Cindy's story (chronicles of a sex slave) part 1

Cindy’s story

 

I lied to you before, I lied because the first time I spoke to you there were people around and I couldn’t be completely honest. I lied about my age, I previously said I am fifteen years old but in reality I am sixteen years of age, I have been here for one year and the man who sold me told them I was fourteen. He did this in order to gain more money, for the younger you are and the less used is the more money they will pay for you and the better treatment you will get.

 I will not tell you my real name at least I cannot do that now but I wonder if I did, would it make a difference to you? Would the name seem familiar to your ears? Would it trigger some memory? Every night in Jamaica on television Jamaica during the news they have a segment where they show all the missing children, how many people do you think remember the names of the missing girls or even their faces? If they passed them on the streets do you think they would recognise them as someone they saw missing? I doubt it, when you watch the television and see the missing kids or even see them on Facebook you say “oh my, it’s so sad that this child is missing I wonder what happened or I bet she is a runaway, gone with some man or gone to do badness”, some people will share the pictures that maybe a relative uploaded but then you forget them after, you move on with your lives.  The lives of a few missing girls do not affect you, it is not your kin, therefore you do not feel the pain and heartache that the missing leaves behind. You do not feel so you do not care and because you do not care, young girls like me will always go missing, we will always be kidnapped and sold and this sex slave trade will always continue.


It is not nice being poor, when you are poor people don’t respect you, they treat you horribly and try to take advantage of you at every turn, being poor is a very expensive thing. The family I was born into were very poor, my parents were both farmers, they planted carrots and escallion and sold it at the Mandeville market. I have three brothers and two sisters and my mother was the only one who took care of us all, for my father is a drunkard who squandered the little money they earned in the various rum bars in our community. I lived in mile gully in Manchester, it was a place where we still used pit toilets and bathed outside, some people didn’t even have electricity and used lamps or candles to see at nights.  It was at times very depressing, especially coupled with the fact that we barely had anything to eat, some nights when my father had beaten my mother and taken all of her money we had to boil carrots, eat and immediately go to sleep as my mother often told us that angels fed us when we slept.

 My mother sold in the Mandeville market on weekends, my younger siblings oftentimes went with her but, I didn’t because I was too ashamed to admit my mother was a vendor, I didn’t want anyone to see me there. One Saturday after going to the Library, I had spent all my money so I had to go to where my mother sold to get bus fare to go home and that is when I met her, the person who would change my life. She had long flowing hair past her shoulders, chocolate toned skin; she was about five feet four inches and had the most beautiful smile, she was buying produce from my mother, when she saw me she introduced herself as Ariel and told my mother “ she had a lovely daughter” I liked her instantly.

 Ariel and I became good friends from that day, we exchanged numbers and we spoke often, when she saw I had a cheap Motorola phone she told me she had an extra phone at home which turned out to be an IPhone 5. she often bought things from my mother and my mother said she admired her immensely for she always carried herself well and often gave my mother large tips for she knew the plight of my family and how much we suffered. She told my mother she lived by herself and she was a teacher at a primary school. She convinced her to let me come over and stay on some weekends as most times she was alone, not having many friends, having just moved to Manchester from Kingston a year ago. I was excited to visit her house, it was a nice apartment with modern amenities, I ate well, watched cable television, used internet and sometimes she took me to the movies with her. I was glad to have found a friend like her and pretty soon I was being allowed to visit her every weekend.

 After a couple weekends she told me she had some secrets she wished to divulge that she would appreciate if I kept from my mother that is if I wanted to keep coming to her house.  She told me she had lied she was not a teacher; she didn’t own the apartment but her rich boyfriend did and he gave her all the money that she had spending. He gave her a car and whatever she wanted and all she did was to ensure she always looked pretty and have sex with him. I didn’t know what to make of this admission but I decided it wasn’t my business if it didn’t affect our weekend excursions. She said things would change slightly in that, on some weekends she would be visiting his Kingston apartment more often. She said if I wanted to I could accompany her and stay and she would have me back home on Monday as per usual but I shouldn’t let my mother know. I being an adventurous person and only being in Kingston twice before decided that I would go with her as it could be something I could boast to my friends at school about and it would certainly make me popular.


 We began to go to Kingston quite often, Ariel’s boyfriend, Ted Salem, was indeed quite rich, we went to the most uptown all-inclusive parties and we always went to the vip section. He bought the most expensive liquors and was all about flossing and exhibiting his wealth, he was really nice to me and didn’t seem to mind that I was underage and was now Ariel’s tag along buddy. I liked the hype and the excitement, I drank the alcohol that was passed on to me, wore the skimpy clothes I was given and danced and partied like a college student. No one questioned my youthfulness or even asked what I was doing there, I was with people who possessed money and in the parties in Kingston money is what talked, with money you could do anything.

 Something that seemed weird to me but didn’t seem to bother Ariel was that Ted was not monogamous. We partied with other pretty girls and often times I saw Ted kissing and dancing on them and bringing them home while we went to one of his apartments. She didn’t act jealous or even questioned him about it but chatted with and partied with the girls, she seemed content with being one of his many women as long as she got all the nice things that came with being with him.

