This will certainly be the hardest thing I have to do - describe my life as a prostitute ormore accurately a sex slave. And I'm sure this will be the hardest thing for you to hear becauseyou'll have to face the ugly reality of how you were created. I know how hard it is to accept thatyou had no real father, just an unknown sperm donor. That's how I was created, and that hastormented me my whole life, and it will probably torment you for the rest of your life. We can'tundo the past. What is, is.

I was eleven and I'd dropped out of school. But it was also the time when my mother wasshowing signs of cancer. I hadn't started going to the clinic with her yet so I don't know whatshe knew then. But Doc was around a lot. He spent a lot of time in her room and I don't think itwas doing the bad stuff. They were talking. Doc was the closest thing she had to a friend, as wellas a customer of course. As she got sicker, he spent more and more time at our place. I didn'ttalk to him or her. I just stayed in my room or vegged out in front of the T.V. There was nothinggoing on in my head. I was empty - no interests, no hopes, a blank slate.

One night after she had spent a lot of time coughing her guts out, she told me that sheneeded to talk to me. This was the first and only time she sat me down at the kitchen table andfaced me to have a conversation. Her face showed no emotion.

"Mary, I'm very sick. I won't be able to work anymore so you'll have to go to work.""That's okay. I could get a job as a waitress or in factory or in a store.'"No stupid. You have to do what I do. Fuck men."

"I can't do that. I never had sex."

"That will be even better. I can get a fortune for your first time. A virgin is a preciouscommodity. You can only sell it once."

"I won't know what to do."

"I'll teach you. It's not hard. You just lay back and let them do whatever they want to.""I won't do this. I can't do this. No, no, no! You can't make me."I was screaming. I was frantic. I was out of control. How could she tell me that I had tobecome a whore? I was 11 years old. I only had tiny breast buds. I didn't have pubic hair. Ihadn't gotten my period yet. I was a child physically and emotionally."Oh yes I can. You have no choice. Either have the police arrest you and take you awaywhere they'll do worse things to you than fuck you. They'll take you to an orphanage or put youin a jail for kids where they'll beat you bloody. They'll stick lit cigarettes up your ass. They'llshit on your face."

"I don't want dirty men touching me and doing bad things to me. I'll kill myself.""Go ahead. Do you want me to help you? Go get a knife. I'll be glad to help you stabyourself in the heart."

I didn't know if she would really kill me or not. I was in a wild state. There was no one toturn to and nowhere to go. I had to do what she was telling me. I was an innocent 11 year oldchild who was trapped, who had no choice. I actually believed that going to a kid's jail or an orphanage would be worse than living at home and being a prostitute. I think if I had said no,she would probably have beaten me or have someone else beat me. I have no doubt that shewould have forced me to become a whore no matter how much I resisted."I don't want you hooking in the house. I'll arrange for you to do it in cars. We'll startwith men I know and then the word will get out that there's a hot kid around and they'll bewaiting in line to screw you."

"How will I know where to go?"

"They'll come to the front of the building at a certain time and I'll bring you out to makesure you get in the right car and I'll take the money before they take you. I always have thempay on the front end. Otherwise, they might try to get away without paying. Then they'll drivedown the street to the alley where they'll park and do their stuff. It'll be dark so you won't seemuch."

"I'm just a kid. How can you make me do this?"

"You're not going to be a kid anymore. It's time to grow up."

"I'm 11."

She ignored me. She showed no emotion. I cried from the bottom of my soul. My heartached so much I thought it would actually break into little pieces. How could my mother do thisto me? How could any mother do this to her child?

"Oh shut up. Stop crying you idiot. You'll learn to like it after a while. I got a great guyfor your first fuck. He's one of my best customers. His name is Harold. He'll pay me 200 bucksto pluck your cherry. But after him, we'll get 15 bucks from most men unless they want to dosomething special. Then it'll be 20 or 25 bucks."

The specials were fellatio or spanking or tying me up or taking nude pictures of me andother horrible things I can't begin describe. But the worst was fellatio. Every time a man puthimself in me, I vomited. I couldn't help it. I automatically gagged and whatever I had forsupper came up. My mother was furious when she heard, but word got out that I couldn't do fellatio so I suppose that was good in a way. My body was repelling this vile act. I couldn't sayno and even if I did, no one would listen. But vomiting got listened to."Once you get more experienced, you'll be able to do more than one guy a night. I hopeyou can get up to three or four depending upon when it gets dark. We don't want anybody to seeyou getting into cars when it's light. Some idiot might report it to the police. I want you to watchwhat I do so you'll know what to do that first time. I've got a guy coming in a little while and Iwant you to hide in the closet. I'll do everything with him even if he doesn't pay so you can seeall the things you'll have to do. After a while, you'll develop your own style and do things yourown way."

