February 10, 2019
It’s 8:50 a.m. in Honolulu right now and it is cold by Hawaii standards. There’s some sort of storm with hurricane force winds but it’s not a hurricane. When the wind gusts, the temp might drop to below 60°. I used to think I missed cold weather but now I see I merely missed wearing tight sweaters. Today I am wearing a sweater that’s hugging me like a long lost friend who wants to show my enhanced breasts to their best advantage.
I am glad I have been in a home of my own for years now. My name is on the associated documents, I have keys, and no one can call the police and have me arrested for trespassing. Been there done that. In the early 2000’s I chose drugs over putting money aside for a room. I was young and considered quite attractive by enough men in the downtown area that I rotated between five apartments each inhabited by a guy with an addiction who traded his place for dope. I casually scattered clothes I had taken from other working girls who happened to be absent when I wanted their stuff. As long as I, or any other working girl, brought the apartment’s tenant his drug of choice, the door was open. I gave bonuses in cigarettes and alcohol to make my arrival even more anticipated than other working girls who gave the bare minimum. I looked down on cheap girls who only supplied barely enough rock for him to take a hit using the “straight shooter” or crack pipe. It was a point of pride with me that no one ever had to remind me to “take care of the house.” The “house” was my first priority because I wanted to come in out of the rain. But I also liked being generous (in my addict world “generous” meant I delivered on my promise to provide the host with a $20 “paper” of crack cocaine. A paper was actually not paper but a teeny plastic baggie and the smallest dollar amount of drugs that can be purchased on the street.) I even enjoyed feeling better than other girls who didn’t have it like I did. Money-wise. I could walk out to Kukui Street downtown and in under a minute a car was pulling over for me. Sometimes someone was waiting for me to be driven back from the concealed location so I could perform another furtive sex act on the latecomer as soon as I was available. I knew this kind of popularity was about availability rather than likeability but I was still chosen. I liked being chosen. Needed it, to be blunt.
On cold days like today I would try to hang out inside for as long as I could. However, that open door swung both ways. No matter what the agreement when I arrived, when his stuff was gone I was required to get him more or get gone. No matter the weather, nothing kept me from my appointed rounds. I was angry about getting kicked out but I probably needed to get more money for myself so I went “out there” as if I cared about his desires. Back to the relatively safe Honolulu streets–a place where women were often beaten but rarely killed. I was never scared when I left where ever. Instead I was always filled with a feeling of freedom and possibility that the introduction to the next guy would bring. As long as I had what I wanted I felt happy.