Friday, July 24, 2009

The Fence

I was still "technically" living with my boyfriend, when it happened. I was running away quite a bit, staying out for days at a time. I would often spend my nights either in the Ivanhoe Hostel, or inside the VIA Rail/Greyhound Bus station. During the day I would get money in various ways. I would go the area where I had previously worked (like worked a legitimate job), and look for people that knew me. I would give them some sob story, and in turn they would give me money. But I could only do that for so long. I was getting desperate.

One afternoon I was outside the bus station, in the park, crying because I was dope sick, and this middle-aged, fat Italian man came up to me. He was one of the guys that would hang out in the park and wait for junkies to come around with their stolen goods, and he would buy things from them. These individuals are called "fences". He said he recognized me from where I used to work, and asked me why I was crying. I gave him some bull$#% story (what that story was I have no idea..can't even remember) and he said he would help me out. He offered to buy me something to eat. I wasn't hungry, just wanted dope, but still I accepted.

After I ate I honestly expected him to float me twenty bucks or something and then I would be on my way, and he on his, and that would be that. So I was sort of surprised when he said he had to go pick something up at a friends, and that I should come, we will go grab a coffee on the way, then he will give me some money. I was like "okay", honestly thinking that was what was going to happen. We get in his car, and drive to an apartment building on Davie St. and he says to me, "well just come upstairs with me, I will just be a second". Fine. I go upstairs with him to his friend's apartment, and am sort of weirded out when his friend grabs his keys and puts on his shoes, and is about to leave. And while he is doing this, the two of them are talking in Italian to each other. Still, I stay.

We sit down at the dinner table, and I asked him why his friend left, he gave me some stupid reason. Then asks me if I let him give me a massage he will give me $50.00. Right away I was like, "No way!!". But after much convincing, and meanwhile my dope sickness is getting worse, I agree. BUT, I agreed he could only massage my shoulders, that's it.

We go over to the couch, and he starts giving me the massage - and of course it doesn't take long for things to take a nasty turn. I just wanted my money, and I did push his hands away, but he was very persisitent. Telling me to relax, etc. Eventually, I let it happen. I honestly felt like that was the only way I was going to get out of there. We didn't have sex or anything, he just touched me, but still I cried the whole time. I remember thinking to myself, "how the hell did I get myself into this situation??", and I really could not BELIEVE that this was even happening. I just separated my body from my mind, which is what I had to do. This was so against what I knew in my mind to be rational, respectable behavior. It was my body being molested, not my mind. Or so I thought. Then it was over. He gave me his phone number and $50.00. Then he asked me if he could see me again, and I said yes. I needed money, and he had money. Afterwords, I scored, then went home to my boyfriend.

And the next time I saw "him" it went a step further. He was actually nice to me, I mean he didn't treat me horribly, we would have normal conversations before and after, but in retrospect I realize that he knew I was in a hurting situation and he totally took advantage of it. A predator obviously. But totally oblivious, he had no problem sleeping at night, I was nobody to him, just a vessel. But it easy money. And once you lose respect for yourself, it really gets alot easier. You do what you were hired to do, then clock out.

I feel like I just recanted these events in a very matter of fact, non-emotional tone. Please understand, I had to because it actually makes me feel sick to my stomach when I think about it. I was a changed person after I met that individual. It's weird when you can actually look back at your life and know one of the exact moments that change you life forever. A pivotal incident that alters your path.

I will always remember this person. People always DO remember their first times doing lots of things. So I guess I am no different. But I will always remember his name, his face, the clothes he was wearing that day, the apartment building and apt. number of his friend's place, what I ate when he bought me a meal...and I remember the sound of his voice too.

He will make an appearance more than once.

Thursday, July 23, 2009

Stay tuned for the next installment,"The Fence", about the accident that wound up being my first time.

Tuesday, July 21, 2009


When I first began using heroin everyday, I was what you might call a functioning addict. I had a job, boyfriend, social life. But it didn't take long for it all to come crashing down. It started with me having to use at work. I had to score on my breaks otherwise I would be sick. And I started work early too, at like 5:30am - and waiting until the dope dealer turned on his phone at 10am was seriously the LONGEST four and half hours I have ever had to endure. I was already hiding it from my live in boyfriend, and from friends - or at least I thought I was. I was quickly running out of sources for money, as my job was no longer providing the amount of cash I needed everyday. I remember right before it came out that I was using, I had told my boyfriend that I had my wallet stolen, so I didn't have the rent money. And I actually filed a police report, just to make my story that much more convincing. I did lots of stupid things and it was truly exhausting.

ANYWAYS, I am including these details to make it understood that no one ever starts out prostituting themselves. Or at least I didn't. It is a last resort. And once you do it once, it gets easier every time. Its sort of like virginity.

I actually had a relationship with someone that I met downtown, he had been one of my "dates", and he had the nerve to tell me that he thought I was addicted to sex, and that's why I was prostituting. What an idiot. Ask any woman in the downtown east side, if she is working cause she likes giving ********, and she will laugh in your face. And it IS a job, that's why its referred to as "working".

Prostitution Tails (Intro)

As an ex-prostititute (or "sex trade worker"), I find myself with the desire to purge my soul of various tales of triumph and woe, that I survived whilst working as a lady of the night. This will not be in any chronological order, as some memories are more vivid than others and some are not as close to the surface. I usually remember the buried memories when I wake up at three in the morning, with a clear picture in my head some obscure event that happened many years ago. But I assure you, this is all true. I dont know why I have decided to share this now, I am now living a regular life, contributing positively to society, abiding by rules and laws - this will be a sort of descent and ascent of my experiences with drug abuse and selling my body.

Here we go.