This was my course in prostitution 101 and my mother was the instructor. Can youimagine any mother teaching her daughter what to do when she had sex? The next time a mancame, I hid in her closet and when I was sure he wouldn't see me peeking out, I looked. It washard for me not to throw up or scream. I can still see her staring at me as the man pumped up anddown. She was quite acrobatic for a woman who sat on the couch all day, drinking and smoking.This was her exercise. She seemed to be gloating. I think she was enjoying what the man wasdoing and she was enjoying showing off her skills. What an awful person she was - one of theworst who ever lived. As the man was leaving, I saw that he was the man who owned the candystore down the street. I could never go into that candy store again. I would walk three blocks toanother candy store, one that didn't bring to mind the ugliest of ugly memories.This vile act was what she wanted me to do. How was I going to do this? How was agrown man going to put his penis into my tiny body? Who would want to have sex with me? Iwasn't sexy. I didn't have big breasts and a curvy figure. I found out later that lots of menwanted to have sex with a child. Perverts each and every one of them. They should have beenarrested. But if the police had gotten involved, I would have been arrested, not the perverts.What a justice system!

After the man left, I came out of the closet. "Please, I beg you, don't make me do this. Ican't. I won't. I'll die."

She went into the living room, filled her glass to the top with booze, lit up a cigarette,and looked me in the eye and said, "You have no choice."

I went to my room and cried. I thought of killing myself, but I wasn't serious. I didn'twant to die. I wanted to live, but not like this. I knew that someday I would escape from this life,but not now. I had nowhere to go. I was trapped.

Interestingly, I don't recall a lot of what happened to me once I started hooking. I wentinto a trance so I wouldn't be aware of the awful things that were being done to me. I have noidea how many men I had over the year and a half I was a hooker. It could have been 50 or 100or even 200. I tried to erase everything from my memory, but of course, that's impossible. Eventoday after all these years, I'll see a man who looks familiar and I'll think he might have beenone of the men who bought me, but then I realize it's been too many years for it to be one ofthose animals.

When you contacted me, I thought I might be able to think of who might have been yourfather. I went back nine months from your birth to try to think of who might have been one ofmy clients, and of course, I can't think of anyone. I didn't know the men's names or anythingabout them. It would be impossible to find your father, and anyhow I don't think you would everwant to meet the man who would rape a child. It's hard enough to acknowledge what your fatherwas - a child rapist. No, it's best that you think of your father as Mr. Blank, the way I think ofmy father.

That first night was the worst. My mother dressed me up in a new party dress she boughtme. I'd never had a party dress before because I'd never been to a party. It was black taffeta witha big white bow in the back and it had a puffy skirt and short sleeves. I looked like I was going toa fancy birthday party. I wore no underwear underneath. You don't go to a party withoutunderwear. She cut my hair so I looked more like Orphan Annie and she clipped a big blackvelvet bow in the middle of my curls. She piled loads of make-up on me. I'd never before wornlipstick or anything. I don't know why she put such heavy make-up on me when my dress mademe look like a little girl. Maybe I was supposed to look like half child and half woman. But whenI looked at myself in the mirror, I saw a terrified child who was dressed up for a Halloween nightof horror. It wasn't me and maybe that was good. That helped separate the real me from the mewho was going to lose her virginity in the ugliest way possible. I was preparing to be raped.

She walked me downstairs. She held my hand tightly so I wouldn't try to run away.Anyhow, where would I run to? There was a car at the curb and we walked up to it. It was darkout so I couldn't see the man clearly. He wasn't fat or skinny. He wasn't old or young. I couldtell he had hair and he was wearing a tee shirt and jeans. My mother opened the car door andpushed me in. "Here she is Harold. Have fun." The man counted two $100 bills into Eileen'shand. Then we drove off.

