Yesterday I saw a story on a news/entertainment programming about a 23 year old woman preparing to auction her virginity to the highest bidder later in 2018. Preliminary bids top a million dollars. There’s so much to say on this subject I will divide comments into multiple blogs
I have received much condemnation from people who learn of my past in the Sex industry. People seem to think of prostitutuon as a deviation from the norm–a low class immoral act committed by a tiny sector of ostracized individuals. My position is that sex always costs–everyone. Sex for sale is the foundation of Sex across societies. Virginity is one of the most valuable commodities. “Why buy the coworker if you can get the milk for free?” was an expression I learned as a child that meant a man won’t marry (and financially support) a woman who fails to trade virginity for marriage. In other words if she “gives it up” she is “easy” and her marriage prospects (men with wealth) dwindle to nothing if she does not “save herself for marriage.” Sometimes a woman’s virginity does not belong to her but to her family who uses it as a bargaining chip. Diana’s virginal status was confirmed by Royal doctors before she wed Prince Charles. Prince Charles could not marry the woman he truly loved because she was divorced. He had to have his children borne by a virgin. In the movie Titanic the widowed mother explains to her nubile daughter that they were poor except for the daughter’s appeal, and if said daughter did not marry the wealthy jerk both mother and daughter would be destitute (the movie does not show how the daughter avoided poverty after the ship went down). I am told that in the Middle East young women are killed by male family members if they lose their honor (virginity) without giving their families a chance to make money off of their chastity. To be fair I have no first hand Knowledge of “honor killings” and I don’t take everything I see on television at face value.
I did personally witness a father’s appropriation of the virginity of his three daughters. A few years ago I was in a west Oahu convention hall listening to an evangelical preacher explain how he had raised a “godly” family. He told his three beautiful teenage daughters to stand. Then he announced “my three daughters are virgins and will remain so until their wedding nights.” The room erupted in wild applause and cheers. The daughters were not asked to contribute to the discussion before they took their seats. The collections flowed freely from the crowd to his ministry.
Virginity has monetary value. Someone always seeks to profit from delivering an “intact” young woman to a man who can return the favor by bestowing wealth and status upon the bearer of that precious gift. If we as women are going to be sold, why don’t we sell ourselves? Yet we rightly fear the vociferous criticism and condemnation. If someone else owns us we are “good girls” but if we assert our bodies-our selves, we are “bad girls.” And believe me, the punishment is a life sentence
Harvard Hooker, July 8, 2018
I did not expect to become the lowest person in everyone’s opinion. Sure, I knew that people who lived conventional lefeztyles would certainly look askance at my way of life. But I did not expect people who lived beyond the pale of normal society to look down at me. Im talking about thieves, extortionists, ne’er-do-wells of various types. I always held myself above peoe who had to cheat to make a living. After all, people choose to give me their money. And they do not ever want it back. If I had to resort to stealing it would have to mean my looks and/or skills had fallen below my acceptable standards. I worked out enough to stay in shape and I always acquired continuing education credits in sensual arts. I was self satisfied and I imagine many self satisfied people think others share our view of ourselves. I discovered a definite difference of opinion among a small group I recently spent some time with for companionship. They were gamblers and soent enormous amounts of time in “game rooms around Honolulu. Game rooms are secret, dingy spots where people put thousands of dollars in electronic video type games that have the visual sophistication of Atari. I don’t gamble because too many people get in trouble with it not to believe it’s potentially addictive. Bit I was a willing audience for tales of huge riches lost and small sums clawed back. Over the course of telling these tales someone let it slip that I had a nickname. Unbeknownst to me they called me the Harvard Hooker. I wasn’t offended by the name since it wad an amusing spin on a sometimes grim reality. I wad upset that thr title was meant ad an insult and was told to me to stir my ire against someone they disliked. They did not disagree with the appellation or the sentiment behind it. They not only didn’t respect me but they actively participated in badmouthing me and casting me aside as an unworthy other. What does it mean when the people you think you are settling for reject you?
