It started as seemingly innocuous play between my dad's friends, one-on-one, behind the closed door of my parent's bedroom while mom was away and dad and his small trio of friends played hearts and drank beer. It had been a long week and every man deserves to unwind as he sees fit. My parent's apartment was the place to be. That was between the ages of 2 till 5.
The first time I saw money change hands was at the air force base when my dad's commanding officer handed me back to him after a romp in his private quarters while everyone enjoyed the parade. I was 3 or 4 then.
The real fun, the malfeasance extraordinaire kicked up in earnest when my parents bought their first home along with a mortgage, taxes, utility bills and two, then three, more mouths to feed.
Beginning around age 5, I started attending parties, private homes where men arrived with money in hand to pay for a piece of me, private time in the dark with a child from 5 to 8 years old. The parties happened three weekends a month, on Friday or Saturday, at one of 4 various residences. The event was rotated to avoid attention and suspicion. I'm sure the sight of young girls in places with grown men may have been alarming to onlookers or nosy neighbors.
At the parties, in addition to making a handful of money, groceries for the week, my dad would arrange "specials". A special was a separate time, one-on-one with me, in a motel room paid for by the customer. My dad would always be near waiting in the bathroom until the deed was done and the customer was satisfied. Physically, I was not to be harmed but that didn't stop some customers from being rough. I did not look forward to specials even though it meant more money.
Specials were scheduled on a Tuesday, Wednesday or Thursday night. Usually it was just once or twice a week. I didn't do well when there were two specials in one night, so dad stopped scheduling two back-to-back like that.
I had time periods when I became quite ill, strep throat mostly. A round of antibiotics and a week home from school, and working parties, would often cure me but not always. If I was working too much, and school was demanding, there were times I required two rounds of penicillin and two weeks off of work.
I would be conflicted those times I was sick and wrapped in covers on a feverish day spent home in bed. I was glad I didn't have to work the men but sad that my brothers and sisters would have less to eat. I was selfish and selfless at the same time, but I couldn't control it. Sometimes my scrawny, little body just couldn't take it anymore.
In the late 60's and 70's, a hand job was 10$, a blow job 15$, and well, a special was 25 to 35$.
My dad could not make enough money to feed his family or ensure the roof was over his head. My mother and he decided to sell me to make sure all the bills got paid and food was on the table.
No, my childhood was not like yours. It was unlike anything I have ever read or heard about.
Early on, I learned to separate off, splice away and hide my incest and prostitution memories from my everyday ones. It's like I have two houses inside. One filled with whores, the sexually abused, the incest ones and the other filled with the good, loving, Catholic school girl, loving daughter who loved her parents.
I am different. I am weird and queer and broke into pieces.
We all are the abuses we don't talk about, the family secrets we keep hidden. We are our scars even if we refuse to look under the bandages. We are our traumas and tragedies and their repercussions whether we acknowledge and talk about them, or not.
I write this because I can. It is a story no one wants to read or hear or believe but I was there.
My parents were monsters who sold me for sex to strangers. I'm not going to hold that secret in any longer.
I am in therapy for life but it is my life and now I own my self and every single wretched and cruel thing that was done to me.
I chose to heal.
I am different. This is my story.
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