To say that I was trembling was an understatement. It was like I was having a seizure.The man drove me to the alley down the street from my house and parked in the middle, awayfrom the street, and he shut the lights. We were in complete darkness because there were nolights in the alley. He opened the door and told me to get in the back seat. As I got out of the car,the thought flashed through my mind to run. But I had nowhere to run to. I got in. He told me toturn around so he could unzip my dress. He kept murmuring that I was his pretty baby. Then ithappened. It was painful and bloody. I was a little girl and he was an adult so you can imaginewhat it felt like when he entered me. I felt like I was being ripped open by serrated knives. I wastempted to scream, but I knew better. He continued to do things to me to get his $200 worth.When he was finished, I was almost unconscious. He put my dress back on carefully even tyingthe bow, and drove me to my front door where my mother was waiting. He thanked my motherfor letting him be the first one and said it was worth every penny. Then he drove away and Ipainfully climbed the steps. In the apartment my mother inspected the dress to see if I could wearit again. There was no blood or dirt on it so it would be usable. Then she looked at me. I camesecond. She took me into the bathroom and washed me up. She wondered aloud if I needed somestitches since I was torn up, but she didn't follow through with Doc. Then she washed the make-up off my face. I put on my pajamas and looked in the mirror and saw an eleven-year old childwho was damaged beyond repair. As I walked to my room, she said, "That wasn't so bad, wasit?" I couldn't answer that this was the worst thing that could happen to a child. A mother sellingher eleven-year-old daughter for $200, and more worried about a dress than the child. I didn'tanswer her. I rarely spoke to her after that. I went to sleep as soon as I got into bed. I was hopingsleep would provide an escape from reality, but it didn't. For years, I had nightmares about thatfirst night. But eventually that first night was gone. It was buried under the good things in mylife.

My vaginal area was sore and swollen so my mother didn't make me go out the nextnight. I hoped she was having second thoughts and wouldn't make me do this horrible thing. ButI was wrong, the following night she arranged for two men, one at 9:00 and one at 10:30. Shemade up for the lost second night by scheduling two men the next night.Just before I turned 12, I got my period. At first I thought I was bleeding because of whatone of the men had done to me. When I told my mother about it, she explained menstruation andpregnancy to me. Here I was having sex and I didn't even know the facts of life. I asked her if Ishould make the men wear condoms and she said no because I couldn't get pregnant because Iwas too young. Yeah - sure. Anyhow that was my life for over a year. As my mother got sicker,she stopped walking me downstairs and I handled the money. I don't think she trusted me tocollect, but she had no choice. It was harder and harder for her to walk. She spent all her time onthe couch watching T.V., drinking booze, and smoking. She rarely ate. During the day I shoppedor took her to the clinic or watched T.V. I was a zombie, just existing, dreading nightfall and thestart of my torture. I was in a haze that whole time. I just shut my brain down and acted like arobot.

Most of my clients were men my mother knew or they had heard of me through word ofmouth. She would book two or three men a night starting at nightfall. Some of the men cameonce or twice a week, always at the same time. I suppose they fit me into their work schedules. Ihad some physical abuse, but not too much. Some guys liked spanking my bottom and thenkissing it to make it better. But none of them spanked me as hard as Mr. Shields did back insecond grade. I tried not to look closely at the men because I didn't want to recognize them incase I saw them in a store or on the street. I kept wearing that black dress until it was filthy andworn out. I never could get the smell of vomit out of it despite applying all kinds of soaps andlotions. Finally, my mother sent me out with Mrs. Milano to buy another dress that looked like achild's party dress since my perverted clients seemed to like the look. Pink was my favoritecolor so I got a pink dress with white lace ruffles around the bottom and the sleeves. I got a pinkbow for my hair. I looked younger in this outfit than I did in the black dress so my mother putmore make-up on me, even a dot for a beauty mark like Marilyn Monroe. What a costume!I went into a trance as soon as the sex started. I entered la-la land, and when it ended Icame back to reality. That was the only way I could cope. I was getting more and more like my mother - bitter and silent. I only talked to people in the stores, and then it was only to ask howmuch things cost. I was completely isolated. There was no one who knew what was happening tome, or if they knew, they didn't do anything about it. Mrs. Milano must have known, but shedidn't do anything. The other neighbors in the building saw me get into strange cars sevennights a week. They saw the cars go down and park in the alley and then drive out again a littlewhile later. Obviously, Doc knew what my mother was doing to me. He even examined me whenhe came to check on my mother. I know he gave me antibiotics sometimes so I may have hadsome sexually transmitted diseases. I was glad Doc never wanted to be a client. I hated it whenhe touched me to examine me, but I don't think he had any sexual feelings for me. He treated melike a doctor. I don't think he was a pervert.

