Interview With Ruth Jacobs, Author and Anti-Trafficking Activist

I’m excited to have a guest on board here at Bipolar For Life:  Ruth Jacobs, author of the upcoming best-selling novel series Soul Destruction.  Part one of the series, Soul Destruction: Unforgivable, will be released worldwide on April 29, 2013.

Ruth Jacobs no border

Soul Survivor: Ruth’s gritty, hard-hitting novel features a more-or-less close-knit group of friends who have at least two things in common: drugs, and prostitution.  So what is this book doing on my blog, which tries its best to stay focused on mental health and child abuse issues?  Probably because this group of tough customers has more than just two things in common.

Let’s read a passage from Soul Destruction: Unforgivable, and then we can ask Ruth to help us understand.

Aunt Elsie made tea and they sat on their usual white stools at the white, plastic table in the kitchen. Elsie, as always, sat facing the back door and Shelley, facing the hall. From her chair, she could see the picture frames that stood on the hall table. Although she couldn‘t see the pictures, she knew each one from memory. The pictures were of happier times: baby pictures of her and William, a school picture of William when he was about ten, a school picture of Shelley taken around the same time, putting her at seven or eight, and a picture of them both with their mother before she became ill. That last picture, taken in Brighton in the summer of 1983, was from the last holiday they‘d had with just the three of them. Until that year, Rita had taken her and William to Brighton every summer. Neither she nor her mother had been back since, but William had, once.

Shelley gulped her tea and apologised to her aunt for the short visit. On her way to the front door, she stopped at the hall table. It was the missing pictures she noticed. There was no record from that last holiday until she was fifteen years old and William was seventeen. As if those years in between had never existed. Of course, they had. They all wanted to forget them. But how could she erase them when she‘d endured them? However much she tried, those years wouldn‘t stop replaying in her head. That‘s what caused the rage, the despair, and the excruciating pain that fed on her soul.

S/S: Ruth, this passage starts out looking pretty normal.  I mean, prostitutes don’t have aunts named Elsie with whom they have tea every week, do they?  What, you’re telling me that prostitutes are people like you and me?  Shocking.  But wait, reading on, we find that things are not so happy as they once were.  There seems to be a skeleton in the family closet, perhaps?

You and I have had some conversations regarding prostitution and what might set the stage for a girl or woman to become caught up in it.  Can you talk a bit about that, in the context of the passage we’ve quoted?  What is it here that might have propelled Shelley in the direction she’s taken?   Something happened, didn’t it, something terrible, it seems….

Ruth: Yes, something terrible did happen. I don’t want to give any spoilers about the book for people who will be reading it, but I think it’s very important to know that a large percentage of people in prostitution have a history of being abused as children, whether that be physical and/or sexual abuse. Childhood abuse can set them up as targets for pimps and traffickers. Many women in prostitution started as children. Children do not make these choices. They may be forced by another, they may be homeless, as some I know have been, and out of desperation for a roof over their head for a night or something to eat, they turn to prostitution. For some they have been treated and viewed as sex objects and feel that is their worth. There are more complexities in this, and studies and research into the links between childhood abuse and prostitution have been conducted. For anyone who would like to understand more, my dissertation on prostitution, which I undertook back in the late 1990s, can be read freely here http://soul-destruction.com/on-prostitution.

S/S: Let’s go on to another scene from your book.

Emotionally exhausted, Shelley slept until a nightmare woke her late afternoon. Swaddled in her favourite duvet, she shuffled along the cold, black and white floor tiles in the kitchen. She poured a glass of water and took it through to the lounge. She landed herself on the sofa, then picked up one of her new, sparkling dessert spoons and began cooking up her fix.

What she‘d heard from Tara yesterday shocked her. Not that another call girl would have a past like that, most of the hookers she knew did. The shock was that Tara knew what she had gone through as a child, yet hadn‘t confided in her. Was it her fault Tara had never been able to tell her? Possibly not – Tara hadn‘t told Nicole either. But Shelley knew she could have been a better friend. There were things she could have done differently, things she could have said differently, and things she could have not said at all. She remembered the cruel words she‘d spoken the day before.