I didn’t let it bother me however, for if she didn’t care then why should I? Being her friend had lots of benefits and I revelled in the, at school I was no longer the girl who had to hide in the library at lunch time because I had no money to buy lunch; sometimes Ariel gave me money or sometimes she met me at the school gate with kfc or burger king lunches, I used to thank God the day I met her and she decided to make me her friend.

When I partied in Kingston which was pretty much every weekend after a while, I drank a whole lot, I often times became tipsy but I was never so drunk that I was not aware of what was going on. Ariel told me I could get drunk if I wanted to , that she would protect me and nothing bad would happen but I didn’t want to I didn’t want the feeling of not being in control, thus whenever I felt myself getting lightheaded I would begin  drinking water. Ariel said it was an offence to her because I was basically saying I didn’t trust her, I thought that was rather silly; but I told her one day I would drink so much that she would have to throw me over her shoulder to get me out of the party, hearing that she smiled.

 One day she and I were in the apartment in Kingston when Ted came over, I decided to go into one of the rooms to give them privacy but he said I could stay and drink and we could watch a movie. He told me that when he was younger he used to be a bartender so he was great at mixing drinks, thus he would make all of our drinks for the night. I began drinking and pretty soon I became lightheaded, I shook my head as I couldn’t understand how one drink could make me feel like I was ready to pass out. I tried to put down my glass and my hands were shaking, I felt like I was in a daze, “I feel as if I have been drugged” I tried to say but no words came from my mouth, I soon fell on the floor. The next morning I woke with such a massive pounding headache that I had to squint to see, I felt awful and something felt wrong with my body, I crawled to the bathroom to pee and soon discovered what it was. There was blood coming from my vagina, I couldn’t understand because my period had been finished the week before, I sat and pondered and then it finally dawned on me. I had been raped and sodomized; my vagina and my bottom were painful and sore. I came out of the bathroom and saw Ariel sitting in the living room “you’re finally up” she smiled, “did you rape me last night? Did you push something inside my butt? What happened?” I began to cry.  “Ted wanted you, how could I say no? If I tell him no, I lose all this, I lose everything, you lose everything, no more good food, no more parties, no more
anything, you go back to poverty. However if you stick with me and continue to do what he likes, you can become like me, you can become one of his girls, you get to shop , you get trips, if you are good, you get a car to drive and all you have to do is do whatever he likes, sometimes, it’s not that bad, cause trust me he doesn’t last all that long”

“But I was a virgin Ariel; I had never had sex before”

“So what? At some point in your life, you would have to do it, so why not do it with a very rich man, I cannot understand why you are acting like this, I thought you were a woman, I thought you were mature, guess I was wrong” how could I explain to her that I was saving myself for someone special, I had wanted to give my virginity to Justin Bieber or Chris Brown, someone I could remember with fondness, not some old man who was full of women.

“Why is my butt sore? Why does my butt hurt?” she rolled her eyes

“Ted likes both, he thought it would be cool to take both virginities at once, you should be glad you were drugged, it hurts like hell if you are sober”

“I want to go home, please bring me home” I felt like I wanted to die. She reared up and stood before me, “what will you do? Or what do you think you can do? Do you know how the world works? You are poor, your family is poor, do you think you will finish school and be able to afford a car or a house? You think that is how it goes? Wake up and smell the roses honey, I was once dirt poor but look at me now. I live uptown in one of the most expensive apartments; I drive one of the most expensive cars and wear brand name clothing, all because of the man I choose. You want to know the truth from the day I met you I knew Ted would want you, he likes them young and poor, easier to manipulate, my reward for finding you was I got a new shoe and I got the latest Audi he bought to drive for a month.

Don’t do anything now, think about this, don’t you want to be like me ?if you talk no one will believe you, Ted is a powerful man, he can make you and he can break you and he always get what he wants, so think about this.” I don’t know what I had gotten myself into.

To be continued……

Written and copyrighted by: Aneisha A. Smith

Chronicles of a sex slave (part two) cassandra's story

I am seventeen years of age I am a prostitute and I don’t know how many men I have had sex with, it sounds awful doesn’t it? But here it is the norm. Nobody counts anymore, what does it matter? Nobody cares, so you just live and try to survive each day. People die here, young girls who were probably reported missing but will never be found. Sometimes this life becomes too much and they commit suicide, some die from being too heavily drugged and some of them just plain give up on life, it becomes too hard to bear so they waste away to nothingness. I do not know when they die what happens to them I don’t know where they are buried or even if they have a proper funeral. I do know that there is some mother out there grieving, hoping and praying that their child will come home but she never will.

 I have learnt so much being here, I have matured, there are times I wish I could change the past but I can’t so I have to live with it and try to make the best of the situation. I say I have learnt from my mistakes but that cannot help me now, learning from it doesn’t do anything, I am still a sex slave, in a strange country, far away from my family and friends.  There is no escaping this, I have no passport, I have nowhere to go, and I do not know who to go to for help. I have seen girls who have tried to run away and the police brought them back; the police, they are supposed to protect us yet they aid in our demise, they all know about it and they do nothing because it is a rich man’s trade, everyone makes money from it.