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I hope many people want to hear from this ex-streetwalker now sex talker. I learned how to sell it .my ivy league education has given me the ability to tell it. At first I was feeding a drug habit but even after I had the dope I kept working because I liked the money, so I can’t claim I was entirely motivated by that mental illness-or moral weakness, however you consider addiction . Over the course of a fifteen year career I heard a lot of personal thoughts and desires that men would never on God’s green earth tell anyone .But they told me because they viewed me as smart enough to understand yet I lacked the social status to reveal information to others because no one would care what a hooker had to say. No one feared exposure and I truly loved the part of my job that entailed listening. I noticed that many men had the same feelings but they did not know bc no one compares their deepest secrets and inner shame. But what if I could change this isolation by talking about what I learned so people could see they are not alone, not uniquely weird. I think of my beloved friend who lived his whole life unnecessarily feeling like an oddity bc he never knew that I had heard many others express similar desires. I want one person to take comfort in knowing she or he is not alone after reading my words and very soon, seeing my videos on YouTube.
Clients confided in the Ivy League educated hooker–me. Why? I was smart enough to understand anything they shared. Equally important, my status as social outcast meant even if I told their secrets few would listen to me. Of those who listen, few of that small number would believe me. Almost no one would care what a woman of ill repute had to say. I understood their secrets and kept those precious gifts safe since I couldn’t tell on them even if I wanted to! Of course, I did not want to unlock the vault and violate trust. I said nothing and remembered what I heard. learned that many men lived in shame BC of the erroneous belief that they were different than others. They did not know that their confessions had been echoed by others. I had a friend who lived his whole life never fully accepting himself BC he thought he was uniquely weird. He was wrong. His alienation was unnecessary pain. If he knew what I knew his life could have been happier. The only way I can form a community out of shared secrets, mostly sexual, but not entirely, is to tell the secrets while maintaining perfect confidentiality. My blog tells of my experiences with the emotions and musings of people in the sex industry now, and in my past (up to 15 years ago). The purpose of every post is to comfort to at least one person with the assurance that someone else felt/thought the same way. The feelings and thoughts are true, the people and events combine interviews, personal experience, and fiction. You cannot meet Caroleena bc she does not exist beyond this site. But she speaks truth. Sometimes your truth. You are not alone with your secrets. Come, let me show you.
How is business now that changes in federal lawgiver resulted in the removal of advertising sites for providers? I asked around. One provider was happy you discover that her business volume was unaffected. Clients could no longer find new people to satisfy the peer pressure that drove guys you be the first to find the newest providers–and write about the providers. Instead, people she had contacted before looked her up. There were people who considered her before, but never took the plunge because in her case she is not white, Asian, or 20-something. Now these people took out her number and shot her done texts. She is grateful that she used s job she does not enjoy to keep herself in stable housing. Without s place of her own, her possessions would be stolen. No more phone, say goodbye to valuable contact lists, and forget about people being able to look her up a year later. Either she’d be between phones or so stressed by shuffling between on Guy’s place to the next, she’d forget you ask for the same number for the replacement phone. So–great! But a part of her, that brutally honest part, reminds her she is only treading water. She dates successfully, even though she hates taking strangers into her body. This success allows her to date more. And so on. How you get out of this cycle with a front on her record and no startup money for an entrepreneurial effort? Suggestions?
Want an insiders view into the life of s “provider” or escort or prostitute–pick your term. I will follow this message with a copy of s historic document. I am in communication with providers. Yes, it is possible to go to certain areas of Homolulu and catch a man’s eye as he slowly drives. With a subtle nod a woman (or a man dressed as a woman or “mahu”), can signal for the driver to pull over. He pulls over, she gets in the vehicle and then…the details will follow in another post. This post concerns itself with Internet advertising. Providers could post pictures with their email addresses and even phone numbers on certain sites. Would-be clients select providers on the basis of these ads and in the case of some sites, men critique providers in reviews. I was fortunate enough to obtain a message posted b a site that has been out of commission since April 11, 2017. When you read the post you will see that a historic event has occurred in the sex industry and I invite you to join me on the adventure that can be titled “Now What?”
It just occurred to me that in a sense I really am a virgin. After all, I have never been with a woman. Does anyone knows what lesbians consider losing their virginity. When can it be said that one has engaged in lesbian sex–officially? Always the standard for sex has been penetration but with lesbians that isn’t an issue–or is it? I don’t know because when it comes to lesbianism I am a virgin. I bet there would be a lot of people interested in knowing if I take the step to change this, and the process involved. Any thoughts?
