Girls Like Us Read online

  There are hundreds of thousands of websites featuring legal “teen” or “barely legal” pornography and over twenty million searches a year for “teen sex” and “teen porn.” Clearly the demand is there. While few men would argue that they are looking for a twelve-year-old, they might admit to looking for a seventeen- or eighteen-year-old, even if she looks fourteen. They rationalize that she didn’t tell the truth about her age, so how are they supposed to know?

  Former NFL star Lawrence Taylor probably didn’t know that the girl he was purchasing for three hundred dollars was sixteen years old. It’s impossible to know if he would’ve cared how old she was if he hadn’t been caught. Reports claim he was “devastated” when he found out her age. Perhaps that’s true. Perhaps he also had no idea that she was under the control of a pimp, had a black eye and bruised face when she came to his hotel room, and had a history of abuse and neglect. And yet men do know that the women and girls they’re buying are exploited and harmed. In the CAASE research, 57 percent of men who bought sex believed that the majority of women in the sex industry had experienced childhood sexual abuse and 32 percent believed that most women entered the sex industry before the age of eighteen. Twenty percent thought that they had probably purchased someone who had been trafficked, either internationally or domestically, against her will. Forty percent had bought sex from a woman who he knew had a pimp or “manager.” Forty-two percent believed that prostitution caused psychological and physical harm. So if men know that the sex industry is harmful to girls and women, why do they still participate in it? Many of the men in the study, and men I’ve talked to, cite peer pressure; being introduced to the sex industry by family, friends, even coworkers; the belief that women in the sex industry are “different” and therefore more acceptable to abuse. Most men cited the lack of consequences as a factor in their decision to purchase sex.

  In most cases, though, men don’t ask the questions that they really don’t want to know the answers to. Easier to go along with the fantasy when she tells you her name is Extasy or Seduction, that she’s eighteen, nineteen, twenty. When men are cruising the streets, scrolling through the ads online, ordering a girl from an escort agency, buying a lap dance, they don’t want to really know how old she is or what her life is like. Most men would rather believe that she likes it, that she likes them, and that there’s no real harm being done. Ultimately, however, most men in that situation just don’t care.

  Like almost every woman in New York, I’ve had my share of bad dates. The guy who took me to a nice restaurant only to discover at the end of the meal that he’d left his wallet at home. The guy who decided during lunch at his house that I’d be interested in his photo album of all his ex-girlfriends, including the pictures of them naked. The blind date who was clearly gay and kept asking me all night why everyone thought he was gay. Throw in a couple of unfortunate Match.com encounters and I’ve paid my dues in that often bizarre and frequently ridiculous world that is the singles scene in New York. While it can be discouraging to have gotten all dressed up for absolutely no worthwhile reason, these dates provide great fodder for girl talk over dinner. Like recovering addicts swapping worst-blackout stories, my friends and I compete to have the most outrageous, most horrifying tale of the ultimate date from hell.

  Yet for the girls and young women we serve, a “bad date” means something else entirely. A bad date is a euphemism for being raped, being kidnapped, being held at gunpoint, or having a knife put to your throat. A bad date is when you get raped and are told by your pimp that you better get back out there. There are a few cops who take this type of violence against women and girls in the sex industry seriously, but for most cops, getting raped by a john just means that the girl didn’t get paid.

  Nikki tells me one night that she doesn’t remember how many times she’s been raped, but she thinks it’s over twenty. Her experience isn’t uncommon. When attention is paid to commercial sexual exploitation, law enforcement and public rhetoric focus their outrage on the pimps, rarely mentioning the johns, the buyers who fuel the industry. An assistant district attorney in New York tells me sincerely one day that “the johns are not the problem.” To ignore the demand side of the issue makes no sense and trivializes the harm done by the buyers. Yet the girls and young women we serve don’t make that distinction at all. If asked who’s worse, pimps or johns, most would not be able to choose. They’ve experienced rapes, gang rapes, guns in their faces, beatings, sadistic acts, kidnappings—all at the hands of johns.