 After our last conversation, I finally found the courage to call my mother, I was so scared, and two years have passed since I last heard her voice or seen her or touched her. I love my mother, even though she was often times sick and couldn’t take good care of me or give me the things I wanted, I still love her. Maybe if we hadn’t been so poor and had better daddies things would have turned out better but I don’t blame her for anything that happened to me, I blame myself. I probably rehearsed a million times what I would say to her, I practised in front of the mirror, I said the words night after night before I went to bed and it was with a beating heart that I finally dialled the number. I don’t know for sure what I expected, maybe screams that I was still alive and not dead in some gutter or maybe tears but what I got was an answer from an aunt whom I had never met . An aunt who told me Miss Jocelyn Stewart had been dead for a year now; she went to bed one night and didn’t wake up. One of my brothers had become a thief and was in Jail, destined to spend some years in Prison and the other she had taken to Clarendon with her to give him a better life.  When she told me this, I felt it was my fault, maybe my mother had become so heartbroken that she had given up on ever seeing me again and just died, maybe she even blamed herself for what had happened to me.

 I have nothing to live for now, I wanted to be a Veterinarian, I had wanted to make my mother proud of me, I had wanted to take her out of poverty, move her from the ghetto to uptown, Cherry Gardens. None of that is possible I am nothing but a whore, a prostitute who doesn’t even get to spend the money she worked so hard for. My life doesn’t matter anymore; nothing good can come out of it and so I am not ashamed of my story anymore, my name is not Cassandra, my name is Andrea  Alethia Douglas, I was born on January 21, 1999 and  soon I will die. Tell the world who I was, let women, teenagers and little girls know my story, let it be a warning to them, tell them all the graphic details, omit nothing. Tell them I could have been someone great, my mother could be alive, I could have made a difference in this world if I had not been  so naïve and gullible.  Do not try to talk me out of what I am about to do, you haven’t the slightest idea what it is like, living without hope, it is in the deepest, darkest hole that I live, death is like the light at the end of the tunnel, I will embrace it with open arms. There is someone else here who I think you should meet so before I pass I will give her the phone so you can speak to her, her name is Cindy, my name is Andrea, remember me.

 Hello my name is Cindy, I am fifteen years of age and I bet I have been all over your television screen, I am the girl everyone is looking for, the girl who disappeared out of thin air and no one can comprehend what happened. Cindy is not my real name but for reasons which you will soon hear you will understand that you cannot publish my real name. If you something so foolish, you will draw unwanted attention to yourself, people in high places will seek you out and you will either end up dead or in this place that I am at now. I am Cindy and at present I am one of the most dangerous girls in the world.

To be continued…….

Written and copyrighted by: Aneisha A. Smith. March 21, 2016

 

Chronicles of a sex slave (cassandra's story)

So you wanna know how it all began huh, how I ended up here in this messed up situation? My story isn’t really any different from anyone else; here there are people with worst stories. Could my situation have been avoided? Yes it could, if I had not been gullible and if I had made better decisions, but I guess it doesn’t matter anymore, nothing matters anymore.

  It all began as most things begin; with a conversation. I was sitting in the Mountain View pharmacy waiting on my mother’s hypertension prescriptions to be filled when he sat beside me. We were the only two people sitting and waiting and as he looked at me he said, “Hello there, “well aren’t you a little cutie”, “thank you sir” I replied, he was wearing his soldier’s uniform and he smiled at me through his moustache. He was dark complexioned and broad shouldered, he had a thick short neck which balanced his large bald head, he looked to be about forty five years old. He saw me scrutinising him and he winked, “how old are you? He asked, I could tell he wanted me, most men did I was five foot five inches, one hundred and twenty five pounds, I carried most of the weight in my hips, bust and butt, they liked my relaxed shoulder length hair, brown skin, pink lips and large innocent eyes. “I am fifteen” I replied  

“Oh you look a bit older but anyway do you have a phone?” I took out my flashlight nokia that my friends called a “banger” and I showed it to him. “If you stick with me, I will soon upgrade you to the latest galaxy” he said, I smiled and wrote down my number. I had wanted a Samsung galaxy phone for a long time but didn’t know how I would get it, my mother was old poor and sick with three children and our fathers were non-existent, she could barely find money to send us to school much less to get me an expensive phone. I doubt she had ever held that much money in her hands all at once. My high school boyfriend had saved his lunch money and bought me the nokia so we could utilize digicel’s free texting, I had been delighted and appreciative but what I really wanted was an expensive phone so I could be “hot and hype” like some of the girls at my school.

 He called and he texted me and we began a relationship, I went to Saint Hughes high school which was five minutes from up park camp, the soldier's headquarters where he worked. It was easy for us to see each other, he wooed me with two hundred dollar phone credits, burger king lunches and kfc dinners. I had never had a man spend so much on me and pretty soon we had intercourse, I was not a virgin, he was nice to me so I didn’t take long to give in to him, he took care of me, I thought he would be my sugar daddy, my saviour. I lived on cartridge road in Mountain View, in what people called the “ghetto” , I was poor, I had nothing, I thought  my only way out was to find a man who could take care of me , I felt I was lucky to had found one so soon.

