“Come on. Follow me.” I got out of the car and shut the door. I had Lucas park his car in the alley so we could go in the back way, instead of having to pass by Isaac’s neighbor’s house. His house was the back house, almost hidden, with tall trees and bushes one each side of his walkway. Lucas followed me as we walked through the alley and took a shortcut to the small walkway that led to the Isaac’s porch. I knocked on the front door, carrying the brown paper bag full of paraphernalia from the needle exchange in my other hand.

Isaac’s girlfriend, Casey, answered the door. She had to have been at least twenty years younger than he was and she wore blue jean overall shorts and her hair up in a high ponytail.

“Oh, hey.” Casey looked at Lucas and I, expressionless.

“Hey, can we fix here? I’ll give you a couple hits of coke.”

“Yeah, come on back to the bedroom, Isaac’s not here.”

Lucas and I followed Casey as she dragged her feet to the bedroom.

When I first started using dope, I wanted to have a place to stash it; I had always stuffed cocaine in my bra, (up against my skin) but once I began carrying more than just coke, I wanted my stash to be a bit more ‘secure.’ I sliced open a small, two-inch hole along the inside seam on each side of the bra cup, pulled out any liner or padding and stashed my drugs in the pocket. Unless I was dealing and had several bindles of coke, I usually only used one side of my bra’s ‘pocket’ because all the drugs were mine and I wanted to keep everything together. Otherwise, I would space out and forget where I put things.

On that particular day, I had a 2×3 inch baggie filled with crack, powder cocaine, valium, heroin, somas and around ten 1×3/4 inch little baggies, in case anyone wanted to buy something from me.

Casey sat on the bed as I pulled the baggy out from my bra and took out the crack and heroin, along with some of the powder cocaine, each in separate little baggies. I took out a nickle-sized hit of crack and reached over to hand it to Casey. Lucas had his own crack and pipe and I pulled out what I needed from my brown bag of paraphernalia.

“Hand me your lighter, will ya?” Lucas stuck one hand out; in the other he held a glass pipe—pointed up at the ceiling—ready to take a hit.

“Yeah sure,” I tossed it to him.

After I prepped my syringe I started to look for a good vein. Casey was busy loading her glass pipe, and Lucas was taking a hit off his pipe.

I decided to use the inside of my ankle and had only shot three-quarters of the syringe before I felt the speedball go straight to my head and I started to get dizzy. I pulled the needle out and undid the rubber tie, trying to decide where I could put the syringe, because I wanted to save it. I figured I could add some more to it and shoot it later and I searched around on the floor for the orange lid when all of a sudden, I heard a loud: BANG, BANG, BANG!

All three of us stopped what we were doing and listened.

“This is the police! Open up!”

“Oh shit!” I grabbed all the drug paraphernalia I could and shoved it into the brown bag and shoved it under the bed. I stuffed my baggie of drugs back in my bra pocket.

BANG, BANG, BANG! “Open up! POLICE!”

CRASH!

The cops were inside the house.

From down the street, I heard someone yelling my name.
“Laurie! Laurie Ishii, I loooovve you!” I squinted hard to try and see if I could recognize the person yelling at me and was embarrassed, because all I could make out was that the person was a guy, and this guy began to run toward me, screaming, “I love you Laurie!” over and over.

As this crazy person got closer, I realized it was Pruett—I should have known it was him—who else would scream at me like a lunatic from a block away? He wore jeans, a white button down shirt and a long trench coat that blew around behind him as he ran. I watched as he slowed down and began skipping down the sidewalk. Before I knew what was happening, he grabbed me and spun me around in the air.

“I love you I love you I love you!” He let me down, grabbed me by the shoulders and pushed me back so he could look at me. “Okay, why haven’t you paged me?”

“I have paged you! You never retuned my pages!” I practically screamed.

He grabbed my hands with his and his mouth dropped.
“Oh migod. You’re 777! I thought it was J****, that’s why I never called back.” He slapped himself on the side of his face, and a few ringlets fell onto his forehead. “I should have known it was you; that’s a God number.”