  In 1992, Aileen Wuornos, erroneously dubbed “the first female serial killer” and later portrayed by Charlize Theron in the movie Monster, stood trial for the murder of Richard Mallory, a fifty-one-year-old john. She claimed it was in self-defense. While clearly Wuornos had severe psychological issues, likely due to her history of childhood sexual abuse and then later commercial sexual exploitation starting at age eleven, is it so difficult to imagine that perhaps Mallory, who had indeed served time for attempted rape, was actually trying to rape her?

  Perhaps it was her own trauma that triggered her assumptions and her violent reactions, and that would then lead her to kill six more men over the course of the next year. Yet despite Wuornos’s apparent mental health problems, her assumptions weren’t totally off base. In studying the habits of serial killers who prey upon prostituted women and girls, it is clear how disposable these women and girls are seen to be. A Canadian commission found that women in the sex industry are 40 times more likely to be murdered than other women. Another study put the estimate as high as 130 times more likely to be murdered.

  In 2003, Gary Ridgway, the notorious “Green River Killer,” who for over two decades had preyed upon women in the sex industry, finally pled guilty to forty-eight counts of first-degree murder, although police suspected him of many more. Out of respect for the victims, we decided to honor them by putting their names and pictures up on a wall at GEMS. Next to their names were their ages and as I walked by the haunting display, I kept noticing the ages: Opal Mills, sixteen years old; Debra Estes, fifteen years old; Delores Williams, seventeen years old; Colleen Brockman, fifteen years old. In fact, twenty-seven of Ridgway’s known victims were under the age of eighteen. This makes Gary Ridgway one of the most prolific child serial killers in the United States. Yet all of the media accounts of the victims called them women, not children. So why were they all portrayed as adult women? Ridgway himself seemed to have an answer in his allocution at his final hearing:

  I picked prostitutes as my victims because I hate most prostitutes and I did not want to pay them for sex. I also picked prostitutes as victims because they were easy to pick up without being noticed. I knew they would not be reported missing right away, and might never be reported missing. I picked prostitutes because I thought I could kill as many of them as I wanted without getting caught.

  He was partially right. While his anger toward women and girls in the sex industry fueled his killing spree, picking “prostitutes” as victims was a strategic move. These women and girls were seen as less important, less like “real” victims, their murders less likely to be given the resources that other, more legitimate victims would receive. What he may also have realized was that just by virtue of being in the commercial sex industry, adulthood and maturity were imputed to these children. They were now seen as adult women, despite their ages, simply because they were also seen as “prostitutes.”

  I sit on the end of the bed. I’m not really sure what to say. I’d been warned that Sequoia’s face would look bad, but hearing about her assault and then seeing the evidence all over her battered and fractured face is something else entirely. Her upper lip is split completely in two; her jaw is broken, her nose as well. Most of her teeth are gone. I hear my sharp intake of breath. What kind of person would do this to a child? She is sipping fluids through a straw.

  I think of her, less than two years previously, at her youth leadership graduation, dressed up like a little girl at her first communion, replete with a wh
ite frilly dress and Shirley Temple curls. My social worker, Julie, and I had joked about how she looked like a tiny china doll. Now that doll has been mutilated, her delicate porcelain features smashed. Sequoia, always a petite child, is dwarfed in an adult-size hospital bed, surrounded by curtains with Shrek cartoons on them.

  Somewhere out there, there’s a man who beat a child nearly to death and left her by the side of the road. I wonder about this man, what he does for a living, if he’s married or has a girlfriend, if he has children of his own. I wonder if anyone in his “real” life suspects what kind of man he is. I wonder when, not if, he’ll do it again to another girl whom he views as disposable property. And I wonder if she, like Sequoia, will survive, and if anyone will notice if she doesn’t.

  Chapter 7

  Victims

  The majority of rapes and sexual assaults perpetrated against women

  and girls in the United States between 1992 and 2000 were not reported

  to the police. Only 36 percent of rapes, 34 percent of attempted rapes,

  and 26 percent of sexual assaults were reported.