Guilt grew from her gut and permeated her body. Her breathing shallowed. This had to be a big hit. It would take more heroin and crack than usual to change this feeling. This feeling on top of her grief, her anger, and her fears had done more than add to them. It felt as if they‘d all been amplified. The noise had to be muted.

The speedball she‘d prepared was overgenerous but essential. She needed to get to nirvana. Without a tourniquet, she squeezed her wrist and went straight for a visible vein in her hand.

She fell back on the sofa and thought this time she might die. This was overdose territory. She lost control of her body as she convulsed. She tried to scream for help but no words came, not recognisable words. She could hear herself babbling but couldn‘t tell if she was making those sounds or if they were coming from inside her head.

S/S: Now we’re hearing Shelley’s shock upon finding that her friend Tara, too, has things hidden in her past, things that she’s been unable to speak about, and Shelley’s over-amplified guilt at seeing herself as not having been a better friend.

Ruth, why would that upset Shelley to the point where she nearly kills herself to get away from the pain?

Ruth: It’s not that alone that brings Shelley to this point. Already being in an extremely dark place, the situation with Tara tips her over the edge. Shelley carries guilt that does not belong to her, as many survivors of abuse do, whether that be childhood abuse or being raped as an adult, for example. This victim-blaming culture perpetuates that. For example, when a woman is raped, some people will blame that rape on what she was wearing, whether she was drunk or had taken drugs, if she was out late at night alone etc. The rape is the fault of the rapist and no one else.

Shelley is a sensitive, kind and caring young woman. She is quick to take on responsibility for caretaking others, as she had as a child within her family, and still does during the time the novel is set in her early twenties. She feels inadequate, not good enough, in many ways. From being at the receiving end of abuse in her childhood and the negative messages that go along with that, she speaks to herself in that same way. In transactional analysis, a branch of psychiatry, it is said we have three ego states: parent, adult and child. The parent ego state is formed by what we hear from our parents/guardians as children. If they are berating when we are children, those ‘recordings’ play out in our heads as adults. It is possible to change these, but I have struggled with it myself.

S/S: So how does child abuse feed into prostitution?  What percentage of prostituted women were abused as children?  Is there a differential between different types of abuse, like physical, emotional, or sexual?  Does that matter?

Ruth: Various studies have been conducted in this. The figure I have from my dissertation is that 75% of women in prostitution have been victims of childhood sexual and physical abuse (WHISPER Oral History Project, 1987). A more recent UK study revealed that 45% suffered sexual abuse and 85% suffered physical abuse within their families (Home Office 2006).

From my personal experience of knowing many women in prostitution and many who have exited, all those I have discussed childhood abuse with have suffered that themselves. I have also known some men in prostitution, though only a few, and again, all those who I discussed childhood abuse with had suffered that too. Some people in prostitution have suffered emotional and verbal abuse in childhood. And there are some who will not have suffered abuse as children. But there is clearly a very strong link between childhood abuse and prostitution.

S/S: Thanks so much, Ruth, for helping us to understand some links between childhood abuse and prostitution.  As a pediatrician and adolescent medicine specialist, I saw many young people who had ended up on the streets doing whatever they needed to do to stay alive.  Many of them had to resort to prostitution just to buy food and have a place to stay at night, although many were homeless, largely due to drug addiction that ate up all their money.  When they came into my clinic, I had a golden opportunity to talk with them and ask about why they were out on the streets instead of living at home.  Many cited “mom’s boyfriend” who was either currently sexually abusing them or trying to.  Others spoke of ongoing physical abuse since early childhood; others said that their parents “just didn’t care about them and they felt better just being on their own.”  Often, I just couldn’t hold my tears back and sometimes they cried too, although most had trained themselves to have a tough exterior, out of necessity.

More about Ruth Jacobs and her writings:

Soul Destruction: Unforgivable

SD-front border 

Enter the bleak existence of a call girl haunted by the atrocities of her childhood. In the spring of 1997, Shelley Hansard is a drug addict with a heroin habit and crack psychosis. Her desirability as a top London call girl is waning.

