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When I Was A Kid
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Straight Female / 67
One Wrong Day I Trusted The Wrong Man
This might upset some readers. This narrative is true. It happened to me.
I was 18, and against my parents' permission I went with a man I met who invited me to Baja. We crossed at Tijuana and drove down along the coast. He was not my boyfriend and at the time I had not had sex, intercourse. I was in most all ways protected and trusting. We arrived at the house of a friend of his, a small house in a small town somewhere down the coast. He was driving so I wasn't aware of just where we were.
I woke up in a dog kennel. I could get on my knees, if I kept my head down, or lay in a fetal position. I heard voices, but the room was dark and I couldn't tell where I was. I screamed, but no one came. My friend was gone, he had delivered his cargo.
I was fed once a day in a bowl, water was a canister with a tube to suck on. Toilet was in my pants, I managed to get my pants off and my feces and urine fell through the bottom of the cage into a pan. Once a day the woman came in took and washed out the pan. Never looking at me, never speaking.
Four days later two men came in. I was washed down with a water house. A collar was put around my neck with a chain, pulled out of the kennel and stripped of my shirt and bra. Naked the man looked at me and they talked in Spanish and I was sold. A robe was given to me, the chain around my neck pulled tight so I had to lay in the back of the pickup.
And so began my life of prostitution. Three, four men a night. Sometimes one or two. My rest was when I had my period which came on an irregular schedule, sometimes heavy, sometimes light. I ate with the other women, the room locked from the outside and we slept on mattresses on the floor. I was reserved for rich men. Dressed, bathed, cleaned up. I learned some Spanish of the whorehouse from the other women.
One day several months after I was taken to the whorehouse a fire started and that's how we were rescued by the fire department and I was returned to my parents, almost a year after I left. We were in Tijuana.
I cleaned up, went to school, taught school, in my late thirties I married a teacher. I have one child.
That's my story, of disobedience of my parents, of trusting a man I met casually, who promised a vacation on the beach.
I was 18, and against my parents' permission I went with a man I met who invited me to Baja. We crossed at Tijuana and drove down along the coast. He was not my boyfriend and at the time I had not had sex, intercourse. I was in most all ways protected and trusting. We arrived at the house of a friend of his, a small house in a small town somewhere down the coast. He was driving so I wasn't aware of just where we were.
I woke up in a dog kennel. I could get on my knees, if I kept my head down, or lay in a fetal position. I heard voices, but the room was dark and I couldn't tell where I was. I screamed, but no one came. My friend was gone, he had delivered his cargo.
I was fed once a day in a bowl, water was a canister with a tube to suck on. Toilet was in my pants, I managed to get my pants off and my feces and urine fell through the bottom of the cage into a pan. Once a day the woman came in took and washed out the pan. Never looking at me, never speaking.
Four days later two men came in. I was washed down with a water house. A collar was put around my neck with a chain, pulled out of the kennel and stripped of my shirt and bra. Naked the man looked at me and they talked in Spanish and I was sold. A robe was given to me, the chain around my neck pulled tight so I had to lay in the back of the pickup.
And so began my life of prostitution. Three, four men a night. Sometimes one or two. My rest was when I had my period which came on an irregular schedule, sometimes heavy, sometimes light. I ate with the other women, the room locked from the outside and we slept on mattresses on the floor. I was reserved for rich men. Dressed, bathed, cleaned up. I learned some Spanish of the whorehouse from the other women.
One day several months after I was taken to the whorehouse a fire started and that's how we were rescued by the fire department and I was returned to my parents, almost a year after I left. We were in Tijuana.
I cleaned up, went to school, taught school, in my late thirties I married a teacher. I have one child.
That's my story, of disobedience of my parents, of trusting a man I met casually, who promised a vacation on the beach.
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