I - 1
1. Angel at Starlite Motel - February 2015 - page 2
2. Mystery Blonde on OBT - February 2013 - page 5
3. Skinny Girl on Backpage.com - February 2015 - page 7
4. Teenager in a Park - February 7, 2015 - page 9
5. Lecturing a Hooker - February 2015 - page 12
6. Revenge of the Pimp - Spring 2015 - page 15
7. Reliable Customer - Summer 2015 - page 20
8. Nuclear Family - Summer 2015 - page 22
9. Pimp on Foodstamps - Fall 2015 - page 24
10. Recognizing her Sacrifice - October 2015 - page 27
11. White Guy Chris - Winter 2015 - page 28
12. False GHB Arrest - January 2016 - page 31
13. Normal Boyfriends - Spring 2016 - page 34
14. Butanediol "G" - June 2016 - page 37
15. Jealous Men - Summer 2016 - page 39
16. Homeless Then Vanished - August 2016 - page 42
17. Scott Love - Fall 2016 - page 45
18. Breakup - December 2016 - page 46
I - 2
1. ANGEL AT STARLITE MOTEL - February 2015
I just walked out of a courtroom where a 24-year-old girl received two life sentences, without the possibility of
parole. I remember the first night I actually met her, February 7, 2015.
I arrived at the Starlite Motel about 30 minutes early. Or at least outside the motel. I didn't know how long it might
take to get there on a motorcycle. What I had come to see was hard to believe, and was as likely to be an underage
sex sting. I walked up and down the block, to make sure no undercover police were taking up positions. But I also
knew she had a pimp. If I got too close I might spook him, and never find out who she was. So I was afraid to go
into the motel. I stayed on the other side of the street.
She kept texting she was running late. Finally she texted she was at the motel, and to come to room 225. I crossed
the street and went in. I had never seen anything like this before.
The Starlite was a standard multi-storey open-walkway motel, except it wrapped around the outside of the block and
the walkways faced inward with the parking lot in the interior. You had to drive through a door to get inside. It
occurs to me today, it was a lot like an apartment building in a far-off place called The Lofts which I also would
never know existed but for the unusual habits of a little blonde girl. The Lofts at Uptown is even a faint imitation of
the old Miami architecture at Starlite. (A developer bought The Starlite, it looks like the carcassone entrance has
since been torn out, and the map shows apartments called "City Heights.")
The Starlite office was a little island in the middle of the parking lot, like the help desk in the middle of Grand
Central Station in Manhattan. You could rent a room for a half hour or an hour, and all the hookers and johns would
line up there for sometimes 30 minutes to an hour wait or more.
The pimps would wait in cars in the parking lot there in the middle, while the hookers went up the stairways to the
rooms around the outside. There were no ordinary customers. I didn't know at the time this was her primary place of
business. She and her pimp practically lived there. It was the Grand Central Station of prostitution.
I wandered around until I found my way up to room 225 and knocked. She said “That was quick.” I explained I was
already here when you texted. A look of terror crossed her face. If I had seen her arrive, I might have seen her pimp.
Girls who are “independent” or “drive themselves” command a higher price. But more important, selling underage
girls is punishable by life. So girls who start out young are taught the first two rules of Fight Club: You do not talk
about your pimp, and you do not talk about your pimp. A girl who puts her pimp at risk of a life sentence by letting
on that he exists, is as likely to get taken out to the swamp and shot. She told me she had actually been at the office
waiting to get a room, just in case I had seen her there.
In the room, things were going as I hoped. No sex. She talked about her dogs, and her cat. She was comfortable
telling a middle-aged man she just met about her family, like she was neurologically incapable of being fake. She
told me she had just been diagnosed with organ failure and lupus, and doctors told her she had only 10 years to live.