The ideal sex partner. Women often describe this imaginary person in terms of personality traits as they imagine the doting partner. Men picture the person’s appearance. I have not said anything earth shattering and original so why are you reading the words of an author (moi) who offers well worn notions? Because I am sure you will be as surprised as I am when I reveal to you what men really want, in their heart of hearts. I discovered the secret image of man’s ideal sex partner. I know what very many men want, not because of what men said to me, but because of what men asked of me. The question that I have heard over 100 times (literally not figuratively) was a question that shocked me because it was so unexpected.
“Are you a boy or a girl?”
If I thought the question was a shocker, the correct answer was even more surprising. When I was asked that question I almost always had the wrong answer. When I gave the answer more often than not I was given 20 much appreciated dollars for my time and let off at the next block along Kukui Street in downtown Honolulu. Why?
“I’m looking for bbc,” someone told me as he pulled over to the curb to get rid of me.
“What’s that?” I asked, since I was never up on slang.
“You don’t know what that is? Look it up.” So I looked it up. My research revealed that what men wanted was the face of a beautiful woman and a curvy body. Check and check. I thought I was good to go and so did many drivers when they first spotted me and their hearts filled with a hope they’d hardly ever say aloud.
I missed out on being the perfect sex object because I didn’t have a penis. No bbc here. A strap on was not acceptable because anyone could get that.
“If only you had a dick” lamented one disappointed would-be client.
If I could not offer bbc I could not be at the top level of desirability. True story.
I was a 23 year old resident of Manhattan at the end of the 20th century. About halfway through my second year of teaching middle school & second year of grad school I met these people at a bar with a would-be boyfriend who was totally trying to ditch me and my neediness. They were unlike anyone I had met before in my school bound life. They smoked. And not just cigarettes. Something out of a glass tube that crackles when the lighter’s flame touched it. I had never held a lighter, never seen a drug before. I wouldn’t have been able to pick an illegal substance out of a line up. If I hooked up with these people I could have a grand adventure. School was out for the Christmas holiday–in those days you could say Christmas without being called culturally incompetent. When it was time to go back to school I would stop seeing these people and certainly stop…drugs. Dare I say it? And what was this drug I asked the guy who identified himself as a “promoter” but he never seemed to work. The girl answered for Johnny. The girl was going to be my first same sex experience and I guess she was. But I only held her attention long enough for some deep kisses. After that she was back to the tube, or “pipe.” Laura told me, this is freebasing cocaine.” She was so matter fact I hid my shocked response. Of course freebasing cocaine wasn’t crack, they reassured me and I believed them bc they were white and lived in midtown, not Harlem. Also they were my age and somehow that mattered. Well, alright as long as it wasn’t crack and it was their treat. This was huge! A glimpse into a whole new world. So what if the boyfriend didn’t work out and the potential girlfriend lost interest and I had spent another Christmas without family? If a behavior was extreme enough i could lose myself in the adventure of being “all caught up in it.” Do I need to tell you what you could see coming from a mile away? To be clear I will lay out the truth. Of course it was crack. Naturally they targeted me bc I had a job and would end up paying all the time. And you know it, the glimpse became a permanent way of life. From then on everything that happened in my life was drug related bc if I wasn’t using I was actively abstaining. From then til today, over 20 years later, drugs are a part of me. I’ve got to watch those glimpses I take!
Educated Escort? Yes, that’s what I became. No one expects someone with my skin color
who works in my profession to begin an encounter discussing the three main ideas of The Art of
War, by Lao Tzu. Sure I it is pompous to discuss ancient Chinese philosophy. Nevertheless, I
like to introduce myself by going a little over the top in my emphasis on my academic
background because I like to see the look of surprise on the face of a person who had me
pigeonholed into one category, only to find out I was nothing like stereotypes suggest. I’m a
contrary individual in that I like being defiant. I’m not what you think I am! But the truth is, prior
to my own involvement in this off track way of life, I had the same stereotypes about people I
read of in the paper, or viewed in PBS documentaries. Twenty years ago I never would have
met the me I am now, or if I did meet her I would want to help, since I was a service provider
clearly separate from “them.”
