I wouldn't say that I spent my life taking advantage of mentally-ill girls. For one thing, the girls were a handful. It didn't feel like I was taking advantage of them. When I see other guys take on young girls with no life skills who can't take care of themselves, and how they put up with the screaming and crying and breaking everything, and running off into the night like Shannan Gilbert and ending up in the hands of whatever strange guy picks them up, I wonder is it worth it.
But when stunningly beautiful girls are available to me only because they are mentally ill, and girls who look the same but aren't mentally ill wouldn't talk to me, it is fair to say I am taking advantage of the ones who have no other choice.
Mental illness is the only reason very beautiful girls would be forced to take their clothes off for food at a strip club.
I always walked right past the single mothers, and the ugly girls with hustle, to the extremely pretty ones.
There is a slightly larger pool of incompetent young girls who will do anything for cocaine or weed.
But I avoided this more common group, and went only for the very beautiful ones, who had to be very mentally ill.
There was one who had been a talented 5'8" Russian college girl, until she hit her head in a car accident at age 24.
There was another one who was bipolar and her adopted parents died of cancer, and she could not be pried out of a fantasy world in which she was both a CEO and famous actress.
There was another one with giant scars all over her body that must have come from very early in her childhood, because they were only visible in just the right light.
They learn to do a very simple thing for clothes and food and to avoid homelessness: They dance and give blowjobs to rich old guys.
I met a teenage hooker in Miami who would do whatever you asked because of a brain injury. I paid her extra to fuck me raw that first night.
But I found it totally impossible to pry her off her pimp. Because even though she had no fear of what any strange guy who picked her up on the sidewalk might do to her,
she was in perpetual terror that the pimp himself would kill her. She was in fear to let on that he even existed. It was a belief that was totally irrational and hallucinated, the guy appeared to anyone else to be a harmless spazz, despite carrying a gun. And I knew if I ever did pry her off her pimp, she would just find another guy who fit into her irrational and terrified delusion.
There was a strip-club manager in Orlando who was an absolute terror and, like me, built his life around the particularly vulnerable girls. He was just a socially-stunted old weirdo if you were a normal girl. And he appeared to be an earnest host to the average customer who had no idea what was going on behind the scenes. But to the brokest most desperate girls, he was a tyrant, shouting and waving his arms to instill physical terror, and demanding sex or sending them out homeless. It is only a small percentage of girls who are vulnerable and will submit to this. And for that reason he ended up at the smallest strip club, Thee Dollhouse, and still had trouble finding enough girls.
And there was a drug-dealer up the street from Dollhouse who had a stripper pole in his house, and was also a master manipulator of girls. His angle was not general mental illness but drugs, primarily cocaine and meth. Like me and the manager, he also went down to the strip clubs and got his share of girls each day. He got not only sex from them, but all their money and the money of everyone they knew, including their pimps and boyfriends, who were often angry about it. The strip-club manager also liked cocaine, and using it to lure young girls who were vulnerable in that way. And the drug dealer and the strip-club manager developed a symbiotic relationship, if not an explicit partnership.
I knew the teenage hooker's problem was not her pimp, but her mind, which had been damaged by brain injury, and always reverted to a fantasy world of hallucinated terror and
desperation to belong. When I finally got rid of her pimp, it was the manager and the drug dealer whose clutches she fell into next, being used for sex and as a delivery girl.
But in between the pimp and the manager, she was taken in homeless by a boyfriend of sorts, a construction worker with his own set of brain injuries and mental illnesses and impulses, and
confusions finding the path of morals in a world of many shades. And he was a problem for her new owners.
This is the story of how these two mentally ill people, the hooker and the construction worker, fell into the clutches of the manager and drug dealer,
and ultimately police working on behalf of the manager and drug dealer,
and ended up running around confused in the night. And from there they were never rescued, but were further taken advantage of,
by a mob who realized they were dealing with defenseless idiots whose incompetence could be exploited for sport, and to pad otherwise mediocre careers with an invented crime.
The construction worker was assigned a taxpayer lawyer who left him to fend for himself, as is common in the land of dropouts called Seminole County.
Surprised with an invented crime, and a Shakespearian storyboard of evidence police straight made up at trial, the taxpayer lawyer was at a loss for what to say.
So he told the mentally-ill construction worker to just defend himself, by coming up with a story that fit the fake evidence.
Rather than put on a defense and point out the evidence made no sense, his lawyer left him to make his own case overnight, from a jail cell.
He defended himself in the only way a mentally-ill person can be expected to, with a story that made no sense. That is how they railroaded a confused laborer,
with fake evidence of a crime much worse than the simple crime he did, to look like public champions.
As for the teenage hooker, she will still never tell anyone what really went on that night.
She is serving life without parole, perhaps 70 years, for a crime that didn't even happen.
But never in that 70 years will she cross the manager or the drug dealer, to tell you the truth of what really happened.
The manager is dead, and the drug dealer is old and will forget her.
But it was never people as they really are that she feared, but what she imagined in her own head, that she lived in terror of and devotion to.
If she were to give up the fantasy now, her life and purpose would be reduced to nothing, a blob of fat in prison, another person who got taken advantage of and thrown away like a piece of trash.
The prosecutors had their own mentally-ill teenage hooker, a chained monkey they trotted out like a tragic sideshow. They muscled into the place of her pimp,
and coerced her to tell the jury of a crime that never happened, a story that fit with no other witness or evidence.
For that reason it falls to me, to tell the true story for her, the story the hooker will never tell.
What follows is the only sane and sincere story of what happened that night, as uncovered by a man who is not paid to pursue justice, and receives no reward or compensation or gratitude, but for whom justice itself is payment.