When her client dies in a suite at The Lanesborough Hotel, Shelley’s complex double-life is blasted deeper into chaos. In her psychotic state, the skills required to keep up her multiple personas are weakening. Amidst her few friends, and what remains of her broken family, she struggles to maintain her wall of lies.

During this tumultuous time, she is presented with an opportunity to take revenge on a client who raped her and her friends. But in her unbalanced state of mind, can she stop a serial rapist?

 

Soul Destruction: Unforgivable is released 29 April 2013. Available worldwide from all major online retailers in paperback and e-book. Pre-orders are available direct from Caffeine Nights

Further information and contact details:

 Ruth Jacobs’s Amazon author page –

UK: http://www.amazon.co.uk/Ruth-Jacobs/e/B008O

US: http://www.amazon.com/Ruth-Jacobs/e/B008OJ0ZMC

Soul Destruction website: http://soul-destruction.com

Author Website: http://ruthjacobs.co.uk

Ruth Jacobs Bio

 Ruth Jacobs writes a series of novels entitled Soul Destruction, which expose the dark world and the harsh reality of life as a call girl. Her debut novel, Soul Destruction: Unforgivable, is released on 29 April 2013 by Caffeine Nights. Ruth studied prostitution in the late 1990s, which sparked her interest in the subject. She draws on her research and the women she interviewed for inspiration. She also has firsthand experience of many of the topics she writes about such as posttraumatic stress disorder, rape, and drug and alcohol addiction. In addition to her fiction writing, Ruth is also involved in non-fiction for her charity and human rights campaigning work in the areas of anti-sexual exploitation and anti-human trafficking.

Is Prostitution Ever Voluntary?

Yes, I know this is a blog about being bipolar.  And you know what?  I think the topics of bipolar-ism and prostitution go hand in hand.

And why is that?  It is because pimps hone in on the vulnerable, the lonely, the ones who are looking for love and not finding it, the ones with poor self esteem, the depressed, the confused.  And because the mentally ill often become homeless, jobless, drug-addicted, and desperate.

It’s still January, and January is Human Trafficking Awareness Month.  I’ve been reading a lot and learning a lot about the dynamics of sex trafficking and prostitution.  Among the things I’ve learned are that:

  • Depending on the study, the average age for entry into prostitution is 11 to 13 years old.
  • The vast majority of prostituted youth (and adults) come from abusive homes.
  • Girls (and sometimes boys) are often “groomed” by “loverboys” who give them jewelry, clothes, and mostly, attention, and when they are “ready” they are abducted and forced into a life of slavery.
  • This goes on in virtually every country.
  • Girls who try to refuse to cooperate are beaten and raped into submission
  • Girls are “domestically trafficked,” which means they are moved from city to city within a country: like from Columbus, OH to Detroit, MI, for instance
  • Girls as young as 12 and 13 get arrested, thrown into jail, and charged with prostitution, while pimps and johns go scot free

Can you imagine being taken away and raped over and over, many times a day, for years, until you either “disappear” or get spit out on the street because you are too old to appeal to the child rapists any longer?  It just totally tears me apart.

And then there is the child pornography.  Need I say more?

But prostitution is “the oldest profession.”  Isn’t it?  Women (and men) CHOOSE to sell their bodies because

  • They like sex
  • They like money
  • They like sex AND money
  • It’s easy money
  • It’s an exciting, glamourous lifestyle
  • It’s empowering to women to be able to do whatever they want with their bodies

Not really.  If you want to know how glamourous and empowering the prostitution lifestyle is, look at the rates of drug abuse.  Prostituted women are either given drugs by their pimps to keep them cooperative, or else the women themselves develop drug habits to escape from the hell of being used as sperm receptacles.  Those with serious drug habits often do get into a vicious cycle of having to get money to buy drugs, and the quickest and easiest way to do that is to turn a trick.

I have known a lot of prostitutes, and not one of them has done it because she enjoyed the sex.  Sex for the prostituted is for one thing: money. And most of the time most of the money doesn’t go to her, it goes to the pimp or madam who rents her out.  Prostitutes learn how to dissociate when a john is on top of them.  The problem is, the dissociation doesn’t always work: that’s where the drugs come in.