At first I suspected this was a sad-little-girl act, to make an old guy like me give her money. But I quickly realized it
was just what was on her mind at the moment. She spoke in a matter-of-fact way, with no concept of using words to
manipulate me. It was just a day at the office, where for some reason she had to go through this small talk with the
Then she told me what I had been waiting to hear: She crashed a motorcycle and a couple racing carts, and had
multiple concussions. I later found out she also fell out of a tree as a child. This was the theory I was here to
confirm, to explain why a 95-pound teenage blonde girl from Orlando, had no fear to meet with a 43-year-old
stranger in a disgusting Miami motel after midnight. She was sexually uninhibited by some variation of
orbitofrontal syndrome.
Then she said “get comfortable.” Hmm? “GET COMFORTABLE.” She wanted me to take my clothes off.
I had psyched myself up to have sex with her if I had to. A few years earlier in a web forum, I told a story about a
hooker “Jamie” who invited herself to my house, and I sent her away. A German guy on the forum called me a “total
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pussy.” My first impulse on this night, when a teenage girl invited me to a motel, was to tell her I was excited to
come hang out, but she was too young to have sex with. But I realized that was a non-starter. If I didn't want to have
sex, her pimp would take her away. She would think I had no interest in her, or disapproved of her lifestyle. And I
would never see her again.
So I decided I would try to talk my way through the visit, and only have sex if I had to. But when she said “get
comfortable” there was no second way. I was either going to take my clothes off, or she would think I was a cop or
on some kind of rescue mission. We would both be out the door in 60 seconds. My skin turned white as I sat on the
bed. Like the German guy said, I was a total pussy. I vaguely remember two other things, then next thing I
remember, we were having sex.
For some people sex is a social ritual, of approval or domination. For others it is a hedonistic fix, or an impulse
which they are driven to pursue without any introspection. To me, sex is smoke in the air. You can't take it to the
bank. I only have sex with someone I am willing to have a child with. Even then, only with the possibility of
pregnancy. To me, sex with a rubber is not even sex.
And that is how I found myself, looking down on the white-cheddar stick figure of a naked teenage girl, with me
also naked. Emaciated to where she was almost decrepit. And no sign of a police sting, or any other narrative to save
me. She was as compliant as a rubber doll. She was too compliant, trained to do whatever I wanted. I am sure if I
told her to call me “Captain Primo” she would have.
I am not a hedonist. But I had psyched myself up for this. I had resolved to give it my fullest energy and enthusiasm,
and act like I enjoyed it. I planned well ahead to play the part like she was the greatest thing to me since sliced
bread, to not let on that I had any hesitation or found anything wrong with this. But I just wasn't into it, it was a hard
act to play.
There was a mirror next to the bed. A long time ago, a girl named Carrie told me her boyfriend got turned on by
looking in the mirror while they were having sex. So I looked in the mirror, with a hope that seeing myself having
sex with this perfect blonde teenager, would turn me on like it was supposed to. What I saw was a balding,
wrinkled, 43-year-old man, wearing a rubber, hunched like a cat over the limp submissive body of a flawless
teenager. It was disgusting.
Even for the sake of learning about this girl, I could not stand the sight of a Saturday-night joyrider, in a Miami
hooker motel, with a rubber. I could not be that person. But I anticipated such an impasse, and brought an extra
$750. I brought the extra cash, with the full expectation that it would somehow be separated from me, or held in
front of a jury to prove I came to buy sex from a teenager. I put that expectation aside, because it was worth it to
find out who this girl was. After a while there was no other way it was going to work, so I said to her “$1000 if I can
take off this rubber and just cum.”
She said "You have it on you? You are SURE you have the money?" I told her she knew from earlier in the evening
that I was good for it. She said okay.
I felt my skin touch the skin of a real-life hooker. A hooker who texted me earlier in the night how she could meet
me after she was done “runnin and earnin” in Miami. This was also something I anticipated, and pledged to put out
of my mind. It was a risk I was willing to take, without ever letting on my true feelings about it. Her body felt like a
bag of tiny bones against mine.
Within a minute or two without thinking, I blurted out “imagine that.” I just had sex with the limp 95-pound body of
a brain-damaged teenage hooker, in a cramped mirror-covered second-floor room of the Starlite Motel in downtown
Miami. And I completed the project, according to plan. When I expressed my disbelief out loud with those two
words, she had no idea what I was talking about.
