Her face was harsh and heartsick...
...her make up perfectly done, her foundation making her skin look dewy and flawless, impeccable contouring, precise lining of the eyes and lips of the kind that I can NEVER achieve. It ran through my head as she walked toward the car that without make up I would never recognize her again. I could also see that she was in pain. Even through the mask of make up I could see the agony. She got into the back seat and huddled in the corner behind me. She was headed all the way out to Gilbert so we were in for a long ride together.
I started out with a few polite nothings-- do you prefer I take the 51 or the 17? Is the radio station okay? how’s the air back there? she clearly wasn’t up for decision making. About ten minutes later I heard a small sniff. This was before I had put together my courtesy tray of tissues and gum and hand sanitizer that I now travel with, so I dug under the seat for my purse and found a nearly empty pack of tissues. I handed it back to her silently but she didn’t take it. Since she was directly behind me I could not tell if she maybe just didn’t see it. So I said, “I’m sorry you’re having such a hard day, honey.” She took the tissues and started crying for real. Soon she was sobbing. She kept apologizing and finally I just said, “I’ve had to cry that hard many times in my life. You’re in a safe place to do this right now, I won’t judge you.”
Over the next 30 minutes she started to tell me about her life. It was a hard life. I won’t share the more personal details but the broad strokes are that she worked in a “massage parlor”, was addicted to narcotics (although she believed she was safe as long as she wasn’t using needles) and in a mess of a relationship.
This was my first ride with a sex worker. It’s a thing, you see, to bring a girl to your home or hotel room and then send her off in a Lyft. I’ve met many of them now and I’m informed now about who to call if a girl wants to get out of the business so that I can pass that information on but this first time all I knew to do was to be kind. I assured her that there was support out there for her and more people like me who would not judge and we discussed where she might find help. Although my instinct was that she wasn’t ready to get help, had not yet hit bottom.
When we got to her house, the street was quiet. It was very late and no one was awake in this quiet suburb. She got out of the car and I got out with her.
Now, I am not a hugger. In fact, when people meet me and throw their arms open wide and announce, “I’m a hugger.” I will often take two steps back and fling out my hand for a good handshake. I only like hugging people I know well and sometimes not even then. But I get out of the car and ask, “Can I give you a hug?” She smiles and nods and I put my arms around her. She holds on as I rub her back and whisper words that I hope will comfort her. I’m not even sure what I said but I gave her one of the best hugs I’ve ever given anyone.
I can’t imagine never being touched like this. Of only having your body touched to serve someone else’s needs. To constantly be touched without tenderness or comfort. So I give her that. When she breaks away, she blows her nose once more, smiles and says good-bye and walks back into her messed up life.
My part is ended. Since then I’ve met more sex workers and I’ve given them the information on where to get help getting out of the business. There are national programs like Destiny Rescue and Streetlight USA but mostly it’s local help, specific to the city and state you are in and frankly, when I was researching this I was appalled to find out that when you do a google search for how to get out of prostitution, you’ll have to go through a couple of pages of attorney’s ads offering services for men arrested for hiring a prostitute before you can find a single service to help the girls. Which in a funny way disgusts me even more than the men who use these services. Some of the men who hire these girls are often lonely and desperate and broken themselves. I have some small spark of compassion for some of them as well. But attorneys who make money off of this--just ick. And Google. The third page to get help for these girls? Seriously? No wonder they think they’ve been forgotten. They have.