How he knew 777 was a ‘God number’ and why he associated me with a God number was a mystery to me. I didn’t remember ever talking to Pruett about God.

That night we went all around town; it was actually a nightmare because I didn’t have enough coke for the two of us and Pruett had a friend who wanted to buy an 8-ball. So I had to drive to Echo Park to the only coke dealer I knew who would be up in the middle of the night, because he was a meth addict. I’d been to his house at two in the morning more than a few times, and this guy would be in his backyard with a table saw building furniture, or mowing his lawn. I always wondered what his neighbors must have thought.

Pruett and I hung out for a few days after that night; I dropped him off somewhere in Hollywood and then I didn’t hear from him for another two or three months, until he popped up again.

“Where’s the dope?” I asked.

****y, still somewhat hesitant, slowly handed me the piece of plastic grocery bag containing the piece of smack. I grabbed it and hurried to the kitchen, pulling out the drawer containing the silverware. I removed a spoon, bending it to make sure that it wouldn’t tip over once I set it down. Taking the dope, I pressed it onto the spoon and made sure to get every bit of it off the plastic.

I walked over to the sink, turned the faucet on and stuck my fingers under the water, dripping some onto the spoon. I walked, holding the spoon filled with water and smack ever so carefully to the stove, turning it on low flame. The distinct, sweet smell of heroin drifted to my nostrils. I turned off the flame after a few seconds and set the spoon down on the kitchen counter. ****y intently observed every move I made. He wanted to make sure that I knew what I was doing and that I wouldn’t spill a drop.

“Okay, hand me the syringes.” I said, holding out my hand.

****y handed me the syringes, one at a time. He watched me draw up the liquid, and once I was finished, he took both syringes and compared them to each other, making sure they had the exact same amount, 50 cc’s each. ****y always said he needed more, because he weighed about twice as much as I did, but as far as I was concerned, weight didn’t matter; I smoked just as much as he did.

“Do you know how to fix yourself?” ****y asked.

“Yeah, I know how. Why, do you?”

“No. I told you, I hate needles. You’re going to have to fix me.”

“Sure . . .” I smiled. That meant I would be the one who went first . . .

I looked around for something to tie off with and decided to use the telephone cord. My heart was beating fast and my hands were trembling from the anticipation. I began to wrap the cord around my arm when ****y spoke up.

“What about me? I want to go first.”

“You can’t go first, I’m too shaky because I’m sick. Let me go first, and then I’ll fix you. You don’t want me to miss, do you?”

****y frowned. “Fine. Hurry up.”

I tied off, pumping my arm until I saw a vein in the crook of my left arm. I took the syringe and punctured my skin with the needle. I pulled the plunger back to see if it registered and a stream of blood ejaculated into the syringe, mixing with the brown liquid. Registered on the first try. I slowly pushed in the plunger, feeling the warm liquid course through my body, reaching my head. This is it . . . there’s no going back. When I was finished, I slowly pulled the needle out.

“Alright already. Come on, it’s my turn,” ****y said, obviously agitated.

It took me a minute to get my bearings, and I loosed the cord from my arm. ****y held his arm out for me to tie him off; his veins weren’t too difficult to see, even without the cord wrapped around it. I decided to tie him off anyway; besides, I was still a novice. I tied him off, found the vein I decided to use and moved forward with the syringe.

****y turned his head away, as if he were getting his blood drawn at the doctor’s office. “I told you that I hate needles.” I giggled. He winced, as the needle broke the skin. Thankfully, I registered on my first try, or else he would have been pissed. As I started to push the plunger in, ****y turned his head around to watch, until I was finished and pulled the needle out. The corner of one side of his mouth slightly turned upward.

Neither of us was sick anymore.

We looked at each other, feeling better . . . but neither of us had any idea of the path we had started on.

It wouldn’t be long before we would find out.

Well, my bf was MAD when he read the ‘bachelor party’ scene and he said Pruett was acting like my pimp—even though he was a heroin addict himself—but in prison, and that’s different, to a certain degree. Being out here, things are different—anything goes—we have a lot more freedom, to do a lot more sick, degrading things.