Now we come to runaways.  As some of you already know, I was a teenage runaway.  I ran away from an abusive home after being drugged, abducted, and brutally raped by a man who had been admiring me at work.  So I ended up on the street.  I wasn’t there because I wanted to be; I was there because I thought I was going to find peace and love.  What I found was that if I needed food, shelter, a shower, drugs, anything really, the only way to get it was to sleep with some guy.  If I didn’t have a place to crash (meaning a guy to sleep with), I slept outside or walked the streets all night.

That was back in the early 1970′s.  Things have changed now, for the worse.  Runaways now are caught and funneled into the sex trafficking business by pimps who work the streets looking for them.  It is very easy to spot a runaway.  Your hair is uncombed, your clothes are a mess from sleeping under some bush in the park, you are probably carrying a backpack, maybe a sleeping bag if you thought that far ahead.  You look homeless, because you are.

So some handsome, well groomed guy offers to buy you a meal, and you are hungry.  Then he offers you a place to crash, and you are tired of sleeping in doorways or in the park, and have probably been raped a couple of times by now so you are ready to come indoors.  Then you discover that you can’t get out.  And then the nightmare really begins.  That’s the way it is now.

As for the glamourous call-girl life, I’ve known a couple of women who’ve done that.  I thought about it myself sometimes, when I was young and beautiful and needed money to make it through college.  Yeah, I have some friends who got through school by “turning tricks,” as it was called back then.  I have never seen such damaged people in my life, apart from the ones who were kidnapped into it.  My friends who were “voluntarily” prostituting themselves found their self-esteem eroded trick by trick, and to bolster themselves up they had to turn another trick, and another….”the life” becomes an addiction.

We were all hooked on cocaine.  My cocaine habit was small change compared with theirs.  I did coke because it actually treated my depression (I didn’t realize that till years later); they did coke because they couldn’t stand their lives.  I got my coke by sleeping with dealers; they got their coke by turning tricks to make the money to buy more coke.  I guess I was a prostitute too, huh?  I just didn’t do it for cash, because I was scared to.  I did it for “stuff,” whatever was needed at the time.  Yeah, I heard myself being called a “coke whore,” but I chose not to listen until one morning I woke up next to yet another man I had never seen before, and I quit. Cold turkey quit.  I was one of the lucky ones.

To get back to the original question: Is Prostitution Ever Voluntary?  My answer is: it can look that way, when it’s an adult woman who makes what she thinks is an informed, purposeful choice, because she thinks she can make money quickly and easily that way.  But once in “the life,” a woman becomes trapped, either by her pimp or her drug habit or the crushing of her soul that is prostitution. Then it’s not voluntary: it’s slavery.

 

In the Booth with Ruth – Stella Marr, Sex Trafficking Survivor, Anti-Sex Trafficking Activist and Advocate, Executive Director and Founding Member of Sex Trafficking Survivors United (Survivors Connect)

Seemingly tireless campaigner for abolition of human trafficking Ruth Jacobs presents another in her eye-opening series of interviews with survivors of sex trafficking.  Stella Marr, who was trafficked in New York City for ten years, talks about her work.  The link to her personal blog, ManhattanCallGirl, is at the bottom of the interview linked below.  I had the honor of speaking with Stella a couple of days ago.  She is a powerful and compassionate woman, dedicated to effecting change in the system that currently criminalizes trafficked women, while allowing the men who buy them to either get off free or get a slap on the hand.  Please read Stella’s compelling interview, and while you’re at it, take a look through the many other interviews that Ruth has compiled during January, which is Human Trafficking Awareness Month.

via In the Booth with Ruth – Stella Marr, Sex Trafficking Survivor, Anti-Sex Trafficking Activist and Advocate, Executive Director and Founding Member of Sex Trafficking Survivors United (Survivors Connect).

In the Booth with Ruth – Ed Drain, Anti-Human Trafficking Advocate and Activist « Ruth Jacobs

Another amazing interview by Ruth Jacobs, tireless campaigner for ending human trafficking and prostitution.  Ed Drain is a Veteran os the United States Army and the war in Afghanistan, who now fights for the liberty of all people, especially those who have been trafficked into slavery.  He is also a fighter for the freeing of Sara Kruzan.