 He soon fulfilled his promise of getting me a phone, he brought me a Samsung S4 and I was on top of the world. He said I had to get rid of my boyfriend who went to saint Georges because he hated to share me. I didn’t wish to do it but it was a choice between being with the boy I thought I loved or with the man who gave me what I wanted. It wasn’t really a difficult decision, with my boyfriend Roger I would starve he could only afford mother’s patties in the evenings but with my man Paul I ate good food and never ran out of phone credit.
  I didn’t know where he lived, I never went to his home, he told me he had a wife and two children but his wife was very boring and nagging so he was glad to have me to satisfy and keep him happy. Whenever we had sex, we would go to a motel, I oftentimes arrived home late from school but my mother never questioned me for I brought in grocery and dinner and I stopped bothering her for lunch money. I fancied myself in love with him, who wouldn’t love a man who gave you whatever your heart desired and pleased you in unimaginable ways, we were so in love that we stopped using condoms and the inevitable happened.

At age fifteen I became pregnant and Paul panicked, even though it was not my fault he blamed me, we didn’t want a baby and we didn’t know what to do, I was already two months and experiencing morning sickness when we found out. He ignored me for a week, leaving me to suffer all by myself, I didn’t know what to do or where to turn but after the week he came back and i was overjoyed. He said he had a brilliant plan, he would make me abort the baby but not in Jamaica, he would send me to a clinic in the Bahamas and when I was all better I would come back and we could resume our relationship. I was ecstatic if he could do all that for me, it meant he really loved me, I had never flown on a plane in my life, he helped me to get all my documents together and in no time I was ready to go.

 I told my mother I was leaving for a few weeks, she never asked where I was going or when I would be back, she just took the money Paul gave me to give her and told me goodbye.

When I arrived in the Bahamas I was met by a well-dressed lady named Miss Alice who hugged me and told me she was glad I could make it and she would take good care of me forshe and Paul were good friends. She brought me to her house and it was the largest, most beautiful house I had ever been in, it had six bedrooms and each bedroom had a bathroom, she had a housekeeper, a chef and a gardener and she told me not to speak to anyone of them. She told me whatever I wanted i should ask her and I would receive it.

 A week after she took me to a small cottage where I met a skinny black man in a white lab coat who told me he was going to get rid of the baby for me. I was a bit apprehensive but he drugged me and I felt nothing, when I woke up my body felt empty and my vagina a bit sore.

Miss Alice told me I would rest for the next two weeks then I would go back to Jamaica, I had spoken to Paul almost every day and he said he was quite excited for me to come back so we could resume our relationship. For the next two weeks Miss Alice treated me like I was her daughter, we went to dinner often, she brought me to do a little shopping and even brought me to her hairdresser to relax my hair, I felt as if I didn’t want to go back, if Paul was where I was it would have been perfect. The only strange thing that occurred during that time was that Miss Alice went everywhere I went, I was not allowed to go out by myself and when I tried to ask the housekeeper about something one day, she told me not to speak to her as she didn’t wish to lose her job.

 I was driven to the airport in Miss Alice car but she didn’t accompany me, she sent me with two men whom she claimed were her business partners and who would take care of me. I remember nothing about the drive other than ten minutes after we left the house I felt a prick into my neck, when I woke up, I was here in this place that I have been for the past two years.
I am in Mexico, and for the past two years I have been a prostitute, I am a slave I do whatever I am told and I do not go anywhere without an escort, I am not able to do what I please. I have sex with at least five men a day, I do not get paid, the money goes to my mistress, she buys everything i need. At first it was so hard having a strange man have intercourse with you, for the first couple of weeks I fought and screamed, but they starved me and drugged me and I soon learned to behave, now it feels like nothing, I obey, I be whoever they want me to be sometimes I even pretend to like it. It isn’t all that bad, I am in a house, I am given good food, nice clothes, I wear makeup and jewellery, and it is rich men that visit me. I am not on the street running down cars, begging them to buy me. Here I am exotic and they pay dearly to use me, the men love me, that is how I am able to speak to you, I convinced one of them to sneak me in a phone, I want to call my mother but I am scared, what will I tell her? I don’t know how to begin such a conversation and I am ashamed of what i have become so I will wait until I have enough courage.

I tried calling Paul once but as soon as he heard my voice he told me I was never to contact him again, he planned this, he lied to me, I meant nothing to him. I must go now, I hear someone coming , do not call me, I will call you, if they knew I had a phone, I think they would kill me, write my story, let the world know, but change my name please,i do not want to be recognized, I will tell you more next time.

To be contined.......

Written and copywrighted by Aneisha A smith, February 25, 2015

Death's Door

We lay side by side on his white satin sheets; they felt smooth on my just waxed and showered skin. He put his nose in my hair has he always does and sighed with contentment at the fresh herbal essence smell. “Green Apple” he says “my favourite” he rubs my thighs and fumbles at the lingerie I put on for him,” I am happy you finally learnt to please me” he breathes whisperingly. He turns me unto my side and proceeds to kiss me and that’s when he felt it, the hot flowing tears I was trying to conceal, he stops and pulls away, “whatever is the matter? Are you hurt? Are you in pain?”

“No it’s ok” I replied “ignore it; use me like everyone else does” I saw the bewilderment on his face, “I can’t do it if you are unhappy, what happened?” I forced a laugh “don’t be silly, of course I am happy, why wouldn’t i be? Something passed by in the air and it burned my nose and caused my eyes to tear”

“o Good” he smiled, showing is perfectly even white teeth, he was so handsome with his well-toned body and flawless skin, I should be happy. “ Go wash your face baby and come back smiling” I obediently got up and went into the bathroom, I splashed the water unto my face, I used my hands to puff up my hair, pushed up my bra to gain more cleavage and practised in the mirror the smile I would return with to make him feel better.