Pruett knew I needed the money BAD, so he let me do the bachelor party. Another time, he set me up with a millionaire in Bel Aire to smoke crack with him just to keep the guy (he was a lawyer) company for $200. He supplied dope and coke for me for 3 DAYS.

People don’t understand the drug world—unless of course, they’ve use drugs and have stooped down to the lowest, and have lived in the gutter for a while.

Pruett knew I was a hooker so it wasn’t as if he was asking me to do something that was out of my bounds. I know it sounds sick.

****y, my bf back then—he was probably one of the rare junkies I knew—who didn’t actually ask their gf’s to turn tricks for money. Many girls I knew who were strung out had bf’s who had no problem letting their gf prostitute. Sometimes, the bf even watched out for his gf while she picked up tricks.

I had to HIDE whenever I turned a trick—it would KILL ****y whenever he found out I was still turning tricks. To me, I never thought of myself as ‘cheating’ turning tricks—that was just a JOB. I remember even telling a guy who started to have feelings for me to “think of having sex with me like going to Mc Donald’s drive through—just pay me my money, get your ‘big mac’ or whatever and go along on your merry way!” Lol.

Again, to me, prostituting was just a job. So Pruett was really just trying to help me out, by getting me work. It sounds crazy, but the drug world is exactly that—CRAZY. Everything I swore I’d never do—I did, on heroin.

Anything goes once you’re strung out and need the drugs. Once you cross over—cross whatever imaginary line; whatever that is for each individual—it’s hard to go back, and it becomes easier and easier, to compromise yourself more and more. And the more degrading things you do, the more drugs you need to do to cover your shame. It’s a vicious cycle.

Here’s the bachelor party scene, edited, lol.

I pulled a cigarette out of the box of Newports; stuck it between my lips and lit it. I took a long drag and slowly exhaled, contemplating what to do for money.

My days of partying were over months ago, now it was all about surviving. I had stayed with Isabel off and on for months; she let me sleep on her couch, eat her food. Her one bedroom apartment with its plush oak furniture was a sight for sore eyes, especially after sleeping in Tommy’s truck or on an air mattress at Eric’s recording studio. I wasn’t sure what she did for a living; but Isabel was attractive, and she always seemed to have money.

The phone rang. I heard Isabel pick up the phone in her bedroom. I was only able to catch bits and pieces of the conversation. “No, Pruett. I told you, I’m not going to do it.” Not going to do what? I wondered.

After hanging up the phone, Isabel came out to the living room, ponytail high on top of her head. “Laurie, do you want to work a job tonight? I know you need the money, and I don’t do bachelor parties.”
“What do I have to do?”
“Strip.”
I laughed out loud. “Me, strip? No one wants to see Olive Oil strip.”
But damn, I sure could use the money.
“Isabel, I don’t even know how to strip, and besides, I don’t have anything to wear for that kind of job.”
Isabel looked me up and down. I had on a short black mini skirt and sleeveless, black blouse.
“What kind of bra and panties are you wearing?”
“They’re both lace, black.”
“What you have on is fine, but you’ll need shoes.” I had on flip-flops.
She went to her closet and pulled out a pair of clear, six-inch stilettos.
“Oh hell no. I can’t walk in those things.”

Isabel sighed. “Pruett said he was gonna call me back in ten minutes.”
She stood there with her hands on her hips, waiting for me to make a decision.
I needed the money.
“How much is this job gonna pay?” I asked.
“Two hundred, plus tips.”
The phone rang. It was Pruett.
“What am I gonna tell him?” Isabel asked.
I only had enough heroin for one more dose.
“Fine. I’ll do it. But you’re gonna have to show me how to walk I those damn shoes.”

After she hung up the phone, I put on Isabel’s stilettos and attempted to walk. My ankles wobbled and I could only take baby steps, one inch at a time.
“Isabel! How the hell do you walk in these things?”
She laughed, watching me hobble around her living room. As far as I was concerned, I looked like a fool, walking on stilts. There’s no way I can walk in these instruments of torture without falling on my face. I made it to the couch and kicked them onto the floor.
“Don’t you have any other heels? Ones that I can walk in?”
Isabel went to her closet and pulled out a pair of four-inch platforms. I slid them onto my feet, stood up and was able to stand, even walk, without tripping.
“I’ll wear these.”
“Pruett said a cab will pick you up here, in half an hour.”