In the Booth with Ruth – Ed Drain, Anti-Human Trafficking Advocate and Activist « Ruth Jacobs.

In the Booth with Ruth - Dina Leah

Reblogged from Dina Leah: story of a teenage runaway:

Interview with Ruth Jacobs...you can see I was scared to open up...

Dina Leah, a survivor of child abuse and rape, ran away from home at age 16 only to find herself homeless on the streets. The only way to get shelter, food, and other necessities was to have sex with strange men. This led to more rapes, and a vicious cycle of drug abuse, survivor sex, and homelessness. She is currently writing a novelized memoir, using a pseudonym out of fear of her abusors. Ruth Jacobs, tireless advocate for change and abolition of prostitution, interviews Dina here about Dina's life as a writer. In a second interview on Ruth's website, Dina talks about her life as a runaway and how it has affected her, both as an activist for street kids and in her own personal life.

Mental and Physical Block

Reblogged from rmott62:

It has been too hard to write, for finally I am coming into life.

I will be 50 on Monday, and this landmark is bringing out my grief and a rage that is blocking my words.

I feel I cannot understand what age is, for I do believe I came into life without rape, torture and wanting death until I was 30.

Read more… 517 more words

Rebecca Mott's courageous voice screams in agony against the routinised torture that is prostitution.

Guest post on Soul Destruction blog by Ruth Jacobs

I’m so very honored to have been asked by Ruth Jacobs who is a strong voice in the fight to dispel the “happy hooker” myth and get the story out there about what it’s really like to sell your body and with it, your soul.

I really went out on a limb with this one. If you have the intestinal fortitude to see why, click the link http://souldestructionblog.wordpress.com/voices-of-prostitution-survivors

Homeless in the Holy Land PTSD

Don’t get me wrong: there is no place I would rather be.  Jerusalem!  The holiness of the place is breathtaking.  I don’t have to even go anywhere, just sit still in one place and bask in the holiness of the Holy City, to feel whole and content.

Therein lies the rub: I don’t have the luxury of sitting still in one place, because I don’t have a place.

The original plan was to spend ten weeks with He Who Shall Not Be Named.  But, as I have previously explained, that blew up into violent confrontation, and I fled from that place.  Luckily I have many friends here, having lived in Jerusalem for four years before I had to return to America to help my aged parents.  There is one in particular who would do literally anything for me, and he vacated his master suite and slept on the couch until my guilt feelings at displacing him overcame me, and I rented a vacation apartment for a week, to be followed by a studio apartment sublet for the six weeks remaining to my stay here.

I was looking forward to that studio, cozy and sweet with a rooftop garden.  Then I got a tearful phone call from the girl I was to sublet from: she has bedbugs.  Aaaargh!  I had to hand it to her, she is an honest person.  She could have just left me with the awful problem, and then I would have been stuck with having all my luggage contaminated in addition to getting bitten and having to find a new place, with the worry of transporting the little demons into the bargain.

So I called my loyal friend again (actually we text and phone constantly all day anyway) and as soon as he heard the news he insisted that I come back to his place.  At least now his roommate has moved out and there is a bedroom open for me, and I don’t have to feel guilty about displacing him from his room, no matter how much he insists he “loves sleeping on the couch.”  There’s a limit.

So what have I got to whine about?  I have a place to stay, with a good friend, and in fact I am surrounded by good friends and love on all sides.  My problem, dear readers, is that even now while I am typing this, I am exhibiting avoidance behavior, because what I should really be doing is packing to leave this vacation apartment and go to my friend’s place, two blocks away.

You see, there was once a big block of time when I had no place to live.  The only way I could avoid spending the night on the street (which meant no sleep because sleeping when you are on the street is a very dangerous thing to do) was to hook up with a man and spend the night at his place.  Which I did, over and over and over.  At first I counted them, but when I got over 200 I stopped counting.  Actually I lost track.

I must say that the vast majority of them were really good sorts, and did not abuse me.  Some were kind to me and fed me, and some even gave me a dollar or two to go to the Taco Bell and get something to eat.  I never “did it for money” because I had been raised with a horror of such a thing.  So I did it for a roof over my head, safety from the dangers of the streets, and (hopefully) something to eat.