He stripped off our clothes with breathless fervor I stared at the ceiling and counted sixteen strokes before he collapsed, breathing heavily into my neck. He told me how good I was, how much he loved me and what a lovey present he would bring for me tomorrow. I kissed him and told him yes I had and orgasm and he was such a great lover, I often wondered if he never realised how dry I was. I had waxed my whole body for five minutes of continuous stabbing, what a waste, he rolled off me and was soon asleep ,I was left to stare into the darkness alone with my thoughts.

I was coming apart, I had to find a way to piece myself together again, how could I allow myself to let him see my tears? He never noticed I barely ate, I had lost five pounds, no one noticed anything, and all they saw was the big beautiful fake smile I choose to show them. They never looked past that, they think I am happy and life is great. How surprised would they be if I did it? Who would mourn?? Who would gossip? Who would come dressed in black proclaiming their love for me? Would he be there in all his rich handsome glory? Would he be angry if I did it and embarrassed him or would he be sad and mourn my loss? How soon would he replace me?

I could take a bunch of pills, would it hurt? I could use a rope or one of his bed sheets , I giggled at the thought of him finding me , I wonder how would he react, how would it affect him? I could go atop one of those skyscrapers and I could fly one last time, to feel the breeze blowing into my face, freedom, I would close my eyes before I landed and I would see and feel nothing. It’s getting late, I touched myself my usual routine to fall asleep , he didn’t budge as I kissed his cheek; tomorrow is another day, the facade must continue , I would put on a smile and go face the world once more…..

There are many persons out there both young and old who are suffering in silence; each day seems like a large mountain for them to crawl over. Some would like to speak out but they are afraid, afraid of being judged, being gossiped about, being ostracized. We do not know the battle a person faces each day, but after reading this story I hope you will tell your family and friends how much you love and care for them and that you can be the shoulder if ever they needed to lean , because we never know who may be at death's door wanting to jump in.Thanks so much for reading, catch you next time.

For they who are afraid to speak but die slowly has each day passes......

Copyrighted by : Aneisha A. Smith. May 3, 2015.

What is in the dark

Scrolling down my timeline on Facebook and twitter, I have noticed the recent happenings concerning Bill Cosby and the rape allegations against him. I have read most of the stories and opinions from people all around the world, some of which have appalled and saddened me. Normally I do not write about issues surrounding or involving celebrities and their lives but this one I could not just scroll by and say it’s not my business this one has had an impact on me.

         

   When I hear a rape victim speak out my heart softens and naturally I begin to sympathise with them; it takes courage and bravado to admit you were raped, I personally believe that rape is one of the worst crimes a man can commit against a woman. It takes away their dignity, their pride; they feel ashamed, unworthy and guilty. It leads some women to suicide as it becomes unbearable to think about what was done to them, some will blame themselves, questioning whether they had a part to play in the hideous act, asking themselves: why did I go to that party? Why did I walk on the street in that dress? Why was I stupid enough to trust him? The ordeal is absolutely awful but I think the most difficult part is reporting it; going to someone and saying you have been raped, exposing the shame so others can sit, speculate and analyse whether you are being truthful or not, whether you have an ulterior motive, seeking money or fame and fortune, let’s face it, as a rape victim, there will be people who believe you and people who think you are lying.

          

  On the other hand one of the worst things a woman can do to a man is to falsely accuse him of rape, this completely destroys a man’s reputation, it breaks up families, and the man is looked down upon and ostracized. There are many innocent men in prisons just because a woman looked at them and cried rape, a woman who was so conniving and convincing that a jury believed her and destroyed a man’s life forever sentencing him to a life of misery, for if not exonerated that man will live the rest of his life being labelled a sex offender. Hearing stories such as these breaks our hearts and makes us rather angry, wanting to lash out at the horrible women who do this.

          

  I grew up watching the Cosby show and I fell in love with Dr Huxtable, he came across as the father I always wanted but never had. He was this upstanding black man who supported his family and imparted wisdom to his children often times in a comical manner, whenever I saw his show come on, I would stop whatever I was doing and run towards the television, whatever needed to be done was done during the commercials. I adored this man and envied his kids for having such a wonderful father, however, I have never met Bill Cosby, I know not what he is like, I have never viewed his life, I do not know if he is a great father, husband and human being; it was not Bill Cosby I loved it was Dr Huxtable the character he portrayed on television but somehow my mind refuses to differentiate between the two.

           

That is how it always is, when we see a movie starring Brad Pitt or Tom Cruise, we know it will be good, there will be lots of action, they will fight lots of bad men all by themselves, they will take a few licks but in the end they will be victorious. We see them in these movies as being invincible and we expect them to be like this in reality, for instance if a criminal was to break into Tom Cruise’s house and he ran away and called the police to be rescued we would be disappointed. We would expect it to be nothing for him to take on that one man, take away his weapon and make him regret coming into his house, I mean it is Tom Cruise; he was so awesome in Mission impossible, he is supposed to be fearless.