I still wonder how it was possible for nothing to be done to help me, for no one to rescueme. The schools just let me drop out. They never came to the house to find out why I wasn'tgoing to school. They were glad to be rid of me. I was a forgotten kid. I was a throw-away kid.There was a Catholic church down the street from our apartment and I wondered if theyknew about me and if they did, why they didn't do anything to help. There was no greater sinpossible than what my mother did to me. Even the priests who sexually abused kids weren't asbad because they weren't the child's parent, the person who is created to protect their child. Ihate to say this, but there was a man who came to see me once a week, every Monday, and I'mpretty sure he was a priest. He wore these black clothes that were different from anything I'dever seen on anyone. I can't think of who else might have worn a black collarless shirt and shinyblack pants. And he had this different kind of smell which I later learned was the smell ofincense. Years later the scandals with the priests made me even more certain that the guy in theshiny black pants was a priest who liked screwing children. I've become religious so it's hard forme to accept this, but I know it's a fact. Fortunately, it didn't lessen my love of God; it onlyincreased my hatred for hypocrites who claim to love God while they sin.Anyhow for over a year I worked while my mother took her time dying. I spent a lot oftime nursing her when I wasn't working. I cooked and fed her although she refused to take muchfood. I cleaned her. I gave her medicines to cut down on the pain, but I think the booze wasbetter at that. She didn't care that she was mixing painkillers and booze. The more the better.But even the combination of both didn't stop the pain that was eating away inside her. I often think the real pain eating inside her was her evil. This was a woman who sold her child intoprostitution without any qualms or feelings of guilt. She was a woman without an ounce ofmorality in her. Now the evil was eating at her more than the cancer. In a way I was glad she wasin pain. I thought that she was being paid back for what she was doing to me. I know that she'sburning in Hell for eternity, but I'm glad God punished her while she was alive. I'm glad shesuffered unbearable pain. She deserved it. I'm sorry to say such awful things, but that's how I feel.When the pain got to be too much, she committed suicide by bus. I told you how shesomehow found the strength to walk the long block to a busy street where she walked in front ofa moving bus. She took the easy way out. Did I mention that she was wearing the sexy dress thatshe wore when she worked? She got dressed up to die.

I told you before a little about how I felt that day. I really can't tell you how lost anddestitute I felt. The only stability I had in my life was gone. My world collapsed. I was crazywith fear when I couldn't find her. Where was she? Had she run away? Had someone kidnappedher? Had the police taken her away? And then fears about myself took over. How could Icontinue hooking alone? If I didn't hook, who would take care of me? I had $112 saved. Wouldthat be enough for me to run away? Where would I go? You have to remember that my worldwas limited to the few blocks around my house, the stores where I shopped, and the hospitalwhere I took my mother. I lived in a huge city, but it was like I lived in a little village. I wastotally unaware of the world outside of the few places I knew. I'd never seen Lake Michigan ordowntown Chicago or the museums or the airport or the neighborhoods where middle class orrich people lived.

The next day when Mrs. Milano took me to the police station, I was filled with fears formyself. Would they arrest me for prostitution and put me in jail? Would they torture me with litcigarettes like my mother said they would? When they took me to see my mother's corpse, I wasrelieved. She was dead. Now I could stop worrying about what happened to her. I had nofeelings of sadness for her. I was glad she was gone. But then when the police took me to achildren's home and wouldn't let me go home to get my money and my safety pins, I was frantic.I became quite agitated and started yelling incoherently. I was hysterical. Someone gave me ashot and that was the last thing I remembered for a while.

I was in the children's home for a few weeks. That's where they tested me and foundthat I had a 65 IQ. I still can't believe that no one questioned testing a child who had been forcedinto prostitution and had just seen her mother's corpse. How could any respectable psychologistnot look at what had happened to me and not try to find out who I was? Maybe they used theschool records which showed that I was a bad kid who failed fourth grade as further support forme being mentally retarded. This IQ score just supported their biases. Didn't they see thedamage that had been done to me by my cruel mother, my social isolation, my failure at school,and most importantly my lack of a childhood? I was never a child who had love, who played,who went to the zoo, or who had a birthday party.

