said things that stick to you and suppress you, which you can’t drop off yourself. Penetors are skilled executioners, they know how to manipulate well. Sometimes they wake you in the middle of the night, putting a gun to the temple. Others are pretending to be appreciated for some time, and you are already starting to feel like Cinderella before meeting with the prince.They ask for a sweet and magical voice: "Do this for me only, and then there will be only pleasantnesses." You think: "Well, my life is already not to hell, it will not change anything even a little nasty things." But pleasantness never come.

People sometimes describe prostitution as something glamorous, elegant - as in the film "Beauty". In fact, everything is not so close. During the day, a prostitute can accept up to five customers, usually strangers. For a year, these are more men with whom she had sexual intercourse or oral sex. This is no relationship, no one brings me flowers, believe me. They just use my body as a toilet.

In addition, customers often turn cruelly. They shot me five times, cut it 13 times with a knife. I don’t know why these men pounced on me. All that I know is the society for this comfortable conditions for this. They came with their fury, mental illness, or what they still had, and tore all this on a prostitute, knowing that I would not go to the police, and if even had gone, no one will take me seriously there.

Actually, I was very lucky. I had friends - beautiful girls who died on the street. I worked as a prostitute for 14 or 15 years before I began to use drugs. But sooner or later, having exhausted all your resources, after you were strangled with a pillow or cut with a knife, your system needs any doping for courage. I was a prostitute for 25 years and did not see a single way to break with this.

But once - it was April 1 and I was almost 40 - the client threw me out of the car. My dress caught on the door, and he dragged me six quarters on the asphalt. I ripped off all the skin on one side of the face and body. I went to the Chicago City Hospital, and I was immediately brought into an emergency room. Because of my condition, the administration called a policeman.

He looked at me and said: "Ah, I know her! This is a whore. Probably, she broke some client, stole money from him, and then got what he deserved." I heard the nurse laughed with him. They pushed me out of the office, because I cost nothing and did not deserve even first aid. It was at this time, while I was waiting for the next shift so that someone still looked at my injuries, I began to think about everything that happened in my life.