The thought of stripping horrified me. I was ashamed of my body, and I was sure that the men at the bachelor party expected someone who had a tiny waist and big boobs, like Isabel had. Plus, I didn’t even know how to dance like a stripper! I would just have to wing it.

Kicking off the platforms, I rushed to the bathroom and got ready. “Isabel! Would it be okay if I use your makeup?” Isabel was always generous, even with her drugs, but before I went ahead and used or borrowed anything that didn’t belong to me, I asked permission. Otherwise, I just didn’t feel right; I guessed it was the way I was raised. “Use whatever you need to.” Isabel answered.

I lined my eyes with black pencil, smeared smoky gray shadow across my eyelids and finished with black mascara on my lashes. I pulled out a tube of red lipstick from my purse and spread the smooth, creamy gloss across my top and bottom lip. My hair was shoulder length; grown out from the short haircut I had over two years before. I picked up a can of hairspray and sprayed my bangs, to give them some lift. After taking one last look of myself in the mirror, I walked out of the bathroom. I grabbed the box of cigarettes from the coffee table, shoved the box into my purse and slid the platforms back onto my feet.

It was a little after 9 o’ clock at night, perfect 72 degree Los Angeles summer weather. The phone rang.
“Laurie! The cab’s here.” Isabel yelled from the bedroom.
“Okay, as soon I get back, we’ll party. See you in a bit” I hustled to the front door.

Holding onto the railing, I carefully stepped sideways down the stairs to the walkway, walked to the sidewalk and hopped inside the cab. Pruett had already told the driver where to go, somewhere on Melrose. I wanted to avoid any small talk with the driver, so I leaned back and closed my eyes. It’ll be over in no time, and I’ll be able to get high. The money motivated me.

The cab pulled up in front of what looked like a hair salon. It had a large window in front, facing the street, mirrors covering the wall and chairs in front of the mirrors, evenly spaced apart. Pruett met me outside and paid the driver.

“Come inside and meet the guys.” He was high, and tripped over his words. He took my hand and led me to the door of the salon. There were about a dozen guys standing around, drinking beer. Yeah, right—like I really want to meet them. I said a quick hello, asked for a beer and pulled Pruett aside.

“I can’t do this, Pru. I can’t strip, I don’t know how.” I whispered.
Pruett put both of his hands on my shoulders. His brown eyes looked directly into mine. “Come on, Laurie. You’re already here, and I know you need the cash.”
“I know, but…” I put the beer to my mouth and downed it.

The thought of taking off all of my clothes in front of so many guys at once made me feel completely vulnerable.
“Instead of dancing—I’ll service the guys sexually—but charge them each individually.” I stated, very matter of fact.
Pruett laughed. “What? Are you serious?” His eyes widened, a tiny ringlet of hair rested on his forehead.
I sighed. “Of course I’m serious—it’s easier for me to do that rather than or than stripping!” I laughed. “I wouldn’t be able to strip and keep a straight face!” Pruett chuckled, and nodded in agreement.
“Plus, you know I’m such a klutz—I’d probably trip in Isabel’s stupid shoes.”
“Well . . . it’s up to you. Let me ask the guys what they think,” Pruett held his fisted hand over his mouth, shaking his head back and forth, while he walked away.
“And bring me back another beer!” I called after him. I wished I had some coke—but beer would have to do. I needed to anesthetize myself.
To me, servicing a guy sexually was a lot easier than trying to do some sexy dance in front of a group of strange men while they stared at me, whistled and gave me catcalls. I’d been turning tricks for a while now and it was easy for me to detach emotionally. I didn’t even have to think about it, it just automatically happened. To strip would be too difficult; I’d be nervous and I’d have to concentrate too much. Servicing the guys meant I could keep my clothes on, charge each guy according to the service he gets and I’d still have a sense of being in control.
“You’re so crazy!” Pruett looked back at me, nodding his head, while he walked away. He walked over to the group of guys and spoke softly, almost in a whisper. Then he grabbed a beer and walked back over to me. He handed me the beer.