When I first tried narcotics and faced the seemingly daunting task of purchasing drugs by
myself, I thought I would have to find young black men grouped in surly clusters on the corners
of streets named after MLK. I was sure they’d , all have guns at the ready. I imagined having to
learn how to pass money in exchange for dope through complicated handshakes that
incorporated palm slapping, finger snapping, and ghetto slang (what the press called “Ebonics”
in the 1990’s). I was enormously surprised to find that drugs were not just a black thing but
people of all races and ages did drugs- and sold drugs. I began my addiction career at age 23
and it was then that I had proof positive that media portrayals were…not entirely accurate.
Nevertheless I still felt shame that in a way I became what everyone expected of students who
were admitted to elite colleges bc of affirmative action. So when a white man does a double
take upon hearing me say “media portrayal” I smile to myself because I know what he would
never want to think is true- that I am more like him than not. And if I’m being really honest I will
admit I am trying to prove this commonality to myself.
As a responsible adult I have always taken HIV tests every six months, regardless of my perception of personal risk. I have always feared AIDS, well maybe not in the early days when AIDS had nothing whatsoever to do with me, or so I was told. As a precocious child I remember reading about “gay cancer” and “GRID–gay related immunodeficiency” as AIDS was presented to the public in the early 1980’s. News about AIDS was the vehicle that taught me about the existence of homosexuality. I did not know anyone who self identified as gay. Gay was a word used as an accusation and an insult. What did male homosexuality have to do with me? I imagined a sharp dividing line between straight people (us) and gay people (them). I felt sorry for gay men, so outnumbered by “normal” people. Society taught us kids early on the standard for normal. For example, prior to the widespread use of sonograms, the gender of unborn babies was a surprise. Expectant mothers received gifts in gender neutral colors like yellow. Blue is for boy, pink is for girls. In English class we were taught to refer to all unborn babies as boys as a matter of proper grammar. Similarly, all people were considered heterosexual unless there was a dramatic “coming out” announcement that resulted in possible familial and societal rejection as people choose to live as gay “instead.”
No way did gay people have a choice, in my young opinion. I could not imagine anyone choosing to subject themselves to a virulent hatred that looked worse than the racism I endured as a suburban New Yorker where neighbors looked nothing like me. It was said that AIDS was a punishment from on high for people who chose to traipse down a path of unthinkable degeneracy. Gay people deceived themselves that their lifestyle had no consequences given the decreased likelihood of procreation. AIDS was a triumphant “Told you so!”” We were right about you.
Then Mr. Brady died of AIDS. Or the actor that played the role that represented the proper sexual arrangement of the family even through the challenge of remarriage. Another shock–the death of an actor who was famous before my time for representing masculinity. Rock Hudson was gay. My understanding of sexual preference shifted to cause me to discard the word preference altogether. People are not gay or straight, this or that. People can be this and that. My desire to share my revolutionary understanding of true sexual norms is the motivation for this blog. I want you to know that if you struggle within because you too heard that gay is not normal, rest assured, homosexual practices are very normal.
So if gay people are not separate from straight people then the risk of
contracting HIV is universal. When I went for my HIV test, the counselor asked me to guess how many of my sex partners were men who had been with other men. I said, “ I cannot say anything is true of everyone. My guess is, most of the men I have been with have been with other men.” The counselor gaped at me. “You are the wisest woman I have ever tested.”
The counselor ought to know. She was what Hawaii residents colloquially call, a mahu.
“Are you a boy or a girl?” The first time a man pulled over to the curb and asked me this question in Downtown Honolulu I was more than a little offended. Was he trying to say I was ugly? I angrily asserted that I was a woman, just maybe a little tired from “runnin’ ‘em hard” or choosing drugs over sleep for several consecutive days. I answered the question honestly. Yes, I was a female, no I had never been a male at any point in my life. The standard anatomical female body was, to my enormous surprise, declined time after time. I’m talking at least 100 times since I started in the companion field at the turn of the twenty first century and for over a decade thereafter. Other women said they were often asked the same thing. “The prettiest mahus are prettier than women. And they take better care of themselves than women. It’s a compliment.” Yes, I suppose that’s true. But when I let the client who became a friend who became my love (unreciprocated) I came to understand that the men were not asking me simply because they thought I was a man. The blunt truth was that scores of men hoped I was a man. Best case scenario: beautiful face, trim body, and male genetalia. I did not fit the bill. Stay tuned for what I did about this unrequited male desire.