           

We are all guilty of this, all guilty of mixing these characters with the real people, judging them based on the roles they play. For example when I was younger I watched a movie titled “ Woman thou art loosed”, Clifton Brown’s character raped a little girl which led her to be cast out of her family after which she led a rather horrific life. I hated this man in the movie and was rather happy when he died, in every movie I saw him in afterwards; whether he played a good or bad role I hated him. If I should ever meet Mr Brown I think some part of me would dislike him because I still associate him with the raping of that little girl. In reality he is probably an awesome person but I would not know that because I have already set my mind against him based on a role he played.

         

   The most horrific thing that can befall a man is being falsely accused of rape; it is the worst form of slander and can totally destroy his life, especially if he is an upstanding famous person. This always seems to befall celebrities; a woman will cry rape, appearing on television bawling her eyes out, giving graphic details of a crime that did not occur, doing this for fame, for money or for whatever reasons their small minds can conjure and let’s face it sometimes we believe these wretched women, for when they utter the fateful words we empathize and sympathise and pat them on the back for being courageous enough to stand up to the rich and horrible monster.  Right away we find the man guilty and he suffers drastically, losing friends, sources of employment, respect, he loses almost everything until he can prove his innocence and sometimes proving this can be quite difficult, leaving a rather large blot on his reputation, for even if he is found not guilty there will always be someone believing in his guilt and claiming some reason or other as to why he got away.

          

  Recently I was watching law and order svu on that episode a black teacher was accused of raping some young white boys, throughout the episode, I believed and sympathised with these boys, I disliked the teacher and hoped he would get raped in jail so he could be humiliated. When he was exonerated I was ashamed, I felt sorry for him, his reputation was tarnished, he lost his job, his family had cut him off he lost all his money, he was left with nothing and in the end some of the detectives still sympathised with the boys, wondering how they would get over the ordeal of remembering so many lies and how this would affect their lives in future. Unfair world isn’t it?

           

When we see and hear of situations such as Mr Cosby’s we take sides, some of us believe the women are telling the truth, for we reason so many women cannot be telling lies, while some may say why did they wait so many years to come forward? Why is it when one person steps forward then everybody jumps on the bandwagon? Is it a conspiracy to destroy this man? Do they have ulterior motives?  When I was eighteen years of age, I was almost raped by a wealthy, upstanding citizen of my country; I still have a scar on my hip from where he pushed me down a flight of stairs when I tried to run from him. When he finally pinned me down I tried to reason with him, explaining I was a virgin and I did not wish to lose it in such a manner, this only excited him more, what made him stopped was when I realised it was fruitless to struggle so I gave up, I looked him dead in the eye and told him if he raped me he better be prepared to kill me for whether it be six months or five years I would make it my life long mission to destroy him. He must have seen the seriousness on my face for coward that he was he stood up saying it as not worth it.

 I left that man’s house and I did not tell anyone of what had befallen me, I felt naïve, stupid and ashamed. Eight years have passed and now I wonder if someone stepped up and said this man raped them would I be brave enough to say he almost raped me too? Would people call me a liar because I waited eight years to speak out? Would they say it is because I am writing a book and seeking publicity? Now and then I think of this man, it is not something easily forgotten, if not let out it will be always be inside eating and destroying you.

          

  It takes a special breed of sick twisted man to hold down a thrashing screaming woman and take her most prized possession, is Mr Cosby that sort of man? I look at his picture and he looks so grandfatherly, like the kind of man I could sit at his feet and listen to him tell stories and impart knowledge and advice all day long. The kind of black man we as the young generation look up to and some of us aspire to be and this is what saddens us most about this situation, we see him as an idol and if our idol is brought low then we lose hope, we see the world as the evil place it can be.

         

   We should ask ourselves, are we sympathizing with these women because we see rape as a horrible crime and automatically our sympathies are drawn to anyone whom we feel has gone through this? Do we think he is guilty because we love to hate on celebrities for they have what some of us wish we had? Or do we believe in or idol because these women waited too long to come forward? Because some of them have not so righteous reputations, are you defending Bill Cosby or Dr Huxtable? Who is telling the truth? Only time will tell, meanwhile we wait with bated breaths, wishing, hoping, and praying.

I Kissed a Girl

I do not comprehend lesbianism, nope I am not bashing lesbians, I dont care a farthing how other people wish to live their lives everyone is entitled to be happy but I must say I am way too jealous to be with another girl. I think I am the only one in the relationship who is supposed to have boobs for if I had a girlfriend her breasts are bound to be bigger than mine and that would never do; f.y.i. I think all women breast are bigger than mine, my brother says I have a chest plate of armour. When I lay on my back my chest becomes a flat as a board, no cleavage nothing, I have worn the same size bra since the ninth grade which is quite shameful. I do not know why God didn’t give me even a Bcup, I would do surgery and upgrade myself but sadly I do not possess that type of cash so with these small boobs I have to remain, therefore it is impossible for me to become a lesbian.

