Pretty Girl

More Than Money, 01/26/2018
One provider took a great deal of pleasure in looking pretty. She derived even more pleasure from the acknowledgement of her beauty. She loved sauntering down the sidewalk and catching male drivers doing a double take, eyes wide and interested, when they saw her. She loved when cars screeched to a halt beside her on the so called “ho stroll” (the colloquial term for the public street sex workers frequented). Sure, she spent time with men for the money but her motivation wasn’t limited to money. She loved the ego boost she received when people called her beautiful. If she went a day without a compliment she actually craved the praise. She wondered if she needed the props, but quickly dismissed the notion of psychological dependency as absurd. She told herself could quit seeking compliments anytime she wanted. It’s not like she needed people to tell her she was beautiful to feel special. It was just nice. Who wouldn’t like a steady influx of admiration. In a life that was devoid of family (because she was a born orphan) and friends (because she chose the company of substances over the company of people) without companionship from her work she would be totally alone. If she gave up her off track lifestyle, what would she do to endure her isolation. Never skilled at making friends, the fleeting nature of the client relationship was perfect because they parted ways before she could say something insulting. She did not make lasting friends in the sex industry, but prior to her work as a hooker she never had friends anyway. As a sex worker she at least had something, and something beats nothing every day of the week and twice on Sunday. If she was totally by herself would she grow strange (or stranger)like those women with 17 cats. Maybe in a world of isolation her cat conversations would be more elaborate, during which she would not just talk to her pet cat but she’d also hear the cat respond. One thing that surprised her about men who paid for women’s companionship was how often the men were truly lonely, in addition to being truly horny. What surprised her even more was how much solace working as a prostitute gave her. Every day as she walked to the ho stroll her heart was light and a sense of unlimited possibilities filled her spirit. All of those people who said she should stop hooking, said she was taken advantage of, those people would not be around when she was alone. And none of them ever called her pretty.


Published by X-Streetwalker Turned Sex Talker

Caroleena used to be a drug addicted hooker on streets of downtown Honolulu in the early years of the 21st century. She was not the only learned streetwalker among the sex worker addicts. This group would have been a liberal college admissions officer's dream of diversity seeing as how they represented such a wide range of ages, races, family types, locations of origin, education levels, and gender identities. The two constants were trauma and dependency. Everyone out there had experienced life altering trauma which spurred them to seek refuge in drugs. Addiction was the unexpected phenomenon that kept them stuck in the dope. This downtown area was different from other drug saturated areas of America in one important way. The U.S. is the most violent country in the world, but in this corner of the nation there were no street gangs, no gun violence. You wouldn't get shot but you were probably going to be beaten up and robbed at some point. Interpersonal violence between intimate partners, friends, and family members was viewed as a natural part of being close to people. "Domestics" was something an individual brought upon herself or himself by causing problems in an interpersonal relationship. Caroleena, the perennial pariah even among society's rejects, had no intimate associates who might harm her. Prostitution was not as risky on Oahu as it was most everywhere else because the island was just too small. Everyone was somehow connected to everyone else with only something like two degrees of separation. You commit a crime, someone will know who you are and someone else will know how to find you. Hookers rarely got killed. Honolulu's relative safety allowed Caroleena over 10 years of street longevity until the scene ended when authorities started arresting men for allegedly soliciting undercover police for sex and posting their pictures on the evening news. tells Caroleena's adventures during her decade of addiction and its consequences--homelessness, prostitution, drug dealing, incarceration, family destruction, the list goes on. Every story relates events Caroleena experienced, witnessed, or imagined. The tale of this outcast is skillfully and paradoxically told in the language of the elite. The wording of the posts is itself a testimony to the wide grip that addiction has on all levels of society, even impacting the privileged who were previously thought to be immune to the troubles of the lower class. During these days of opiate addiction maybe she can answer some questions and present applicable solutions. If not, you are still in for a hell of a good read.

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