As I walked out the door, she said “I had fun, you even made me laugh a couple times.” I won't mention the two
pillow-talk jokes that made her laugh. What was important, is that I spent $1000, and put on a convincing act that I
liked it. Her pimp would definitely bring her looking for me the next week, assuming she lived that long. I would
have another chance to find out who she was, her real name and phone number. They were hooked on the sugar. My
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mission was accomplished. It would only take me two or three weeks to get rid of him.
I knew it wasn't her pimp who made her a victim. She, by her own flaws, made herself a victim. She gave herself to
whatever person walked up. Getting rid of him wouldn't fix that. She would only continue to find worse and worse
scumbags to try to please and be victimized by. I needed to get her out of Miami, in hopes she would live long
enough for her brain to reroute to where she could resist people, recognize danger, avoid risks, pursue normal goals
each day in an organized way, and take care of herself like a normal person.
I never imagined it would not be Miami scumbags in open shirts as I feared at the time, but soulless predatory
halfwits employed by the taxpayer half way across the state, in a heroin-addled white-trash shithole called Seminole
County, who would do her in for their own sport and amusement. They would be wearing suits and ties, they would
be equipped with nearly unlimited resources designed to make sport of a young person, and they would be dumber
and more evil than any pervert who ever pulled up a picture of 16-year-old Mandi Jackson on backpage.com.
A different culture meant a different costume. But government employees are still aging mediocre men with crude
ambitions. And she was still something the slowest hungriest predators could catch.
I - 5
2. MYSTERY BLONDE ON OBT - February 2013
I first became curious about hookers because I had two dogs. Drive around Orlando or Miami, and ask at every
motel “Do you have a room? I have two dogs.” The motel that finally takes your money, will be the hooker motel.
They have tile floors, and don't mind cleaning up.
In the summer of 2010 I became disgusted with Miami. I lost my apartment because of a dishonest real estate agent.
Every place I tried to rent, the agent was also dishonest. Plus, the whole city smelled like urine. And so I ended up
going back and forth between Orlando and Miami. Sometimes I lived in Orlando and would stay at a motel in
Miami. Other times I lived in Miami, and would stay at a motel in Orlando, always with my dogs.
I noticed there were girls at these motels. Girls would ask to borrow my phone to make a call. Then they would ask
if they could step into my room to make the call with a little privacy. Then they would ask if I wanted to let them
hang out, and maybe lie down on my bed and rest for a minute. Later I would see them as I drove out of the parking
lot. They would ask for a ride somewhere, even though I had seen them in a room with a guy with a car.
Some of the girls were not really in high demand. They would be happy to meet any copilot, willing to go along for
the ride. Others looked like cute college girls on vacation. The only way you knew they were hookers, is they were
at this motel. And sometimes at a distance, you saw girls who looked maybe a little younger, like forest animals who
only darted out for a moment and then went back into their hiding place.
One time there was a beautiful pregnant college girl, who looked like she broke a pen and got ink on her face. She
asked to hide in my room. Moments later a handsome young guy pulled up in a tricked-out Corvette, like he was the
quarterback at the local high school. He said “That's my girlfriend. The kid she is pregnant with is mine. That black
stuff on her face is from smoking meth. What the fuck is she doing talking to you?” I said she just asked to borrow
my phone. He asked who is she staying with? I said just another college girl. “Not some niggers?” he asked. No. “A
hooker?” No, just a college girl. I mean, the girl she is with doesn't look like a hooker. I only know she's a hooker
because she is at this motel.
That was the Orange Inn, on South Orange Blossom Trail in Orlando. Looking out into the parking lot, from the
front window of my room, I began to play a game. Whenever new girls checked in, I would go to backpage.com and
try to find their escort ad. It was surprisingly hard. Over many years, I only ever matched two or three girls I saw in
person, to an ad on the Internet.