He shrugged his shoulders and asked, “So, where do you want to work?”

Laurie Ishii©2012

E*** picked me up and we went back to his place, where I got in bed. I was still sneezing, my eyes burned and my nose was really running. Once I started to get body aches, I was certain I had the flu.
The phone rang.
“Hello,” I answered.
“Hey, it’s me.” It was ****y.
“Oh, hey.”
“Didn’t you have to work? What are you doing back at E***’s so early?”
“Oh, I left after my first client. I think I have the flu.”
****y was quiet for a moment.
“The flu? You don’t have the flu.”
“What do you mean?”
“You’re dope sick. I’ll be over in about 20 minutes.”

****y was one of those ‘reliable’ dope fiends who had integrity. If he said he would do something, I knew I could count on him. He was over at Eric’s in 20 minutes, just like he said he would be.
“Here.” He unfolded a piece of foil he had in his cigarette box and handed it to me. Then he reached in his jacket pocket and pulled out a piece of plastic with heroin in it. He made sure the dope was stuck on the foil and pulled the plastic off.
“Thanks.” I thought it was nice of him to come over and bring me dope, but like I told him, I had the flu. I took a few hits and handed the foil to Tommy.
I didn’t know how dope would help the flu.

But it did.
Within ten minutes, I felt fine. No more stomach cramps, no sneezing, no burning eyes or runny nose.
Right then and there, I made myself a vow—as long as I could help it—I’d never be dope sick again.

Part of scene:
He sat on the toilet seat and looked up from what he was doing. He had a lighter in one hand—in the other, he held a piece of foil.
Hanging from his lips was something that looked like a thick white straw. It was a pen, without the ink.
“Whatcha doin’? I asked, softly giggling.
“You don’t wanna know.” I sensed a bit of irritation in his voice.
“Come on, tell me what you’re doing. I’ve smoked speed that way, but what’s that?” I stared at a dark brown stripe on the piece of foil.
He let out a long sigh. “I’m chasing the dragon.” He put the foil up toward the white Bic pen he was using as a straw, lit the flame under the foil and tilted it. The brown stripe began to bubble, running down the foil. ***** caught the smoke that came up from it, steadily sucking in.
“I wanna try,” I smiled. I always wanted to try everything at least once.
***** sighed. “I only have a little bit—there isn’t much.”
“Please? I’ll trade you for a hit of crack . . .”
“Here.” He shoved the foil toward me and handed me the straw. “I’ll light it for you. Hold it like this,” he tilted the foil in my hand.
As he put the flame under the foil, I tried to ‘chase’ the brown liquid the way ***** had; but it wasn’t as easy as it looked.
“You’re not doing it right! Be careful, or your gonna waste it!” I immediately sensed his annoyance.
“Okay, lemmee try again.”
The second time I did it I was at least able to get some of the smoke in my lungs. I held it in for a bit and exhaled. It tasted sweet, yet it had a strange bite to it. It almost tasted like the smell of vinegar.
***** grabbed the foil from me and took a few more hits before he let me have some more. I was waiting to feel something right away, the way I did when I took a hit of crack. But it took about ten minutes before I started to feel anything. The only way I could describe it was a calm, peaceful feeling. I sat on the floor and slouched up against the wall as I stared at the floor. I smiled to myself and closed my eyes, as all of my problems seemed to drift away. I was floating, and leaned against the bathroom wall.
I snapped back to reality when I heard the flick, flick, of the lighter, and watched, as ***** took another hit of dope.
“What is this, exactly?” I asked *****.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, what’s chasing the dragon?”
“You’ve been smoking heroin, smack, dope.” He smirked, and looked at me like I was some kind of idiot. I supposed I really was an idiot, to not even find out for sure what I was smoking, before I smoked it, not after it was already in my system.
I let out a deep sigh, as the word, “Heroin . . .” flowed between my lips. It was unlike anything I had ever tried; I felt no pain at all, neither physical nor emotional. I knew this would not be the last time I did heroin.

