I had a pimp but I did not know it

IMG_20170626_214856.pngIn 2002 I was addicted to crack cocaine and turned to hooking on the streets of downtown Honolulu to support my habit. I was not one of the expensive streetwalkers who strolled Kuhio Avenue in Waikiki wearing platform shoes with the fake fish appearing to swim in glass heels. These women were usually young, attractive under lots of make up, often walked in pairs, and came out at night. They dressed like hookers on tv, which was my only frame of reference. The women did not appear to mind that their mission was easy to guess. Truth in advertising must have worked well because they were out every night. Their activities were closely monitored by black men, also young, who sat in luxury cars parked on the side streets like Lewers or Beachwalk. These young black men approached any woman they noticed who watched, not where she was going, but the slow moving traffic on Kuhio Avenue. If they spotted a woman trying to make eye contact with male drivers they were quick to approach. And I do mean quick. In under twenty minutes a black man would have come up to me to see what I was all about.

“I am not what you’re looking for,” I would say immediately for I already knew our purposes were incompatible. He wanted all my money and so did I. We would never come to terms.

“Fine as you are, you shouldn’t be out here on your own. You need to choose a family,” said one young man who was nattily dressed and pressed. I had never seen a pimp that wasn’t a clothes horse.

“You are offering me a family,” I wanted to be done with the conversation because absolutely no man would ever stop for a woman if she was seen talking to a black man for fear she had a pimp who would try to rob him.

“I’m not offering a family. You have to pay the choosing fee. The higher the fee the higher quality the girl. And if you come correct you might even come in as the bottom bitch.” The “bottom bitch” was like the head hooker, the number one earner and the number one in status among all the girls in the “stable.” She often thought of herself as the pimp’s real girlfriend though he was not expected to be monogamous and she was expected to keep earning. Black guys understood that “trickin’ ain’t about nothin'” in other words a woman had zero emotional involvement in the tricks, but loved her man. Working girls are so disconnected from caring about the tricks they are almost like men in the way men can de-personalize the sexual experience.

“I’m supposed to pay you to have the honor of giving you all of my money? That makes no sense to me. I am not the one.” I was obviously dismissive never considering that I might appear rude.

The young man, even younger than me, gave me another more critical once over. “You givin’ somebody all your money or you wouldn’t have dirt under your fingernails. You look like you need to come up and get away from your bad habits.” I wasn’t the only one who could be dismissive.

I was offended. I knew why I did what I did but I did not want to look like I did what I did. I wanted to believe I kept my secrets secret. Surely no one could guess that while I hoped for $100 I would grudgingly accept as little as $20 and I would racewalk from the trick’s car to the closest crack dealer, usually to be found among groups of Samoan men but sometimes their girlfriends sold, or in one case the elderly grandmother in a wheelchair who stashed the $20 baggies of crack in the wheelchair’s parking brake. “Who says I have a habit at all?” I demanded, trying to sound outraged but really I was curious to know what gave me away and if I could change the clue.

“You wouldn’t even be out here talkin’ to me. You totally out of pocket [completely inappropriate]. Now you better get from ’round here and go back downtown with the other crack ho’s where you belong. Y’all drive the Waikiki prices down.”

“What happened to your choosing fee?” I called as I walked away, as if I were leaving voluntarily.

“You already chose. You been had a pimp you give all your money to. You just to dumb to know it.”

He was right.


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. ExpertEscort2018.com/ 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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