before our tumble from
enlightenment, if such a thing
ever belonged to me. Can
I
excise her from my heart
as easily as she deserted me?
If I opened my arms, begged
her to return, would she come
back, or would she turn and
run?
Ginger
How Can I Leave
Here without her—Alex, my sweet
Alex. At least, she was sweet until
Las Vegas claimed her, made her
its bitch. This city is a pimp, selling
fantasies. For a time, Alex and I
were a fantasy duet, working for
Have Ur Cake Escort Service,
despite being a couple of years
underage. “Eighteen” isn’t necessary
to participate in a business that
props up the underbelly of Vegas.
It was not what I had in mind when
I ran away, but then again, I had no
plan, and sometimes it comes down
to survival. We survived, stripping
for pay in hotel rooms, mostly
working bachelor parties, two for
the price of one. I insisted on that,
refused to do more than take off
my clothes and dance. But Alex
couldn’t care less about spreading
her legs and accepting foreign objects,
as long as the dudes were willing
to pay the going rate. Then she got
greedy, started working the streets
so she wouldn’t have to kick back
Lydia’s commission. I found her out
there, soliciting some guy wearing
ugly purple Bermuda shorts. That
pissed me off, but in hindsight,
looking for revenge by offering to let
him buy all he could eat, double-decker,
wasn’t the smartest move. Turned
out, he was a cop on a trash run, prowling
for teen hookers. Vegas has issued
stern orders: get ’em off the sidewalks,
bust their pimps and even their johns.
Detective Bermuda Shorts was only
doing his job. Tell me who’s sending
you out, the court will go easy on you.
Alex and I didn’t roll on Lydia
or Have Ur Cake. Luckily, Judge
Kerry was sympathetic anyway,
an honest-to-goodness do-gooder.
Nevada considers trafficking
children a serious offense.
This is not a victimless crime,
and you, young lady, are a victim.
Nothing He Said
Made sense. How can a willing
participant be a victim? No one
tied us up at the end of the day
(although a few of our customers
offered). And we weren’t trafficked,
as far as I knew then. No one kidnapped
us and smuggled us to the foreign
country of Las Vegas. Now, thanks
to my recent interaction with law
enforcement, the courts, and social
workers, I understand that three
things define trafficking: coercing
someone to turn tricks, transporting
them for that purpose, or in any
way threatening or encouraging
an underage person to sell their body.
Oh, and how good ol’ Iris collected
money for allowing men to force
themselves on me? Uh, yeah. That,
too. Then, there’s Have Ur Cake.
Since Alex and I haven’t reached
the age of eighteen—that magic
birthday that supposedly makes
you an adult—Lydia was definitely
guilty of pandering minors for sex.
She arranged our “dates,” and
collected a hefty fee for her trouble,
so technically she was our pimp,
though we asked for the work.
She never had to twist our arms.
But she totally knew how old
we were, and that we’d run away
with a minimal bankroll. Plus,
she did, in fact, put us in her debt
by letting us stay with her when
we first arrived in Vegas. When I
appeared before Judge Kerry, though,
I didn’t understand all that. “I don’t see
myself as a victim, Your Honor. I was just
trying to make enough money to survive.”
He looked at me with such sadness
in his eyes. I understand survival,
but this is not a good way to earn
money if you truly want to survive.
I Guess I Was Lucky
I don’t really know
what all Alex faced
when she did outcalls
solo. She refused to talk
to me about it. I only
did a few gigs alone,
and I never exactly felt
threatened. Together,
there were a few times
when I thought a client
might hurt us, and one guy
forced Alex to jerk him off.
More than once, we got
stiffed for payment, and
then we owed Lydia
anyway. She never really
bullied us. Convinced
is more accurate. She had
a way of doing that, although
she never could talk me into
stuffing condoms into my bag
and earning a hell of a lot more
money. I’m a dancer. A stripper.
But I’ll never be a whore.
Now My Stripping Days
Are over, at least that’s what Judge
Kerry said. After my advocate
determined Gram does want me
back in Barstow, they sent me
to stay in a group home until
Gram can arrange to come pick
me up. The law says I can only
be released to a “custodial adult.”