            I was on route to Germany recently when I had an unusual experience, please note that going to Germany does not mean I am rich, if I was I could afford boobs. There I was in a huge plane with about thirty people on it, I was prepared for a long boring flight thus I had bought a John Grisham novel to keep me company. I had met this guy while waiting to board, his name was Ian, he said he was on his way to Paris to perform in the circus, he swung on the trapeze I found this quite hilarious, I imagined this thick black man covered in disco dust swinging in the air, see? Hilarious, since we looked to be the only Jamaicans on board we decided to stick together, we began to talk and it seemed we had known each other forever, we were laughing and chatting loudly in patwa since nobody could understand what we were saying when this light skinned British girl in a short black wig and long skirt came up and gave Ian a phone which she had borrowed earlier, she sat with us saying we were super cool.  I shall call her Jasmine (obviously not her right name) she had this super cool British accent f.y.i I love British accents if I had a boyfriend I would totally leave him for a dude with a British accent, shameful I know but sometimes a girl just cannot help the way she feels. Jasmine seemed the wild type she had a case of wray and Nephew white overproof rum and she popped out a bottle asked the stewardess for some coke and proceeded to get wasted. She tried to force some on me but I am not a drinker and my friends can attest to that one glass and my eyes begin to close so I keep away from the stuff. Ian was drinking and each time is glass was emptied, she filled it and ordered him to drink I just sat and giggled at the exasperated look on his face.  The more Jasmine drank the louder she got our seating area was beginning to look and sound like a roadside bar I have to admit I was becoming  a tad embarrassed.

            Finally to Ian’s relief Jasmine whispered she wished to speak to me privately and we moved to another seat, she asked if Ian and I were together and I laughingly told her we had just met to which she exclaimed “good”. I began to think she had a crush on him and wanted to seduce him so they could join the mile high club which seemed quite exciting. Jasmine proceeded to tell me a sad story of how she had been in Jamaica for a year with a police man who had continuously abused her, she showed me the cuts and cigarette burns on her hands and moved her bang to show the scar on her forehead, she said when she went to the police station and reported the abuse the officers told her to try and work it out because they wouldn’t lock up their “squaddy”. I asked why she hadn’t left him a long time ago she said the sex was good and each time they fought the makeup sex was awesome.  She said she left him and found a girlfriend but the girl just wanted money so she decided to go back to England.

            I was alarmed and felt sorry for her thus I began to counsel this young lady about the merits of having self-respect and morals when in the middle of a sentence she launched at me pushed me down on the seat and stuck her tongue in my mouth. I tasted the chocolate she had eaten earlier and the rum along with the excess saliva In her mouth, I sputtered, pushed her off and asked her what the hell she was doing. She then proceeded to babble about how nice and pretty I was how she wanted me to love her; she would take me to England and spend all her cash on me. I told her I like men, specifically men with muscles and tats not girls with boobs! Would you believe this girl burst into tears? I eased past her and ran to the bathroom to rinse out my mouth, upon coming out she met me at the bathroom door held on to my sweater and proceeded to tell me how good we could be together, of course I was becoming embarrassed, people were beginning to stare, yep we were the only black people on the plane and we were causing a scene, to avoid further damage I turned to Jasmine and told her to please return to her seat I would be there shortly, I watched as she stumbled up the aisle in a drunken stupor then decided to complain to the flight attendants.

     

      They decided to take away her alcohol and hide me in first class I guess they didn’t want me to sue the airline for sexual harassment or something. It was my first time going to first class cannot afford those seats at the moment, it was so comfortable I fell asleep but after I woke up I felt like an impostor among all those “rich folks” so I crawled back to Ian who told me that while I was asleep Jasmine had been walking around screaming she wanted her “ f#@king girl and her f@#king rum” he laughed so hard it’s a wonder he didn’t pee his pants.  Well I was hidden until Jasmine came off the plane and what I figured would be a long boring flight turned out to be my first lesbo experience and nah guys it aint for me. catch u next time. 

p.s. Domestic abuse is not a joke, Jasmine if u ever come across this blog i hope you have gone to AA and taking better care of yourself and i hope to God u have not been chasing other females offering them money for their love you are a beautiful girl you are better than that. Ian i lost u in Frankfurt the security said i couldnt stand where u left me so i had to leave before getting your info if u ever come across this blog hit me up you a good dude ...........
written and copyrighted by: Aneisha A. Smith. July 30, 2014

Clear Lines

When I turned the tap the cold water hit me like a bolt of lightening. I shivered and jumped back from the icy needles before turning the knob more to the right, then waited for the water to warm before I ventured back. I stepped forward and screamed – dang it was hot! It felt as if my chest had been pierced; I looked down wondering if I was scalded, but saw no marks or welts. I slowly turned the tap once more, this time a little more to the left, and made it run for two minutes then tentatively put my fingers under, this time it was just right. I stepped under the cascade, retrieved my Dove Body Wash from the shower rack and began to lather my body. “I should wash my hair it is beginning to itch now…” I thought quietly. When I scratched my scalp, dirt settled under my fingernails, but maybe it could go another two weeks if I sprayed some perfume on it to mask the smell.