You know you’re a mature provider when your dates call you “Lady” as a form of address. “”What do you think of this, Lady?” You notice they automatically, probably subconsciously look to you for approval and they seem to believe you have a wide base of Knowledge for comparison purposes. “Am I like other guys?” I believe another sign you’re in a different generation is when you’re surprised by their routines. For ex, Facebooking before date is over. Without pausing he could reach for his phone and text without missing a beat. No he didn’t! Yes. He did. Impressive.
It is very frustrating to me when potential clients complain that the pictures they see on online advertisements do not accurately so the providers. I wish they would apply the same standards of anonymity to us as they apply to themselves. What I mean to say is, they don’t want to post their pictures. They don’t want people to know the specifics of their off track sex lives. So why do they expect us to post our pictures? Do they not realize that we have just as much motive for keeping ourselves hidden as they do? Or maybe we have even greater motive. Because even if we were in a place like the sparsely populated counties of Nevada where escorting is legal, there is no other class of Womanhood that is more looked down upon then the prostitute. I was watching a rerun of the adult animated satire “Family Guy.” The male characters visit a brothel/gift shop that sold outfits and soft core sex toys. The character in the wheelchair starts yelling at mannequins because he is convinced They are sneering at his wheelchair. After assuring him the dolls are not real and are therefore incapable of judgment the Cleveland character says it would not matter if they judged because they are just whores and no one cares what they think. You may or may not agree with this assessment but I think we can reach a unanimous agreement about the need for providers to leave their experience in the profession off of their resumes. When this blog becomes world famous I predict great changes in the rejection of providers from General society. But until my voice is heard and it is discovered that we are people, anonymity is the way to go. So no, I cannot post any pictures that truly show what I look like.
FANTASIES STAY IMAGINARY 2/9/18
I was proud to be an open minded provider who applied the intimate lessons to personal life. I had learned that men constantly thought of sex and wanted to have sex with just about anyone. I wanted to match my mindset to what I had learned about the sexual appetite of men. “Think expansively,” I told myself when I wanted to introduce a new sexual song scenario with a “regular,” or someone I saw frequently. I decided the best way to successfully introduce an element of surprise would be to turn fantasies into reality. In addition to appearing creative I would have a chance to show how cool I was about involving other people. In truth, the idea of other people in the bedroom made me uncomfortable But I was we elmong feelings for this client and I very much wanted him to see me as a cut above others. I mentally reviewed the fantasies he had shared with me and chose one that I felt most comfortable with.Yes, I had just the thing! My client/friend, the person I was “hanging out” with, always had a lot of suggestions for me about how I. Pumehana improve my technique when I gave him very personal attention. He had wondered aloud if I was more skilled than a gay man who had much more practice than ne and who had the added advantage of knowing from personal experience what felt good. I had responded that we should do a blind taste test, as shown on soft drink commercials I saw as a child. People on the street were given small cups of I identified soda and asked to choose the better drink–Pepsi versus Coke. Wouldn’t it be fun to blindfold New York friend and hav him experience my attention and the guy’s attention and choose whom he preferred. If it was done well it would be obvious which of us was more skilled.
I felt quite self-congratulatory as I made the arrangements. I could hardly wait for the appointed time but finally I revealed that a person was on his way over and the taste test plan was in motion.
“He’s coming here? Now?” My friend looked appalled.
“I thought that was what you wanted! You said that would be the best?” My feelings were hurt in spite of telling myself everything was all in good casual fun.
“Those are just fantasies. Fantasies are only good if you make like you are going to do them.”
“That’s why I invited the guy! So we could do it. I thought you pretty much gave me permission.”
“Common sense should’ve told you I didn’t mean for real for real.”
I had been foiled again by the elusive thing called common sense that told everyone but me how to proceed. As I called the guy you cancel I reflected upon the irony of failed communication when both conversationalists are open, honest and interested. The moral of the story–for some, fantasizing is like window shopping. For others fantasizing is an actual roadmap with a real destination. Always best to know which camp you and your partner(s) fall into.
