My Life As A Teen Prostitute

I was 17 and it was the summer of 1997. I had been working in Dolcis, a shoe shop on Oxford Street for a grand total of 8 days before I got the boot. They told me “it wasn’t working out.” When I probed further I was told that I had caused disenchantment on the shop floor. I can’t lie I did and I felt quite justified in doing so after finding out that the three white girls that were employed there (also teenagers) got paid more that all the darker hued teenage staff. And so I was escorted to my locker to collect my things and walked to the door by a security guard. THE SHAME OF IT!

Searching For Food on Avenida Sete De Setembro

Brazil Prostitute

Last night Neville and I went out to look for somewhere to eat on the main strip of Sete de Setembro. We are strolling down the street. No stress, taking it easy, taking in the sounds, sights and smells of the street. There is Samba blasting from a passing car, little boys juggling sticks in the street, the arcarje women in their frilly white dresses and elegant head wraps, the smell of the sea and burning palm oil and out of nowhere jumps Diego. Of course he had his Ipod in tow, one ear in one ear out and looking somewhat dappa in a bright red and white unbuttoned shirt.

Sleeping with Prostitutes on Vacation

Prostitution Sign

While in Brazil over The New Year, one guy we were hanging out with, Neville was frustrated at the fact that he was unable to pick up a chick due to language barriers. (It was his own fault I had advised him on numerous occasion that he needed to learn the language.) Kay suggested to him that he should pay for one. Neville scoffed at the idea that he should need to pay for ass, while Kay kept on at him. He kept insisting that he just needed a few chat up lines and then he would be able to pull. Kay couldnt understand why he wouldnt just pay for it and accused him of being cheap, even offering up her own cash so that he could get laid.