I rarely had the courage to ask for a shower unless the guy wanted to shower with me, which fortunately was often.  Otherwise I just went without.  It was a miserable existence.  I was always on the run from the police because I was 16, 17 at the time and they would have arrested me for being a vagrant juvenile, and I would have been sent “home,” which I dreaded more than anything, which was why I was on the run to begin with.

Home is where the heart is

Home is so remote

Home is my emotions

Sticking in my throat

Let’s go to your place

–Lena Lovich

So it was: moving, moving, moving, almost every night.  Once in a while a guy would want me around for two or three nights, until he got bored with me.  Then there was the awkward moment:  ”Um, Lady, I love you a lot, but….” and I would pack up my spare pair of underwear and toothbrush, and head back out to the street.

If I didn’t score with a guy, I had to wander all night, staying on the move, watching out for predators and cops.  Not safe to sit down anywhere, had to keep moving, keep moving, until morning, when I could lie down in the park and catch a nap in relative safety.

Not safe to go to a house with a bunch of people having a party: recipe for rape.  ”Just don’t make any noise and you won’t get hurt,” hissed in my ear by some oaf who had planted himself on top of me while I was dozing.  After a few of those, I learned to steer clear of the party crowd.

Yeah.  So now, forty years later, I still don’t have a home.  And every time I pack I get flashback upon flashback upon flashback, and nothing helps.

I have to get back to packing now.  My friend is coming to help me haul my bags the two blocks to his house.  At least now I have more than a change of underwear and a toothbrush.  Lots and lots of baggage.

Bleak prospects

Oh, the wonders of Skype. From my vantage point here in the Land of Israel, I had a therapy session with my extremely well-meaning but very Catholic psychologist. When I’m in America, the cultural disconnect is clear but not insurmountable; here in Israel, where nuances of Jewish life saturate every word, every expression, and every second word in regular English conversation turns out to be Ivrit (Hebrew) anyway….it was difficult.

Im kol zot (oh sorry…”even so”) it was a good conversation.

If you have been following my blog you will know that my “About Me” section talks about my inability to form lasting relationships due to my injured nervous system. Or something like that.

And you might recall that over the past few months I’ve written about a Beloved who loved me not merely in spite of who I am, but because of who I am.

That was great. Amazing. Wonderful.

He came to see me in America for a week. It was fantastic.

Then I went to see him in Israel (which, by the way, is really my home). And the house of cards came tumbling down.

It wasn’t real. It was an illusion. It was everything I hoped it wouldn’t be.

I’m not going to go into details. It’s not worth the aggravation or the worry that he will see it (he reads my blog from time to time) and cause trouble for me in one way or another.

This blog entry is really about the conversation with my therapist, anyway.

We talked about my deep woundedness, and the fact that I was wounded as a baby, and then continuously until I left my parents’ house. And then the comparatively subtle wounding morphed into the gross, large-scale wounding, as I turned into a street kid and learned to barter sex for food, shelter, drugs, companionship: all the necessary things of life, I got by trading sexual favors.

Heck, even music lessons. One of the most horrendous rapes of my life happened with an Irish flute player who had been teaching me the fine points of Irish flute ornamental notes when he reached over and grabbed me and….not here, I won’t write that here. It had been understood that I would pay him in sex, but he wanted what he wanted, wanted it now, and it wasn’t what I was planning to give him, or would have wanted to give anyone else, for that matter.

So the question is, am I too wounded to be able to identify a “normal” person? I mean, as a potential mate?

Is that why all the people who are attractive and attracted to me turn out, sooner or later, to be violent, manipulative, coercive, egotistical maniacs?

Do I attract them because of my woundedness? Am I like a child sex abuse victim, overly seductive beyond their years, wearing their only means of surviving their childhood like a tight red dress and spike heels?

Unfortunately, my psychologist’s answer was in the affirmative.

Are there people who are too wounded to be able to have a healthy life partner relationship? Am I one of them? At this point, I rather think so. I think I never developed the antennas that tell you whether people are safe or dangerous. My life as a child prostitiute (let’s call a spade a spade, shall we?) put the final nail in the coffin of my childhood of emotional and verbal abuse.