February 06, 2018:. “PRETTY FOR FREE”
In the beginning of this century there was a part of urban Honolulu that was a virtual open air 24 hour sex market. In “Town” sex workers were women and men dressed like women (colloquially known as “mahus”) who were addicted to crack, crystal methamphetamine (ice), heroin (boy), alcohol, gambling, or some combination of all of these diversions. I never saw young kids on the run from abusive homes contrary to what I had read about areas with high rates of prostitution. I saw people old enough to make their own decisions looking for the quickest way to get the next fix. Money was never saved but entirely consumed by the addiction(S). Once they were zero balanced they’d go back to the “track” or “stroll” to wait for a car to pull over. According to my wristwatch I waited about a minute before a car pulled over driven by someone who had money for me. Not much money. High dollar girls worked in Waikiki and turned the entire $200/date over to mypimps, who seemed to be mostly black for some reason I could not fathom. People with addictions are terrible providers. Our pimps weren’t people. Our addictions were the pimps to whom we turned all of our $20-$100/date. But I digress.
The money was so quick and easy the 30 or so providers who walked the street back then did not compete with each other. Each of us made between $300-$500 a day, every day. We just had to be out there. As far as I knew men had no system for sharing information about the quality of providers in the days before ubiquitous internet access and participation. Many girls stole and word did not seem you travel because they continued to work. I did not steal but I did not try very hard during the car date. I’d “go away inside of my head” once we pulled over to a concealed spot within a 30 second drive. A brief 15 minutes later I was freshening my lipstick and race walking to spend my money. When my purchase was consumed in the domicile of the man du jour who shared my interests and shared my product. My welcome wore out when the stuff ran out. If I wanted a temporary roof over my head I had to get enough money to have something to offer someone else and maintain my altered state. Back to the stroll to make money again, my days, years, life, an endless cycle: zero balancing myself, hustling the money with various antics and adventures, spending all my money with nothing tangible to show for my efforts. For some reason I mostly enjoyed “The Life.”
One night I was in my favorite spot sitting on a low brick wall near a facility that hosted anger management classes for men with domestic violence convictions. I liked my perch because I had had a book in my hand since I was age 3. I felt more like my true self when I was enjoying classic American literature while I waited for a “date.” I read by the glow of the streetlight while watching the traffic in both directions. A two lane street of slow moving traffic doing about 30 mph. The through way was lined by apartments on one end, terminating with a mid sized Safeway supermarket and a Longs (CVS) drugstore on the other. Traffic didn’t move so fast that drivers missed seeing providers and it was easy for a driver to pull over to give a girl a ride. If the traffic was too slow every driver’s actions might’ve been embarrassingly obvious to some who would not want others to know their hobbies.
The street light illuminated my face, out of which my sparkle-lined sunken, sleep deprived eyes sought to lock on the eyes of male drivers. My practice was to make eye contact, then gesture with a clear but not exaggerated tilt of the head to signal for the driver to pull over. If the driver was agreeable he would slow significantly and pull over to give me a chance to saunter up to the passenger side door. If the window was down I greeted the guy and asked for a ride.
One night I saw an older man making a beeline on foot to an older provider. Confident that he would prefer me to a woman about 55 years old, I put myself in his path. Sometimes when guys approached on foot they lived within walking distance. Better than a car date. More comfortable, guaranteed privacy so no cop could roll up. I would take advantage of the shower, I had thought, already making plans for the resources I expected to access.
“Uncle,” I called, using the local standard respectful form of address when speaking to an older person, “Uncle, don’t you want me?” The man had his doubts.
“You? What do you know?”
I knew how to make a perfectly obvious point, that’s what I knew. “But don’t you think I’m pretty?” I was smug because I knew the answer. Or so I thought. I was about to be schooled in another even more obvious point.
“What do I have to pay you to be pretty for? You pretty right now. Pretty for free. I want her because she knows what she’s doing!” He did not permit any further discussion and I watched them leave together, envious that she was closer to her next high than I was.
Thus, I was introduced to the idea that service mattered, maybe even more than looks. This notion was a comfort to the very pretty woman who was not quite as beautiful as she once was, but she was vastly more successful. Clients did not just enter with a smile. They also left with a smile. More on sensual skill, later…I promise.
Of course, I wanted to make people happy as a way to get what I wanted. I did not think that it was important to make someone happy for the joy of.creating joy. Every interaction was seen through the lense of my desires and anyone who did not help me get what I wanted did not exist in my world. The true risk, for me, in the sex work was the endangerment of my soul. I feared that I might lose the capacity to connect with anyone on a heart to heart level rather than using people as tools to be put down when their job was done. I was even more afraid that the day would come when connectedness no longer concerned me whatsoever.