My life with a sociopathic father, who was all about his good-guy image, made me a fit for one group of sex buyers in particular. These were the kind of men that no one would ever suspect of buying a child in order to rape them. Before each man opened my door, the guard over my room block would come in to check on me. When he did he always whispered something about the man he was about to bring in. This tip he spoke would inform me what the next man wanted me to be.
I quickly learned that no one saw or wanted to see me, to see us, the prostituted. My job on these nights was not to give each man the true me. My job in prostitution was to disappear into their delusions until they were satisfied. Some men wanted to be in control and to play out a violent rape fantasy. Some men wanted me to project the illusion that I was the one desperate for sex with them. And that is how we always began. Even before I saw their good-guy projection, I smelled the simultaneous repression and compulsion that bound them together.
That smell became as distinct to me as the smell of rose that my grandma always wore. Their desire to project the good guy image demanded the repression of their perversions in the light of day.
But their compulsion to release those perversions brought them to me every night. To survive the nights, each girl had to find her own unique hidden strengths. One of my strengths is being able to sense the emotions, needs, and desires of people around me acutely. So, as each man walked towards me, I would lock onto them to sense what was in them.
What I sensed were variations on pending explosions of rage and guilt, as well as compulsions to rape and punish. But there was a cost. The one-way street that prostitution is left me with all their black holes coming into me, but with no way to expel them from myself. So I became a human garbage can for the perversions of men with no trash man to take it away from me.