My days of partying were over months ago, now it was all about surviving. I had stayed with Isabel off and on for months; she let me sleep on her couch, eat her food. Her one bedroom apartment with its plush oak furniture was a sight for sore eyes, especially after sleeping in Tommy’s truck or on an air mattress at Erik’s recording studio. I wasn’t sure what she did for a living; but Isabel was attractive, and she always seemed to have money.

The phone rang. I heard Isabel pick up the phone in her bedroom. I was only able to catch bits and pieces of the conversation. “No, Pruett. I told you, I’m not going to do it.” Not going to do what? I wondered.

After hanging up the phone, Isabel came out to the living room, ponytail high on top of her head. “Laurie, do you want to work a job tonight? I know you need the money, and I don’t do bachelor parties.”
“What do I have to do?”
“Strip.”
I laughed out loud. “Me, strip? No one wants to see Olive Oil strip.”
But damn, I sure could use the money.
“Isabel, I don’t even know how to strip, and besides, I don’t have anything to wear for that kind of job.”
Isabel looked me up and down. I had on a short black mini skirt and sleeveless, black blouse.
“What kind of bra and panties are you wearing?”
“They’re both lace, black.”
“What you have on is fine, but you’ll need shoes.” I had on flip-flops.
She went to her closet and pulled out a pair of clear, six-inch stilettos.
“Oh hell no. I can’t walk in those things.”

Isabel sighed. “Pruett said he was gonna call me back in ten minutes.”
She stood there with her hands on her hips, waiting for me to make a decision.
I needed the money.
“How much is this job gonna pay?” I asked.
“Two hundred, plus tips.”
The phone rang. It was Pruett.
“What am I gonna tell him?” Isabel asked.
I only had enough heroin for one more dose.
“Fine. I’ll do it. But you’re gonna have to show me how to walk I those damn shoes.”

After she hung up the phone, I put on Isabel’s stilettos and attempted to walk. My ankles wobbled and I could only take baby steps, one inch at a time.
“Isabel! How the hell do you walk in these things?”
She laughed, watching me hobble around her living room. As far as I was concerned, I looked like a fool, walking on stilts. There’s no way I can walk in these instruments of torture without falling on my face. I made it to the couch and kicked them onto the floor.
“Don’t you have any other heels? Ones that I can walk in?”
Isabel went to her closet and pulled out a pair of four-inch platforms. I slid them onto my feet, stood up and was able to stand, even walk, without tripping.
“I’ll wear these.”
“Pruett said a cab will pick you up here, in half an hour.”

The thought of stripping horrified me. I was ashamed of my body, and I was sure that the men at the bachelor party expected someone who had a tiny waist and big boobs, like Isabel had. Plus, I didn’t even know how to dance like a stripper! I would just have to wing it.

Kicking off the platforms, I rushed to the bathroom and got ready. “Isabel! Would it be okay if I use your makeup?” Isabel was always generous, even with her drugs, but before I went ahead and used or borrowed anything that didn’t belong to me, I asked permission. Otherwise, I just didn’t feel right; I guessed it was the way I was raised. “Use whatever you need to.” Isabel answered.

I lined my eyes with black pencil, smeared smoky gray shadow across my eyelids and finished with black mascara on my lashes. I pulled out a tube of red lipstick from my purse and spread the smooth, creamy gloss across my top and bottom lip. My hair was shoulder length; grown out from the short haircut I had over two years before. I picked up a can of hairspray and sprayed my bangs, to give them some lift. After taking one last look of myself in the mirror, I walked out of the bathroom. I grabbed the box of cigarettes from the coffee table, shoved the box into my purse and slid the platforms back onto my feet.

It was a little after 9 o’ clock at night, perfect 72 degree Los Angeles summer weather. The phone rang.
“Laurie! The cab’s here.” Isabel yelled from the bedroom.
“Okay, as soon I get back, we’ll party. See you in a bit” I hustled to the front door.

Holding onto the railing, I carefully stepped sideways down the stairs to the walkway, walked to the sidewalk and hopped inside the cab. Pruett had already told the driver where to go, somewhere on Melrose. I wanted to avoid any small talk with the driver, so I leaned back and closed my eyes. It’ll be over in no time, and I’ll be able to get high. The money motivated me.

