Where I left off from the first entry to my life in the world of drugs and street corner prostitution was my first day of being introduced to such, learning of the close proximity to my home life, and father .
I never knew exactly how much money I was making during those hot summer months. Wallace always made the arrangements with the men. I suppose they knew him as the top pimp on that corner and sought him out.
He kept me high in order to keep me quite and I don't remember being allowed money to eat. I must have eaten though. There is a lot I don't remember, and on the same hand, a lot I do remember.
I remember the beatings. After a while he didn't seem to care about appearances, and neither did the men who paid for my sex. The first time I remember being hit really hard was when I was caught talking to another man who was also a pimp, but on a much higher level than Wallace. This guy, I knew some how . And he'd pulled up all clean and smelling good, dressed nice in his clean red Lincoln convertible.
Her name was Hermia ! I know and remember so well because she was a black girl who hung out in the tavern, she didn't " work " as I did but she hated the white girls who were " with " the black men. Whether we were treated like crap or not, she didn't care and was known as an instigator of drama.
I was standing on the other side of the street on the drivers side talking to this man that I don't remember how I knew ........I turned just as my name was called, and just as I turned I felt the fist pummeling the side of my head, then my face. I saw fireworks in the brightness of the day. I came to, and Wallace was standing over me. Hermia was laughing, and the man in the car was asking me to " choose".
There was no choice. One look at Wallace told me the only choice was back on my meter. There were other beatings, and instances.
One time I was sent off to an apartment with a black man who'd paid for me in advance. We got to his apartment a block away. I'd seen others go with him and got the impression it was some sort of privilege. By this time I'd hardened up a bit even as young and abused as I was, to this life.
This mans penis was so scary large, I ran out of there and straight into Wallace. I took the whipping . I suppose I should tell you sex with Wallace was rare. He was a heroin addict, and for him sex wasn't what pleased him. Being mean and going upside my head did though. He had me under control, no need for nicety's. I got slugged one other night when he did decide he wanted sex. I said " Don't you think I get enough in the streets" ? WHAM ! Fire works.
There was a group of traveling painters in the area. One took a liking to me, and I suppose I to him. He wanted me to run away with him and the crew he traveled with. I snuck away from my meter and to his room with him. Gawd I was either brave or punch drunk stupid. We were in his room at a transit hotel a couple blocks away. I was afraid, because i was sure Hermia had seen me leave with him. Sure enough just as we stood by a dresser in the room the door was kicked in.
Wallace : " Whatchoo doin with my whore and where's my money for her "? The sweet boy grabs a machete from the bed , Wallace takes it from him and just laughs. I was beat on the top of my head with that machete as I ran down four flights of stairs.
Police helicopter hovering in the air as I'm whisked off to the boarding house and hid by the woman who ran it.
This writing and remembering is taking a bit more energy from me than I imagined.
And there's so much more. I am almost done with Wallace memoirs . Next writing will be how I got away from him, which isn't any more pretty than any of this has been.
Again, I thank you for reading.