I’ve been in therapy now for 28 years. Continuously. I’ve done lots and lots of special therapies like Neurolinguistic Programming, a special acupuncture treatment that drives out inner dragons, Rolfing, etc. etc. and listen, what it boils down to is that I lack the templates for normal relationship. All of my relationship templates are for “predator,” “drop-kick,” “sucker punch,” “egomaniac,” “narcissistic asshole,” and things like that.

True, I am in the acute wound-licking stage of my most recent failure. It’s especially painful because I spent the previous seven years in celibacy, hoping to erase the previous templates and build new healthy ones. Not a chance. This one turned out to be a screaming asshole.

There is good news, though. I didn’t stick around for it. I gave him twelve days to straighten out his act. Things only became more scary and heading towards violence. So I left. And I have not answered his emails, or any requests for contact.

Sigh.

Barter sex

My sex life began with a bang (no pun intended) on April 22,1970.  I was a sixteen year old virgin.  I will tell the story of that rape on my new blog, the one I keep threatening to start, any time now.  I’m working the kinks out of it.

After that, I ran away from my artsy-fartsy home on the east coast, ran all the way to California to be a hippie, and promptly got raped again, in a big white metal bed at the home of a friend and her family. Guy walked right through the door, climbed on top of me: “Don’t make any noise and you won’t get hurt.” Where DO they learn that pick-up line?  I left the next day, thingy chances on Highway One heading south to Santa Monica, where my friend had a friend who said she knew of a place I could crash. Only that didn’t work out the way it was supposed to.

After a few days of abject homelessness, too scared to sit down anywhere, too scared to go to sleep on the side of the road for fear I’d get raped again, I was offered a great deal: I could sleep on a cot in a crowded garage where a rock band practised, provided that I would sleep with the band members.

At that point it seemed like the best possible arrangement, since I would have a guaranteed place to sleep, and the people I would be having sex with were a known quantity and not just random people grabbing me off the street or coming in my window when I was asleep.

One kind of sweet thing was that the bass player took a shine to me and asked all the others to stay away, after they had each had a turn or two.  So I “belonged” to Spacey Tracey.

There wasn’t a bathroom in the garage so I used the yard.  The lady who lived in the house left her back door open for a while, so I would sneak in there when she was at work and use the bathroom, take a quick shower (I got to stinking pretty bad with all that sex and no shower).  Also I had no food and no money.  The cot in the garage was the barter deal. Tracey didn’t seem to notice or care that I was getting pretty gaunt.

On one trip through the dark kitchen of the lady’s house on my way to the bathroom I noticed that there was a bowl of those pastel poufy after dinner mints on the kitchen counter.  I grabbed a handful and stuffed them in my pocket.  That whole day I sucked on them very slowly, feeling them dissolve on my tongue, feeling the surge of sugar into my blood, a tiny flicker of energy enlivening my flesh.  My mind was dead, though.  Gone.

Once I discovered the mints I made sure to grab a handful every day.  That was all  I had to eat.  The band tried to get me to drink some Boone’s Farm Apple Wine one night.  It barely hit my stomach before coming up again.  Didn’t make much mess, though:  nothing in there.

Well, the lady finally wised up that I was helping myself to her bathroom and mints.  One day the back door was locked.  I told Tracey, sadly, that I would have to move on, or starve to death.  I was terrified at the prospect of leaving, because every night for a couple of hours I had Tracey’s body to cling to, and that was my whole world.  Yet I was truly starving, and had to find a saner situation where there might be both shelter AND food in the offing.

What’s interesting to me in retrospect is that I never asked Tracey for food.  I felt too ashamed and worthless to ask for anything more than what was offered: a place out of the rain, reefer when offered, the companionship, such as it was, of the band, and the barter arrangement with Tracey.

Later, when Tracey found out I was pregnant, he offered me money to help with the abortion.  I tried to reassure him by telling him it wasn’t his, but his face fell apart and I realized that maybe he had loved me, a little.

Copyright 2012 Laura P. Schulman all rights reserved

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