The cab pulled up in front of what looked like a hair salon. It had a large window in front, facing the street, mirrors covering the wall and chairs in front of the mirrors, evenly spaced apart. Pruett met me outside and paid the driver.

“Come inside and meet the guys.” He was high, and tripped over his words. He took my hand and led me to the door of the salon. There were about a dozen guys standing around, drinking beer. Yeah, right—like I really want to meet them. I said a quick hello, asked for a beer and pulled Pruett aside.

“I can’t do this, Pru. I can’t strip, I don’t know how.” I whispered.
Pruett put both of his hands on my shoulders. His brown eyes looked directly into mine. “Come on, Laurie. You’re already here, and I know you need the cash.”
“I know, but…” I put the beer to my mouth and downed it.

The thought of taking off all of my clothes in front of so many guys at once made me feel completely vulnerable.
“Instead of dancing—I’ll service the guys sexually—but charge them individually.” I stated, very matter of fact.
Pruett laughed. “What? Are you serious?” His eyes widened, a tiny ringlet of hair rested on his forehead.
I sighed. “Of course I’m serious—it’s easier for me to do that rather than or than stripping!” I laughed. “I wouldn’t be able to strip and keep a straight face!” Pruett chuckled, and nodded in agreement.
“Plus, you know I’m such a klutz—I’d probably trip in Isabel’s stupid shoes.”
“Well . . . it’s up to you. Let me ask the guys what they think,” Pruett held his fisted hand over his mouth, shaking his head back and forth, while he walked away.
“And bring me back another beer!” I called after him. I wished I had some coke—but beer would have to do. I needed to anesthetize myself.
To me, servicing a guy was a lot easier than trying to do some sexy dance in front of a group of strange men while they stared at me, whistled and gave me catcalls. I’d been turning tricks for a while now and it was easy for me to detach emotionally. I didn’t even have to think about it, it just automatically happened. To strip would be too difficult; I’d be nervous and I’d have to concentrate too much. Servicing the guys meant I could keep my clothes on, charge each guy according to the service he gets and I’d still have a sense of being in control.
“You’re so crazy!” Pruett looked back at me, nodding his head, while he walked away. He walked over to the group of guys and spoke softly, almost in a whisper. Then he grabbed a beer and walked back over to me. He handed me the beer.

He shrugged his shoulders and asked, “So, where do you want to work?”

LaurieIshii©2012

In response to this post:
In response to my last post, (attached to this post) someone said it would be hard to believe that it would be easier for me to perform oral sex than it would be to strip. First of all, selling sex is degrading no matter how you try to look at it—and neither profession is ‘easy.’ But to me personally, when I was a junkie—just trying to survive—I would choose turning a trick over having to strip any day.

I guess it would all depend on the person, because I had been prostituting for quite a while (referring to my post) and I was already desensitized. I could easily disassociate/detach emotionally when performing sexual acts. To me, stripping would be much more difficult for me to do, because 1) I was ashamed of my body; I weighed no more than 90 lbs when I was strung out 2) stripping is harder than it looks—it’s not like it’s just taking your clothes off—I would feel extremely self conscious doing some sexy dance while I took my undressed and I probably couldn’t do it without busting out laughing, or I’d trip over my own two feet lol 3) to me, stripping can be more intimate than sex, just like kissing (for most women) is more intimate than sex.

If at all possible I’d keep my clothes on while turning a trick; if they wanted my to take my top/bra off they’d have to pay more. I had a NO KISSING rule for my johns, and if they wanted to tough anything above my waist they had to pay more too. For most tricks I also charged BY THE MINUTE for anyone who took longer than ten minutes. (Time is money) Prostitution is a BUSINESS.

I had a lot of friends who were strippers and they had to WORK—they worked for a club, punched a time clock, wore heels, dressed sexy—and they usually had killer bodies with big boobs.

