Traffick (3 page)

and I've decided I prefer men after all.

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.

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 begged 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.

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.

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.

I'd never get used to living like this,

at the beck and call, and under almost

total control of another human being.

I say almost, because after Carl, my ex

sugar daddy when I moved in here

with David, I knew enough to find a way

to stash some cash in case I ever need

an escape plan. Carl, who brought me

with him from Louisville, a trophy

houseboy to decorate his Lake Las Vegas

luxury condo, allowed me no chance at

personal resources. He wanted ownership.

Slavery is alive and thriving in Sin City,

Nevada. Maybe that's why I gambled

on connecting with hot-stranger-in-the-gym

Jared—the growing need for rebellion,

or at least a taste of autonomy. Or maybe

it was simply because I'm only eighteen,

and still stashed inside is the belief

that love waits for me somewhere.

If I'm to be perfectly honest with myself,

is that my attraction to Jared was totally

fed by lust. Well, lust and loneliness.

Carl may have provided well for me, but

he wasn't much for companionship.

Working out, lying by the pool, and

improving my culinary skills didn't exactly

tally satisfaction. Even the sex with Carl

(and sometimes an added friend of his)

didn't add much spice to our relationship.

So, yeah, I was pretty damn hungry when

Jared showed up in the gym, and that man

was something to look at. Ripped, not

an ounce of flab, and the chiseled face

of a god. I never suspected he was a ringer.

Carl baited the hook, and I bit. Hard.

When he reeled me in, I felt about like a trout

who knew that fly hadn't looked quite right,

but just couldn't help himself. And then,

Carl gutted me, threw me into the frying pan.

Disowned me completely, gave me

twenty-four hours to vacate his life,

not even a few dollars to help me

accomplish that goal. Luckily, I had

made a couple of friends online and

was able to convince one of them to pick

me up. Lake Las Vegas is quite a distance

from downtown, and the Mojave summer

temps are killer, sometimes literally.

I was ride-less. Homeless. Totally broke.

I did manage to stuff some very nice clothes

into a duffel bag. I figured I'd be the most

suave street person ever. But Jacques

was cool. He invited me to stay at his place

for a couple of days until I could find a more

suitable habitation, not that he didn't expect

a little
something
in return. I was happy

enough to oblige. Exchanging blowjobs

for room and board was nothing new.

There was one slight problem with that—

Jacques had a boyfriend. But I crossed

my heart that Morris would never find out.

He never has, which I'm happy about.

I like Morris. He's quirky and gentle,

and happens to be one of David's dancers.

In fact, it was Morris who introduced us

at one of David's infamous parties. My first,

but definitely not my last. It was a week after

I moved in with Jacques. Maybe Morris

felt a little threatened, and hoped I'd stumble

upon a different circumstance. I doubt

he expected what happened. It was late

when he showed up at Jacques's.
Hey, boys.

There's a party at David's. Wanna go?

I had nothing better to do, and Jacques

goes along with anything Morris suggests,

especially when it's partying. “It's after

midnight. You sure it's still going on?”

Don't you know this city never sleeps,

especially not on a Saturday night?

But even if it did, the crowd at David's

wouldn't. Staying up all night is a hobby.

When we turned into the driveway

of David's amazing home in the Ridges,

a glitzy neighborhood, even by Vegas

standards. All lit up for the evening shebang,

the house looked like a five-star hotel.

Morris pulled his Prius right up in front,

where a hired valet took the keys. “You've got