Michelle and the Speed Years

this is a few pages from a chapter in the book I am working on:

Michelle

I would love to be able to tell you that Michelle looked like the Southern belle you heard on the telephone. Tall, scarred, and black – black – black. That was definitely the first things I noticed about Michelle. Her ID said her name was Darryl but no one ever called her that (unless she was in prison). I had heard from the other Queens that was how she got that scar on her face. They say in all those National Geographic prison shows that a huge scar down the side of you face marks you as a snitch. I found her story more believable. Her lover at the time, a well known bank robber, told her that if he couldn’t have her, he would fuck up her looks for life. I find this a much more plausible excuse. Why would a 6’4” queen be afraid of a little time anyway when all she would get is the love, attention, and affection that no one with clear vision would give her as long they saw her in the light of day. That was why it was so easy to love her over the phone. That syrupy sweet voice saying “Hello”, inviting you for sweet tea and syringes.

. If she wanted his money, she could have had it. She was a PRO. She knew just button to push when she got close to you to get in your pants. It even worked on me. She told ALL the queens that I could find a vein. This put me in high demand for my unique services as I would be invited to help the girls “freshen up” mid-wax before their night on the town. This was the beginning of story time. Even the hardest of prison bitches loved to talk after a half-gram.

            The name is pretty hilarious when I think back to it. The Ambassador Hotel. I am not sure what type of world relations were being promoted there. The hotel was known in the early 90’s as the epicenter of HIV. Well, maybe not the epicenter for some people. In the early days of HIV, they would a person they had two years to live. Go home, have some fun, make arrangements because you are going to die. The hotel was a mix of long term tenants, AIDS hospice, and weekly rented rooms. At the time, hotels would kick you out every 28 days so you would not have any type of renter rights.

When I moved into the hotel, I had done a “successful” methadone detox. I guess you could say it was successful because I stopped the daily use of heroin. Benzos and speed had taken over. My prostitution days were pretty much over at this point. When you no longer have to support a daily fix, a person is MUCH less desperate. There are some key difference between a speed/crack and heroin addiction. Crack says “I don’t really smoke crack but I will try some.” Then it says “I don’t really smoke crack. Do you have some?”. Then it says “ I don’t really smoke crack because I can stop for days at a time”. On the other hand, heroin is the grim reaper knocking “hello BANG BANG BANG. Bitch get up. FEED ME.” A heroin addict is generally not in denial. They are fully aware they have a problem. They may not care enough to do anything about it from nod to nod.

My old sugar daddy was willing to put me up somewhere so he could keep tabs on me. The Ambassador was the stages of hell inside. In one room was a man in a diaper to sick to hold the pipe so his “friend” would do it for him. In another room, a man lay dying while people emptied out his things. In another room, a child molester made a porn collage out of thousands of tying prices of pornography no more than a half inch high. When I moved to the room with the bathroom, he was my neighbor. I was always paranoid he was going to take off the covers off the outlets that adjoined our rooms so he could see inside. There were drag queens, trannys, ho, hustlers, strawberries, domestic violence and beauty. The hotel had it all.