  I rinsed and decided to lather once more. The water felt really good, if I had no hot water I would have been out in less than two minutes – I probably wouldn’t even wash my back. Taking a shower without water going anywhere near my back was an art I had perfected. I smiled to myself as I thought of what I would do later; I wanted to visit temples, I heard there was a Buddhist one close by and I was dying to see inside, maybe I could sit and meditate with the monks, I would really enjoy that. I am in this strange country and I want to see all the wonderful sights. Bangkok is extremely beautiful –half way across the world from my country Jamaica, it took me two and a half days to get here; I flew so much I thought I would have a nervous breakdown. My friends all thought I was crazy for coming here, telling me I was going to be kidnapped and filling my head with all kinds of nonsensical stories, but I was determined to see this place and experience the diversity of its culture.

 My friend who moved here recently offered me the use of one of his rooms, provided me with a driver and tour guide; his apartment also came with an Indian housekeeper who called me “madam.” This was going to be a great vacation; I surely would not miss work one bit. My blackberry was on top of the toilet seat playing music while I showered, my favourite song for the month came on and I pushed my hand through the shower curtain to put it on repeat. I then proceeded to dance and sing, “Blurred lines… I know you want it.” I felt so good I decided to bathe one more time. I took down the shower hose and began to put it wherever I wanted to be rinsed when I thought I heard a shout and a knock on the door. I ignored it, figuring it was the housekeeper bringing fresh towels and she could leave them on the bed. I  Continued to sing, “Maybe I’m going crazy, maybe I’m outta my mind…,” trying to imitate Robin Thicke’s voice. Man he is sexy – he could sing for me all day long. My fantasy got interrupted when I heard the door opening, was this woman deaf? Didn't she hear me in here? I pushed my head through the blue and white plastic curtains once more, holding it to my chest while holding the shower hose in the other hand.
Where I expected to see the housekeeper my eyes encountered her husband – the gardener. He was about five feet six inches tall, medium built with a swarthy complexion, wearing baggy blue jeans, a yellow shirt with drawings of strawberries, a black turban on his head and big yellow gloves.

He smiled at me with brown discoloured teeth and spoke with a heavy Indian accent, “Sorry madam, but boss say I come 10 o’clock  and fix bathroom sink 10 o’clock he say, so I come, he here?”

“No, he is not here. Would you please wait until I am finished then you can come back?”

“Ok sorry madam.” He turned and walked out, leaving the door open. I dropped the curtain, waved my hand and shouted at him, “Please close the damn door.” What an impertinent fellow! He came back and looked in, glancing at my chest. I grabbed the curtain once more; what the hell? He smiled at me, “Did you say you were alone madam?”

“Yes, now please get out!” I was beginning to get very angry. What was he up to? He bent towards his ankle and pulled a medium-sized knife from his boot. “Let go the curtain let me see you,” he said menacingly. I shakily let it go and he used the tip of the knife to touch my breast before running it down to my navel. He stopped at the tattoo on my hip, “You bad girl, I like bad girl,” he grinned. Moistening his lips the predator proceeded to run the knife down towards my vagina. I yelled “Don’t you dare touch me you son of a bitch!” He slapped me across my face and I tasted the sick metallic flavour of blood on my tongue; I could feel the imprint of his fingers on my cheek.  “Don’t talk whore! You come into my country and walk around like you queen of all. My wife wash your clothes, she wash your drawers, she make your bed and clean your shoes, she clean for you every day and call you madam and me,” he jabbed himself in the chest, “me wash his car and cut his grass and do whatever he say and call him boss and this my country, but you walk around like you own everything in your little shorts, showing your little black legs and turning me on. Only a whore dress like that! Our women are covered, I the only one see my wife!” He looked at my body disdainfully “You don’t look like a woman,” he pinched my breast. “No hips, no tits, you dress like a whore, I will screw you like a whore, I will turn you into a woman, you will like it. My wife won’t come she do whatever I  tell her, we say you left in your little shorts in taxi and we don’t see you come back.”  

O God he was planning to kill me. He was probably one of those men who could only get it up if I fought him or screamed. No matter what he did, I would not make a sound; I would not cry, not even whimper… the piece of shit. “Whore turn the pipe off, don’t flood the place, my wife have to clean.” I still had the hose in my hand, I didn’t even remember it; he bent his head trying to undo his pants when a thought occurred to me. I turned the tap all the way to the right then turned the blast into his face; with his pants falling to the floor, he tried to back away, but his pants and the water made him fall to the cold concrete . I went over him and continued to spray the steaming water into both his face and groin. He writhed and screamed like a wounded animal on the floor. “You son-of-a-bitch, stupid assed piece of shit!” I yelled. “Don’t ramp with Jamaican woman, yuh dutty, grey ‘tone shitta!” The hose was searing my hand – the water was really hot. I turned off the tap and stood shaking, he was not moving and is skin looked awful.  What if he was dead? I didn’t want to kill him. He was lying in the doorway; I moved to step over him and felt his hand grip my ankle. I used my other foot to repeatedly stomp his face, the skin felt soft as if I was stepping into porridge, I felt some of his skin as if it came off on my sole; he screamed like a beer caught in a trap. I fell over the toilet and retched the over salted eggs I had eaten earlier, my Brazilian weave falling into its depths while Robin Thicke kept singing, “ I know you want it, I know you want it….”

P.s. psych this is fiction it came into my imagination while I was showering one day and the water burnt my hand. Hope you enjoyed reading as much as I enjoyed writing.

Written and copyright by Aneisha A. Smith. January 24, 2014.
Edited by: Dwain Wellington.