  —U.S. Department of Justice

  SUMMER 1993, GERMANY

  I’m up at eight and out the door before nine, a minor miracle for me considering that I didn’t get to sleep until 5 a.m. The money burning a hole in my pocket is propelling me to the electronics store. On the list today: a stereo, nice speakers, a TV, and probably a VCR. I worked my ass off for this three grand, so it’s about time I treat myself. It’d be kind to say that my little rented room is sparse; right now it’s a mattress on the floor and some boxes of clothes, lovingly decorated with a few empty beer bottles and an overflowing ashtray of cigarette butts and joint roaches. But I’ve been in Mainz a couple of months now and I feel like I’m ready to put down some roots. The club is OK, the money is good: 50 percent of the bar take plus whatever you earn in VIP. Actually, you’re not supposed to make money for yourself in VIP, but early on in my dancing career, which was all of about eight months ago, I was taught by a much older and wiser woman that the real money came through your own private hustle. I caught on quickly. Hence the three thousand marks that I’ve been stashing for a couple of weeks—my “boot money,” cleverly named because I hide it in my boots.

  I’m excited about my little shopping trip. Too excited to notice anything as I leave my house and turn to lock the door behind me. A hand grabs my shoulder, then my neck, and I swing around to see Mike, my recent ex-boyfriend. Just last week he tried to beat me up in front of the club but as my apartment is less than three hundred yards away, I was able to run into the building as soon as I saw him lurking. This morning he’s obviously been waiting for me to leave the house and now he’s grabbing me, asking me why I’ve been ignoring him, calling me a dirty whore. He’s got me pinned against the wall, but I’m doing my best to get a few swings in. He’s a slight man, but strong enough to punch me hard on my cheek. I try to kick him off me, but he’s got me around the throat. I don’t feel scared, just annoyed that he’s got the audacity to ruin my carefully planned shopping spree. I kick as hard as I can and he relaxes his grip on my neck, just long enough to swing back and hit me in the head with full force. The blow knocks me off-balance and I see the ground rushing up to meet me. I close my eyes.

  I awaken in the passenger seat of Mike’s crappy little black Audi. He’s muttering to himself and, in accordance with the no-speed-limit rules of the Autobahn, doing about 120 miles down the highway. I have no idea where we are or where we’re going, although upon hearing me stir, Mike is happy to oblige me with this information.

  “I’m taking you to Holland—Amsterdam, actually—and I’m going to sell you. I already have it all set up. I know a guy,” he says. “It’s what you deserve for doing what you did to me.”

  Still a little disoriented from his punches, or the concrete, or both, I can’t really understand what’s happening. Mike’s talking about what a dirty, lying whore I am and seems to be vacillating between sounding mournful that we’re not still together and ecstatically happy that his plan—to kidnap me? to sell me?—is actually working. As I stare at him, not sure how to respond, I see my purse sitting in his lap and I remember the three grand. “Can I have my purse?” He ignores me.

  “Please?” Hating to grovel for my own stuff.

  He laughs. “Sure.” And throws it at me. I grab for it and open the inside pocket, already knowing how this is going to turn out. “If you’re looking for your money, it’s gone. I have it, and your passport.”

  “You stole my money?” Tears are coming now as I think about what I did to get that money and how carefully I saved it.

  “You stole my heart.”

  “What? That doesn’t even make sense! It’s my money.”

  “It’s my heart.” He seems completely convinced by his own logic.

  I tell him he’s a piece of shit, which seems a bit mild under the circumstances, and turn my head to the window. I watch fields, trees, cows, and the few farmhouses that dot the scenery whiz by, and try to think rationally. We’re going too fast for me to jump out and I have no idea how long he’s planning on driving. I consider writing help or hilfe in lipstick on the window but there’s about a million problems with that plan, none of which ever surfaces in the movies. I can’t figure out how to escape and get my money and my passport. I worked too hard for that money to let him get it. Closed my eyes and gritted my teeth for it. Fuck no, he’s not getting my money. I cry quietly out of the window, trying to ignore his verbal assaults from the driver’s seat. Wondering if he really will take me to Amsterdam or if he’ll think of some other way to punish me instead.

