Don't turn this rape into a murder

I would not describe myself as a person who was an actual prostitute. When I think of prostitutes, I think of the ladies of the evening flagging down cars to make their living by any means necessary. Prostitution is not the world's oldest profession as many have been brainwashed to believe. Farming is the world's oldest profession. Prostitution was created out of need and survival. You have something I want, I have something you need right this minute. Turning a trick is part sex, part power struggle. It is not always unpleasant but it is dangerous at every level.

As an opportunist addict, I was willing to do dates if the price was right or if I was desperate. I turned many men away over time. I was young and pretty enough to be selective to a certain degree. I had my own rules and I stuck with them for the most part. I never went out at night. I got money upfront. I would never, ever spent the night or agree to go to an apartment at night. I knew three or four girls who were raped and tortured after being put in special rooms created to hold them in. I preferred my own spots or random semi-public places I knew around San Francisco.

I am not sure why I went with him. As I remember it, I was not desperately in need of money. It was getting dark. I was on my way back to the Civic Center Hotel, to the room I shared with my boyfriend. This boyfriend loved me. He did. He was kind. We were strung out but shared everything equally. He was the only one who ever understood me because he was doing the same thing with men. We cuddled at night, two skeletons on the bed, and lied about what we did for the money. We did not want to hurt each other with the truth. 

The guy wanted to give me $40 to go out to drinks with him. This was pretty standard stuff. Many men were lonely. They wanted your time after a long day of work. Many men paid me to go places with them. I was always a good listener and a good counselor. It is extremely hard to listen when you are about to throw up from being dope sick. That's why girls like me get our money first. This man kept me waiting 

He was a white man. Glasses,starting to go bald in his mid 40s. He drove his work truck. At least I assumed it was his work truck. He had tools. He wanted to talk to someone.  I could tell right a way he was angry. He started talking about his divorce, his ex wife. He is going to pay me when we get to the place. Ok where are we going? We start getting farther and farther away from my comfort zone. What is this place? Yes yes, your wife. That must have been horrible. Ok we crossed market. Wait where the fuck are we going? We are over by some wear houses. I am high- really high. I should have just gone home. 

He stopped the truck. We are back in the   Old industrial abandoned area on the other side of Potrero. I'm about to bail here. He grabs the back of my head " you WILL fuck me" he bashes my head into the dashboard. I see a hammer and a hacksaw on the floor. Don't let this rape turn into a murder. For once in my life, I have on shoes with a small heel. I start kicking his face. He is grabbing at me. I struggle for my life. No one can hear me screaming. I got free. For once being loaded was in my favor because I could not feel the gash on my head. He tried to run me over with his truck. Where the fuck am I? It's dark. I have to get home.

I walked two or three miles back to my place. It took at least a mile of walking to figure out where I was in the city. I did not cry or scream. I stared at the green neon lights of a building. Another illusion shattered along with my face.

My boyfriend held me. He paid for the drugs that night. I did a little extra to dull the pain. And I went off into the street the next day. That was my life.

I am not the same person because of days like that one. I survived. I am alive. Do not judge my mistakes. Love me as I love you. Live today. Enjoy your second chances.