Millie 90 lbs of Dynamite: Blog

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March 5, 2016
Posted at 3:22 pm
Updated: March 5, 2016 - 3:23 pm
 

An Introduction to all things Millie 3

This is my third posting about my early life on the street. It will probably be the last for a while about this subject, I bet y'all are sick of hearing bout it.


After a few weeks a small shop closed on south Robinson, in moving to a new location, the pawnshop abandoned this one. The owner left the electric in the store on thinking that a lighted interior would discourage vandals. At some point in the past, in an effort to go straight, Little Momma had cleaned for several of the shops that lined the streets of the avenue, including the pawn shop. She had kept her key to the back entrance and quite to our surprise the key worked.


The back room was a dusty, nasty room filled with rows of shelving and a small, filthy bathroom. We salvaged a couple of mattresses from behind a nearby motel and started to operate out of the place. It was an odd feeling, living in an abandoned building. Of course, we weren't there all that much it was just a place to sleep. We would partially open the door to the sales floor of the building so we could watch the action on the street in the early morning.


At night, when we weren't out working the street, we would sit behind the counter, low where anyone who looked in would perceive us as just shadows, and we watched the goings on of the avenue. If you weren't involved in the petty bickering between one whore and another, it was comical to watch. One butchy bitch is shaking a fist at some scraggly street walker for intruding on her corner. Less comical was when pimps punished one of their girls.


His belt with its oversized western brass buckle, a rolled up wire hanger, a broken mop handle, or just his booted foot - a pimp can turn almost anything into a weapon of punishment. Watching some big angry man kick some girl's ass repeatedly as she crawls on her hands and knees desperate to get away becomes a preverted form of entertainment.


I remember watching this big black man doing just that, kicking a little white woman, her on her hands and knees crawling away, each time she moves he takes a step and pounds his pointy boot toe into one check or the other. He had already taken her money and beat her till she fell to ground, as she tried to get away from the assault he just followed along kicking her. Sometimes he would plow his boot to her ass so hard her face would crash into the sidewalk. The johns just drove on, and the other whores yelled out encouraging his actions.


Little Momma explained there is something comforting when it is someone else taking the punishment. "She shouldn't have held out on him," she said lighting a cigarette she left her Bic lighter on and I leaned in to light my smoke as well. "Yeah, having a pimp is awful but not having one ain't good either." She made a comment about the smooth color of my skin and added, "Wish my skin was all one smooth color."


I remember this night so very clear, I thought about it the other night when I saw an old blue van drive by from the window of our apartment. It all rushed back to me like a familiar movie playing on TV it played out in mind. After the pimp kicked her ass from one corner to the next he left. The other girls gathered around her and helped her up. A big blue van pulled up, and all the girls refused to get in with the guy. He drove away to try his luck with other girls further down the street.


"Don't get in no van unless you can see it is empty except for the driver. If they got a motherfucking curtain don't get in that shithole no matter what," she told me. She didn't elaborate, but I followed her instructions for a good six months. Then, for a no reason, I got in a van with a curtain behind the driver. Maybe it was because it was late November or early December and I was freezing, maybe it was because I hadn't turned a trick for hours, I don't remember why but the words, "Don't get in," didn't seem as important that night. He said he wanted a blowjob, and we were just going to pull in an ally. As soon as we turned off the street he said, "now," - from behind the curtain this hand grabbed me by the hair and dragged me into the back of the van. I was kicking and screaming but hands were all over me, holding me, tearing my coat off, my shirt, my jeans. There was name calling and taunting and men about to do what they wanted.


Five 20 something boys took turns raping me, slapping and spitting on me, and then beat me senseless. At one point every hole was filled at the same time. They took my hard earned money, dumped me naked, bruised and battered back on Robinson Ave. All through it, they laughed at me, insulted me, and told me what a worthless piece of meat I was. I remember the words, jungle bunny whore, and nigger cunt the most.


I stayed off the street for about a week. Little momma took care of me in the back of that storefront. She worked twice as many hours as usual, and I have no idea how many johns she sucked off or fucked that week, but she brought me more food than we usually ate. I learned my lesson I treated vans with respect after that. The truth is it can happen with a regular car, an SUV or you can be dragged off the street into an alley. After that, I never made it easy for anyone.


I think my interest in horror and terror started between my daddy's tender loving birthday present, which drove me away from home, and that incident. There were other times I was raped and robbed, but those two rapes are the ones I think of most often. Even now the most horrible thought I have, on any given day, is my fathers face above me, his sputum flying over my face as he calls me his, "Good little girl," and he's poking me with his prick.


And so, I write and do violence to those that did awful things to me. The terrible things I write about are this cathartic therapy allowing me to shit out the filth from my soul.