Hey, at least I have one of those,
unlike Alex, who ended up in
a different group home—one that
accepts pregnant teens. Pregnant.
If she got that way, it means
she wasn’t using protection, and
God forbid she picked up anything
else besides sperm. The father?
Some anonymous trick, and who
knows what color the baby will
be, or what defects it might inherit
from its paternal side? So sad.
Then again, everything about Alex
makes me sad—her childhood;
the things she’s allowed herself to do;
the fact I might never see her again.
Our Goodbye Was Bittersweet
Bitter, because it was goodbye.
Sweet, because it meant she was
safely off the streets. I spent many
hours pacing our apartment,
pining for closeness and a return
to sweet adventures in bed,
wondering when she’d come home.
If she’d come home. She always
did eventually, but every time
another little piece of the Alex
I loved was missing. Tricking chews
you up from the inside out.
We had a few minutes together
while waiting to see the judge.
“Gram says she welcomes me
back, believe it or not.”
I believe it. The one thing about
you I’ve always been jealous of is
how much your grandma loves you.
No one’s ever loved me like that.
“What about me
? I still love you,
Alex, don’t want to live without
you. Please come with me. I’m
sure Gram will let you live—”
No. Are you kidding me?
She’s got six kids to take care
of, plus your mom. You expect
her to add me and a baby?
“We can work out something.
Get jobs, our own place. I can
still help Gram with the kids,
and . . .” It sounded ridiculous.
Aw, Gin. I want you to go back
to school, get your diploma,
head off to college. You can
legit make it in the real world,
and do it all on your own. You
don’t need me holding you back.
She reached out, put one hand
on my cheek. I directed it to my lips,
kissed each finger. “I don’t know
what I’ll do without you, and I’m
scared for you and the baby.”
Her hand fell away, never there.
Don’t worry about us. We’ll be
just fine. Besides . . . She forced
her voice cold. I’ve been thinking
and I’ve decided I prefer men after all.
She Divorced Me
And though her remark was meant
to slice into me, sever the tie between
our hearts, I understand why she said
it so matter-of-factly. I don’t believe
it, and the hurt she attempted hit
its mark square. I still have my cell,
and I’ve texted her dozens of times
in the two months I’ve been here
at House of Hope, where I’ll stay
until Gram can get the guardianship
paperwork in order, take a day off,
plus find babysitting for the kids
and Iris, who is too sick to care for
herself, let alone her offspring.
Wonder if she’ll let us call her “Mom”
now that men won’t be coming around
and aging is the least of her worries.
She spent her youth on a slow death,
creeping closer for years, though
she was clueless until recently, when
a flu bug wouldn’t go away. Tests revealed
advanced HIV-inspired lymphoma.
With her immune system compromised,
there will be no cure for her cancer.
House of Hope
Is a corny name, and I’m not sure
how much hope is actually here.
It’s nice enough, and the food is good,
and the staff pretends like they care.
There are other sex workers here,
some younger than me, who happens
to be something of an anomaly because
my skin is white. The population is
largely divided by race, at least as far
as room assignments go. Hispanics and
black girls don’t get along very well.
Their ’hoods are separate, and they stay
that way beyond those boundaries.
My roommate, Miranda, is Latina,
and pretty, though her plump face
makes her look younger than she is.
She says she’ll be fourteen in two
weeks. She’s thirteen, going on thirty.
Miranda was suspicious of me at
first, but after I told her my own
sob story, she decided to open up.
Right now, we’re sitting on the lawn,
enjoying the mellow November sunshine.
After the god-awful heat of the past
few months, this feels like heaven.
The tale of horror Miranda’s sharing
right now, however, is totally hellish,
and I have no doubt it’s true.
My brother Ricardo runs dope
for Los Sureños. He uses also,
and too much on credit. He owed
Papacito a lot of money.
“Papacito,” I interrupt. “That means
Daddy, yeah?” Lots of pimps insist
their stables refer to them as Daddy,
as if a father would sell them the same
way. Truth is, I guess, some fathers
do. Sí, she answers. I don’t know any
other name, only he makes all the girls
call him Papacito. One day after school,
I’m talking with friends and a big car
pulls up. Ricardo is inside with Papacito.
