Pimps
I had a good but disturbing day today. Puttered around the house, went for a walk, worked on my confectionery stuff, did some writing. It was early evening when things got disturbing.
Tino and I watched a documentary called “Pimps up, Ho’s Down.” Very fucked up but good program. Nothing surprising, but as the army of interviewed pimps talked about “how to keep a bitch down,” they openly admitted that they sought out rape and incest victims because they were easier to manipulate. I listened to the way they spoke, the words and/or threats they used to keep a woman obedient, and felt a cold recognition in techniques used by my brother, my father, both husbands, and even friends from my past. There was a fierce loyalty that so many of the prostitutes had for their terrible masters…and my brain started racing. This was manipulation stripped of subtlety, the raw, brilliantly horrific core of how an insecurity addict gets caught, and learns to love their terrible prison.
It’s the suffering itself that’s part of the draw. One pimp got choked up over his one “bitch’s” loyalty. She was shot five times and didn’t die immediately. He got to the hospital and the woman was apologetic. “I’m sorry, Daddy,” she said. “I’m sorry I can’t get up and get you your money.” Her mother, who was in the room, cried, “What have you done to my daughter?!?” As the pimp was relating the story, he got defensive about his whore’s faithfulness. “I didn’t do nuthin’ to her! That was dedication! That was loyalty!” Both parties were fed by the suffering. He, legitimately moved by her willingness to suffer for him, she for this chance to prove how much she loved him. She already suffered for him every day, but this was the jewel in the crown; her honest regret that she couldn’t suffer more and give him money for it. He was moved by it, even repulsively humbled. It made me think of when I was fourteen, and my dad telling me he couldn’t concentrate at work sometimes because he was trying to figure out ways to make me cry. I always refused to cry, regardless of what he did to me. I knew my tears were what he wanted. When I asked him why he wanted me to cry in the first place, he said, “Because that’s how I know you love me. If you didn’t love me, you wouldn’t give a shit.” My suffering was the only proof of love he could accept.
I watched this documentary, watched the girls hobbling home after a night of stranger fucking, with their scarred vaginas and swollen feet, hungry and shivering in the cold, their asses exposed to the winter cold, all to keep their flashy peacock gilded and at leisure. It’s like a man and a trophy wife. He picks up a beautiful woman, drapes her in jewels and parades her around to show the world how awesome he is, to own such a magnificent creature. It’s the same with these shattered, mind-and-body-fucked women. Look at my flashy peacock. My suffering got him those clothes, those gators, his fancy car. I’m so grateful he allowed me to suffer for him. I belong to someone who gives me the chance to bleed and serve. I’ll die for him, and be grateful for that, too. Beware any bitch who tries to take what I got.
It was terrifying…because it hit home. I remember trying to please both my husbands, an impossibility because they were men who could not be pleased. I remember feeling triumphant when I got the tiniest compliment, even if it was a backhanded one. They controlled me in the same way these pimps did, with intimidation, derision, violence and all consuming greed. It wasn’t just sauce and strength that got me away from them. It was luck. This documentary really got to me. I watched my sisters of circumstance and thought, “There but for the grace of God go I.” I remember when my daughter Rhianna was a baby, and I’d just left my first husband. I paid the babysitter twenty dollars extra a day so she could stay the night while I, homeless, slept in my car. Even when we got a tiny efficiency apartment, I couldn’t afford heat, electricity or food. I stole scraps off plates at the restaurant where I waitressed so we could eat. I thought long and hard about being a prostitute. We’d lived upstairs above a hooker a year before, and men were always offering me money to fuck them, thinking I was in the game. Nobody dreams of growing up to be a prostitute. Desperation is usually the driving force. I came close. If a person is wounded and hungry enough, manipulation is easy. The pimps trolled for new meat at seedy bars, bragging that they could spot a daddy-fucked bitch a mile away. Then they moved in for the kill. An incest victim’s self hatred is so overwhelming, all they need is one good push to tumble into the web…and call it daddy. So be careful out there, my brothers and sisters of circumstance. Whether a predator offers a ring, a wardrobe or a fist, he’s still just a pimp in sheep’s clothing.
Take care.
Love, R
