Life is a good news bad news story. The good news is you can get used to anything. But you know what the bad news is? You can get used to anything. The once unimaginable, the once inconceivable, can become routine. The thought of something used to horrify you, and now you can do that very thing without batting an die. I suppose it is necessary to adapt in order to survive. but it could easily happen that the very adaptation that enables you to survive in the short-term hurts you in the long-run. Sometimes we have to keep the horror of a bad situation alive, if it is within our power to change the situation. Acceptance may be the key to solving most problems but not all problems. Be careful what becomes acceptable to you, and question anything that was once out of bounds but you now consider alright.
It may be true that in certain situations the truth can set you free. But in certain other situations telling the truth can get you 20. Years, that is. Behind bars.
Never tell anyone in authority that you do things that are not approved by the establishment. Withholding information is not lying in spite of what people say. It’s merely withholding information. And that’s our prerogative.
It’s very common for sex workers to deny having sex with tricks. They are aware of the social stigma associated with hooking, of course. Many say they usually “just talk,” when asked what they do with guys. A lot of women in jail asked me what i did with the guys and it was easier to claim conversation. I always detected disdain in the question. Of course Iwanted to save face. Once, in jail, I heard a working girl acknowledge that it is quicker and easier to simply have sex with the guy then to take the time to try and avoid having sex with him by stringing him along until he has to depart. But her honesty was rare. Most working girls, myself included, say “oh no not me I don’t actually have sex with the guys.” Consider the following text I received a couple of months ago from…
I do not mind spending time with fake friends. It is important to know that they are not true friends. Let me explain. By engaging in socially unacceptable behavior I did not meet people who wanted to be friends with me. My time was spent with people who were not relationship material. Now, when people find out about my past, they do not view me as friendship material. So I am very much alone. It is easy to get too excited about new people, hoping to establish connections. But I am not skilled at attracting and keeping people. Inevitably people exit. Sometimes I do not know why. Heartbreak follows. It is better for me to have people around me who are using me, say, for an apartment to use to get out of the elements. I do not get my hopes up. Plus, I have some temporary companionship so I don’t end up developing strange habits the way people do when they are alone a lot.
With Fakes, There is no Heartache
When it comes to having someone around or living in utter isolation, someone is better than no one, in my experience. One thing I miss about being on the street everyday was the constant flow of new people through my life. It was fun to meet people from all walks of life with their varied life stories. People often incorrectly assume that any dates I picked up in downtown Honolulu were lowlifes. I visited some of the wealthiest areas on Oahu, like Blackpoint–an area of gated ccommunity of small mansions on cliffs that overlook the Pacific Ocean. I miss the daily adventure that distracted me from the lack of meaningful connections in my life. Now my reality is unavoidable, as is the lonliness. If not for people feigning interest in me while actually looking for an apartment to use, I do not know what I would do for company.
Hi, dear Readers, it’s Caroleena, the educated x-streetwalker who worked the seedy side of downtown Honolulu to support an addiction in the early 2000’s. Now I’m telling stories, giving advice, and offering unsolicited commentary about all the Biggie’s: race , class, sex, incarceration,and addiction from the unique perspective of a born pariah (mixed race unwanted child of two mental patients) who lived as an elite (magna cum laude grad of an ivy league college) before returning to the outcast class (addicted, incarcerated, homeless, hooker). Geographically speaking I have not been to many different places, but I have traveled up and down within American culture having been a part of groups that usually don’t even meet someone from such a distant caste. Today I use my experiences to give voice to the silenced and talk about taboo subjects to shine the light on the real truth hidden behind assumed stereotypes.
Hit me up with you our questions. I will tell you what no one else will.
I cant understand how I was able to write this post and function on my site until January 2019. I can’t access this site, my site, nor can I access the stats. and what about the readers I had acquired? how do they find me now if for some reason I have to recopy my old blogs from the reader and make up a whole new site and domain name?
Imagine being an addicted street level sex worker. I never would have been able to as a young woman unless I had seen an informative HBO special. Even then I would not have related to the subject matter and more than I related to my beloved nature documentaries. Fascinating show–right? I’m doing these things but not really, not likes the other women and men dressed as women. They look like they were born for the streets. Not me, obviously, I would reassure myself. I will hang out for a while and, I’ve got it!–do some Anthropological research that will one day make the acquaintance of a university press. “One day” was a bustling time, full of plans. “One day” was also comfortably vague enough for me to settle in and not pay attention to the growing number of years between my real life and this temporary transition to–I knew not…
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.