As a prostitute, (if you want to make money) you’d better act like you enjoy what you’re doing—prostitutes are probably the best actresses there are—men probably wouldn’t even want to have sex with prostitutes if they knew how repulsed the prostitutes are by the men they have to service. How can any woman truly respect a man who has to pay for sex? I’m not trying to be mean, I’m just being real. I used to say I was a nympho to justify what I was doing—to actually try and keep some sort of self-respect—to act as though I liked what I was doing. How foolish would I look if I went around telling people how much I hated turning tricks? People would ask, “Well if you hate it so much, then why don’t you stop?”

If I wanted to survive and support my heroin habit, turning tricks were the ‘easiest’ (fastest) way for me to make money and the ‘easiest’ job for me to KEEP—I could make my own hours, charge whatever I wanted to, pick my own clients (it’s completely different for hookers who have pimps) stay up late, sleep in and do drugs on the job. And toward the end of my using—I didn’t even bother dressing up, was lucky if I could even get a trick, charged less and usually required that my trick bought me drugs so I could shoot up and get high right there before I was even able to perform at all.

Being a junkie is the hardest ‘job’ I’ve ever had. :’(

My leather case contained everything I needed to shoot my dope, (or to smoke crack). I unwrapped the black case quickly yet carefully. The leather was well worn, soft and pliable, and revealed a number of individual pockets that contained my works (paraphernalia) and I prepared to fix (shoot dope).

I was organized and had my own system of doing things. I was careful not to share needles with anyone, except for Tommy. In my leather case I carried BD syringes; (the type diabetics use) a spoon and yellow rubber tie from the hospital in one pocket (for shooting heroin). In another pocket was a used glass pipe with brown resin stuck to the sides from previous use, pieces of new brillo and a pusher I twisted from a coat hanger (to smoke crack). Smaller pockets held tiny cotton balls and sterile water from the needle exchange, baking soda in a small plastic baggie (to cook freebase) and a good lighter (I couldn’t smoke crack without a good lighter).

Fixing drugs was very ritualistic, and I had a method for my madness. I pulled out a spoon (not just any spoon – one that was bent a certain way so that it doesn’t tip over) and grabbed a syringe. I set the sterile water and a tiny cotton ball on the counter, next to the spoon. As I prepared, I still checked for other possible options, in case the vein I found earlier didn’t work.

It had been about twenty minutes since Tommy had been gone – if he weren’t back in another ten and I would begin to panic. He was a good driver, and very focused whenever he was going to see the dope man. If he were more than a few minutes late I would begin pacing the floor, looking out the window, waiting to hear his motorcycle pull up in front of our apartment building. If he were more than fifteen minutes late, I would imagine the worst; he ran out of gas, he got arrested, or worse – he died in a car crash. What would I do without him? How would I survive? I’d be sick, and I have nowhere and no one to go to…

The front door slams. THANK GOD, he’s back . . . Tommy rushes into the kitchen and pulls out four balloons from his jacket pocket. He grabs two and uses his teeth to break them open. I take the other two, slipping one into my jeans pocket. Save this for later, Laurie, just in case. I’ve always prided myself in being able to “save some for later.” At the end of each day, I made sure to save enough dope for my morning “wake up.” In the morning when Tommy was sick, at least I had enough to last until we were able to score. Did I share? No. He didn’t, so why should I? When I had pills, I always hid a few in my “secret stash.” Whenever I had coke, I’d try to make it last as long a possible. Whenever I could say “no” and save something, it gave me the illusion of being in control.

In contrast, I was never in control of anything while growing up. Not allowed to make mistakes without paying severe consequences, I lived in an unpredictable, chaotic world of fear. Come on, Laurie, hurry up and fix already. I grab my spoon and unwrap the piece of plastic that contained the black, sticky tar. I got a whiff of the sweet, pungent smell of heroin that had become such a safe and familiar aroma to me.

I took the piece of plastic and flattened it against the spoon. I made sure that every bit of the heroin came off of the plastic and was stuck to the spoon. I added water, grabbed the lighter and cooked the heroin, to burn off the impurities. Dropping the cotton in the spoon, I used it as a filter, carefully placed the tip of the needle on the cotton ball and drew up what I called “liquid heaven.”