  Another hour later and he pulls off the highway onto a dirt road. I’m guessing this isn’t the way to Holland but stay quiet, trying not to provoke another onslaught. He’s been quiet for a while, running out of steam and insults about eighty miles ago. Clearly his mind has been working overtime. The dirt road is becoming less of a road and more of a track until finally it peters out into grass and dirt. Mike continues to drive through nothing but fields for a while, stopping finally near the edge of a large river. We’re in the middle of nowhere. I can’t see anything but fields for miles to our right, a thick forest to our left, and the river in front. I know the Autobahn’s somewhere behind us but at this point I’m not sure how far. If I can get away, though, I’ll just run as fast as I can in that direction. Someone will eventually see me. Mike parks the car right on the river embankment. It’s about a forty-foot drop down to the muddy water.

  “Get out.”

  I stay seated, scared to move. The plan is becoming a little clearer.

  “Get the fuck out of the car.”

  I get out, hearing the tone in his voice change. He no longer sounds merely angry, he’s moved into pure rage. He comes around the car and grabs me.

  “I’ve changed my mind. Fuck Amsterdam. That’s too good for you.”

  He points to the river. “How far do you think you would travel before you washed up? I wonder how strong the current is today.” He pulls me closer to the water’s edge as I struggle to get free of his grip.

  “Please. Please. Please don’t do this.”

  “What? Hurt you? That’s what you did to me. You hurt me, Rachel. So now I have to hurt you.”

  “Please, I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you. I didn’t mean to. . . .” I’m crying hysterically now, begging for my life.

  “I loved you. I fuckin loved you. I wanted to marry you.”

  He sounds as if he’s about to cry and I seize on it. “I loved you too. We could still get married.”

  He loosens his grip a little.

  “But I know you’re fucking someone else. Who is it? Just tell me who it is and I’ll let you go.”

  He’s right. I have met someone else, a guy called JP, but I know if I confess, I’ll be floating facedown in the river for the next few weeks until some old fisherman hooks me accidentally.

  “There’s no one, I
swear.”

  He punches me dead in the mouth. “Every time you lie, that’s what you’ll get. Now, who is he?”

  “There’s no one.” I brace myself for the blow, but it doesn’t hurt any less.

  I’m crying and bleeding and he’s sweating and cursing an hour later, but I still haven’t told him anything. Intermittently he’ll stop and quiet down, pausing to smoke a cigarette and sit on the hood of the car, while I catch my breath from the blows and the crying.

  The plan to kill me and dump me in the river seems to be fading. If I can just hang tight a little while longer.

  I cry and beg as much as possible, and swear my undying love. Although he’s entertaining the thought of forgiving me, he’s having too much fun punishing me.

  “Take off your shoes.”

  I comply and he snatches them and puts them in the car. “Now you can go home.”

  He gets into the car and drives off. Perplexed, I wait for a few minutes until I can no longer hear the engine and then start running as fast as I can in the direction of the highway. I can feel stones and twigs cutting into my feet. I feel as if I’ve run for miles when eventually I hear the engine getting closer and closer and he’s back. He performs this charade, driving away, forcing me to run, coming back again several more times over the next hour until my feet are bloody and swollen. On the last round, I’m too tired to run and understand that it’s futile anyway. I sit down on the grass and wait for him to come back. He sees me defeated and appears to relish the fact that he’s beaten most of the fight out of me. “We learned that in the army: Take the shoes to disable the enemy.” I figure I’ll try one more time.

  “But I’m not your enemy. I love you; let’s be together.” I’m pleading now.

  Slowly he relents. He wants to believe me and so he does. I manage to convince him to drive us back to civilization where we can find a place to eat and relax. He agrees that it’s been a long day. I’d like to argue that given the fact that I’ve been kidnapped, assaulted, and threatened with drowning, my day has been much longer, but I’m just relieved that we’re turning back.