I was given a complete physical examination, the first in my life. I was found to beundernourished and underweight. That was no surprise. I was found to have scabies from livingin filth. That was no surprise. I was found to be pregnant. That was a surprise. After I got myperiod, I asked men to use condoms. A few did; most refused. Since I had just startedmenstruating, I was irregular so I never knew when I was fertile and even if I knew, I probablywouldn't have done anything about it. I was totally unaware of menstrual cycles and the specificsof reproduction. My mother gave me a two minute lecture on the facts of life, but she gave me anintensive course on how to have sex. When the doctor told me I was pregnant, I looked at myabdomen and saw the swelling. I hadn't noticed it and none of my clients saw it or mentioned it.Even if they saw my swelling belly, they might have thought I was like the kids who starve butstill have distended bellies. I probably wouldn't have realized I was pregnant for another monthor two had I not been examined. Sometimes I think my mother committed suicide at that timebecause she realized I was pregnant. She saw my swelling abdomen and realized it was the endof my work and it was the end of her having someone to support her. She might have realizedthat the police and authorities would soon be involved and she couldn't take that. So maybe itwasn't only the cancer that caused her to commit suicide, it was also my pregnancy.The news that I was pregnant was shocking, disorienting, overwhelming. How was Igoing to take care of a baby? I didn't realize that the baby would be taken away from me never tobe seen again. I thought I would be sent back to the apartment with a baby and I'd have to find away to support it. I was totally irrational. And again I experienced the cruelty of people whoshould NOT have been cruel. After the doctor examined me and found I was pregnant, he said, "Someone knocked you up, you little bitch. You whore." I recall how he spoke the word whore -dripping with hatred. Like I willingly chose being a whore, like I willingly chose gettingpregnant. And then he said, "I wish I could kill the bastard, but it's too late for that. I couldn'tmake up a reason to do it so we'll have another fucking bastard that we'll have to pay for.Another bastard on welfare. There won't be any more bastards from you in the future. We'llmake sure that doesn't happen." Then he slapped me across the face - hard. The cruelestphysical abuse I got wasn't from my clients, but from authority figures - first from my schoolprincipal and now from a doctor. Why? Why? What feelings did I bring out in them when theylooked at me? Why did they respond with violence?

Based on the 65 IQ, I was judged to be mildly mentally retarded and based on my wildbehavior when I entered the children's home, I was judged to be emotionally disturbed. Whowouldn't be emotionally disturbed after living the life I lived? And of course, I was judged to besexually promiscuous based on being pregnant. So those three things got me sent to SouthernState School for the Feebleminded - being retarded, being emotionally disturbed, and beingpregnant.

You know what bothered me most about this period of my life is that I was blamed. As ifI had a choice, and I chose to be a prostitute. I was the victim, but no one saw it that way. I wasraped by every man who had sex with me. Years later Dr. Warner helped me see the injustice ofthis. He was a great psychologist, not because of any professional training, but because of howhe was able to cleanse me of guilt. He led me to understand that I was in a situation where I wasparalyzed. There was nothing I could do. It wasn't my fault that I was a prostitute. It was mymother's, but more importantly, it was society's fault for not doing anything for me. Peopleknew, and refused to do anything. Society turned its back on me. When I think of America, Ithink of this great nation that cares for its citizens, even the least of them. That wasn't theAmerica I lived in back in 1963. And I'm not so sure if that's the America of today.All these years, I've felt guilty about not fighting against child prostitution. With myexperience, I should be an activist fighting this plague. I should have made it a cause in my life,but that would have meant exposing my past, and I just can't do that. It's too demeaning; it's toohumiliating; it's too painful. I can't relive those memories. Most people think of childprostitution in foreign countries like Thailand and Ukraine, but it's here in America too. It's our dirty little secret, much like it was when I was a child, but it's also different. There are pimpswho specialize in young girls now. My pimp was my mother. I saw the term "survival sex" online and I think it applied to me. I had to sell myself to survive. And now there's the internet andpornography which is totally out of control. I can't begin to conceptualize the sexual abuse ofyoung children, especially babies, that's on the internet. Just thinking about it makes me crazy. Ialways wanted to see the men who bought me arrested and sent to jail. Today I would like to seeharsher punishments. I would like to see the death penalty for child sexual abusers andpornographers. These are people who gave up their right to live when they committed the worstpossible crime, maybe worse than murder. I've always considered myself a political liberal,except when it comes to child rapists and pornographers. I don't know your views on the deathpenalty and your experiences with this issue when you were a lawyer, but when you've livedthrough this, it's hard to show any mercy to these savages. I try to do a little something for thefight against child prostitution by donating to charities fighting against it, but that's not enough. Ishould be out there on the front lines fighting it, but I just can't do it emotionally. I can't relivethose memories, even today after nearly 50 years.

My life as a prostitute made me hate sex and vow never to have sex with a man again.Years later I met my Charlie who showed me that sex is a beautiful act of love of commitmentbetween two people who love each other. The sex I had as a prostitute was not really sex. It wasrape. It was sexual abuse.