He tells me to get in. I say goodbye
to mis amigas, and we drive out of
my ’hood, away from El Monte. I’ve never
been so far from home. When we stop,
I don’t know where, Ricardo gets out.
“Do what he says and you’ll be safe.”
He closed the door, and I never see
my brother again, and not Mamá,
either. Papacito, he drive me all
the way to Las Vegas before we stop.
When we get here, he drives down
the strip. I never saw nothing like this
before. “Isn’t it beautiful?” he asks.
“I know all the best places to show you.”
He takes me to a house. It’s nice
on the outside. Nice on the inside.
Except, what happens there is not
so nice. There are other girls, too.
This one, Belinda, she said she’d be
mi mamá now, she’ll take good care
of me—buy me pretty clothes, teach me
makeup. Make me even prettier.
I say, “Mi mamá está en El Monte.”
Papacito grab my arm and squeeze
real hard. “Your mamá, she doesn’t
want you no more, so Ricardo give
you to me.” I thought about that.
Mamá and I had a fight because
I told her about her man, how
he came into my room when
she wasn’t home. How he touched
me. She said I was a liar. A puta.
But I didn’t lie. . . . Her eyes water,
and it’s the first time since I’ve been
here that I’ve seen real emotion in
the girl. “I believe you. It happened
to me, too.” I don’t add the part about
my own mother pimping me out.
Miranda nods. It happens to many
of us. Men are coyotes. I was eleven
the first time. Twelve when Ricardo
traded me for his debt. I found that
out later. But that day, I believed
it was Mamá’s punishment. “But when
can I go home?” I asked. Papacito
tell me never, I’m his now. “Do exactly
as I say,” he said, “and Belinda, too,
or I will hurt you so bad you’ll wish
you were dead. But if you are a very
good girl, I will be your boyfriend.
¿Quieres un novio, no? Someone
who’ll love you forever?” Every girl
wants a boyfriend, and I had no place
to go. The other girls seemed happy, so . . .
It isn’t a unique story, but it is hers.
I think of my sister, Mary Ann, who’s
about the same age, and pray it will
never happen to her. “Weren’t you scared?”
She nods. But not so scared then
as later that night, when Papacito
come to my bedroom. “Such a pretty
little girl,” he said. “Now I will make
you my woman.” I knew what he meant
and tried to say no. He slapped my face
so hard I thought my head would snap off!
Then he grabbed my neck and squeezed.
I couldn’t breathe. I beg
ged him to stop
but he choked me until I almost blacked
out. I wore the marks from his fingers
for many days. I had no fight left then,
and he threw me on the bed, made me
his wife for real. When he finished,
he sent five friends to break me in
better. After that, what did it matter?
What came next, she says, is he pimped
her online or sent her out to work
truck stops, demanding a minimum
$800 per night. He kept every penny.
He Used Her
For almost two years, until a national
trafficking sting operation took
Papacito down good. Pandering
children under fourteen carries a life
sentence, if they can convict him,
which means they want Miranda
to testify against him, something
she’s more than a little nervous about.
Men like that have a very long reach,
and his ties to Los Sureños make him
dangerous, even in prison. Miranda’s
advocate has convinced her to do it, but
what will happen after that is anyone’s
guess. Her mother’s boyfriend says
she can’t go back to El Monte. So, yeah,
I really am lucky. The court has freed
me, forgiven me, allowed me to go home.
Gram says her house will always be
my home, and she wants me there, safe
and sound. I guess, despite everything,
I’m mostly sound. But I wasn’t safe
before, and I’m not sure there is such
a thing. All I know is, I’m happy to leave
Vegas. This city annihilates souls.
A Poem by Seth Parnell
My Soul
Has taken a vacation,
hitched a ride
somewhere cool and clean.
Maybe the mountains.
I
haven’t seen it in months.
Perhaps it’s deserted
me permanently.
I should feel bad, but I
can’t
muster sympathy
for the boy-become-man
who is me. Man. Gay
man. Kept man. You’ll
find
the ultimate meaning
of that term
in the eyes of every boy
forced by circumstance to
sacrifice
the truth of himself.
I keep digging
for truth
but can’t seem to find it
in me.
Seth
I Swore
I’d never get used to living like this,
at the beck and call, and under almost