The Two Percent

1% is not a lot. 2% is even better?

I was taught by my church to respect my body for it is a temple of the Lord. I had no piercings, no tattoos or even the slightest self-inflicted mark. I was a normal teenager who loved the Lord with all “my heart and soul”. I was happy- even though I had a mother who succumbed to infidelity and a father who was slowly dwindling away because of his mental state. However, that was normal.

What was also normal for me was, whenever I was sad, I would do the stereotypical artist-like recreational activity and create rap music with just a pen in hand and whatever material I could find to write on. Unbeknown to many, I liked creating music especially when I’m around nature, in places such as the park.

The park – the lovely place where clichéd love birds first pitch upon the same fruit. Who knew I would be a part of the undocumented statistics? The 400,000 of them who meet their love bird in a place they’ve found comfort at a time most vulnerable. They touched my happy soul within 48 hours.

They were nice to me. They liked my music and promised me a record deal. Life was great! That trip to the Bahamas was lovely. My first time on a private yacht with the government doctors and lawyers- spectacular! I met so many people. I met so many powerful people- so powerful, that I have met people who have the ability to turn things from glory to gory to glory. I sat there and watched them. They paid me to laugh and smile. I laughed and smiled. I trusted them.

I trusted them so much that trips were becoming more frequent and I started to live life lavishly. I had many sugar-parents who were willing to mind me. They didn’t care about my age because “gap relationships are the in-thing”. They encouraged me to drop out of school because they would take care of me and I would get whatever I like.

Driving her car to his house was nice. The location, though unusually remote, was picturesque to where I’ve been. I knocked on the door of the dim-lit mansion and walked in like the boy I was. I was treated with utmost respect and was escorted through his hallway’s maze by his “butler.” I observed the countless bedrooms he had- I supposed they were for the guests, after all, he is an entertainer. The lights got brighter and brighter as the noise got louder and louder. Bright flashing lights illuminating the dark patterned floor creating silhouettes in negative spaces of the drunken men gyrating, high and horny women dancing, child and adult couples cuddling and the star of the animal show tonight is- my soul!

I like my newest furniture in my new home. I like the confinement to a four-dimensional cubicle, a little more than half the height of my upper body and the width a little more than half of my longitudinal height decorated beautifully with brightly polished mahogany and the thickest and most expensive mesh. Cold wooden bed soothes the heat experienced from the beating of not being able to make my quota for the day while trying to pay the “loan” they gave me when I was thirteen years old- dehumanizing me with labour.

Unable to pay my debt, and no option of filing for bankruptcy, they seasoned me and ensured that I was ready to be a product on the Kiddie Stroll. Men and women would visit the Kiddie Stroll: the doctors and lawyers and government officials and occasionally the “I want to be rich” guy. They would pay for me, the nicely packed teenage boy whose brands were not visible. The more innocent and cleaner the product, the more money it was worth. They tore me open: plugging things into circuits forcefully and abrasively. Their affixation with gore fetishes was demonstrated on the temple of the Lord. It mattered how loudly I cried and the fight I fought as it gave them the right to demonstrate their powerful stature. I detached myself with drugs. Every snort gave me an extra second to cope with the fact that my masculine circuit was being perverted by 20 powerful men and women each night and if I was lucky, that number will double by the next night. After a long night’s work and trying to please my daddy, he rewards me with leather wrapped whips, heavy duty anklets or bracelets, a necklace – if he likes me, and a gunshot to my head – if he doesn’t like me. They like to mimic hell and will apply heat, but the great thing about it is, when I go to my cubicle I’ll sleep on my sweet, hard and cold mahogany. That was normal.

It became so normal for me that I graduated from the Kiddie Stroll at the age of 15 with a certification in Herpes, Syphilis and Gonorrhea. I started doing acting and dancing, even though I liked music, and would perform at brothels, motels and bars. I often had opportunities to meet the Madams, Johns and Pimps, and would often get to have an unwanted one-on-one session. I tried to exit the market I spent my teenage years in and was weighed down yet again by an unreasonable exit fee and the fact that I have been criminalized as an escort. The record shows I do “not” respect my body. The blood tests showed that my body was overdosed with heroin, cocaine, meth, molly, and the purple drink.

Stories lie under my white sheet. Hidden are the brandings of a product in a 32 billion US dollars per annum market, the graphic visual impact on my body left by a man who stole many lives and souls, the scars of a speechless act and the body of the boy who never got home to see his adulterous mom and his dwindling dad. I was not documented. I was erased. I am not a part of those who had the wonderful opportunity of being documented as one of the 2 percents of the 400 thousand men.


Kiddie Stroll – an area where underage children are sold for sex.

Seasoned – a method of intimidation used to manipulate the trafficked victims.

Exit fee – an amount requested by the pimp in order for the trafficked victim to leave the governance of the pimp. Often the fee is an unreasonable amount used to discourage individuals.

Daddy, Pimps, Johns and Madams – main controllers and supporters of sex trafficking.

Brands – a mark on a sex trafficking victim that identifies who they belong to.  


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