Around December 2012 and January of 2013, a new group started passing through the Orange Inn. It was a black
guy in a red sedan with a temporary plate. He looked and acted like he had just come into some money, and
splurged at the used car lot. The car poured steam from a bad head gasket in the winter air. For that reason, I think
he eventually returned it, it was gone. I think it was like a Crown Victoria, and it was a bit of a pimp ride. He arrived
from the north, like he could have been coming up Orange Blossom Trail from Apopka. Sometimes his entourage
included a mysterious silent blonde girl, with long wavy hair.
Once when I was a kid, I saw the Grateful Dead at Nassau Coliseum on Long Island. In the parking lot before the
show, I saw the strangest thing. There was a frantic mob of people racing back and forth, in a tight group like a
school of fish. Some would stop and break off the back like the tail of a comet. New people ran up from the side and
joined the moving pack. Someone explained that in the center of this mob, was a person giving away a free ticket.
Everyone who heard what was happening mobbed around him, shouting why they should be the one to get the free
On a smaller scale, that is how it was when the black guy pulled into the Orange Inn with the mysterious blonde girl
with the long thick hair. Other people would come out of their rooms, or across the parking lot, to interact. At the
center of it was the blonde girl, rail thin, and never saying a word. It was like she was barely there.
I have a thing for skinny blonde girls, so I tried to get a look at her face. But it seemed like every time our paths
crossed, or I got close, she would turn the other way. I thought maybe she was avoiding me. Years later I figured out
she was ashamed of her face. She was turning to show me her hair, because she thought it was her best feature.
I - 6
One time I had just come back from Stars strip club a few miles south on OBT, where there was an angry manager
who dressed like he was going to a wedding. I will get to him again later. I saw the blonde girl walking out to the
street. This was my chance to see her face. I parked in the gyro place next door, and came walking up the sidewalk
back toward the motel to pass her going the other way. She was wearing a soft jacket with a big collar, sweat pants,
and uggs, all white. As always, she turned away right before I saw her face. But this time, just as she started back
into the motel, she turned and looked at me for a single second.
I will never forget seeing her face. It was somehow not what I expected. There was something about it I couldn't put
my finger on. In that short time, it did not strike me as pretty or ugly. I couldn't tell if she was 12 or 25. It was like a
child with the placid indifference of an adult. She was as pale as a cloud, and there was a blank sadness and calm,
like a child who was 100 years old and never left the house or even watched TV.
I was friends with Jerome, the black guy who worked the night shift on the front desk. Sometimes I would drive him
home, north up OBT, near Apopka. He seemed to know the group in the red sedan, and that is why they came to the
Orange Inn. I overheard him say something like “I don't want to have sex with the little white girl. So what if she is
a prostitute, I don't care.”
In the Fall of 2013, I was in Miami. I went to McDonalds on 36th and Biscayne, and saw two teenage girls run
across the street from the Wishes Motel. One was dark and one was light. The taller dark one was okay, and the light
one was pretty. I talked to her for a bit, and she would have given me her number if I asked. I often wondered why I
didn't. Later that day, I looked for their ad on backpage.com, and found nothing.
I told my friend about the two teenage sluts from the Wishes Motel, and how some guys are going to get very lucky
tonight. He was in a hurry between Saturday-night dates with two different girls. It was his usual pattern, an early
one on a first date, and a late one on a second date. I wondered why am I the way I am? Why do I sit in front of a
computer all day, where other guys would be having fun hanging out, with the two out-of-town girls from the
Wishes Motel?
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The strippers never guess my friend Luke is depraved. He is a sex addict. He looks like a Christian guy with a wife
and an IT job, who would be offended if someone came up and offered him a threesome. Instead they come up to
me and offer the threesome, thinking I am the free spirit. But I am the one who actually does find it distasteful. I
have brought home and dated a dozen strippers. And then I throw all their stuff in the street, when I find out they are
talking to other guys. One even got the manager at Club Madonna to let me do my work inside the club, in hopes
that she could make it through the shift without her stuff being in the street when she got home.
Poor Luke is not even jealous. A girl could screw 10 guys in his house and he would say “What's for dinner?” But
the strippers don't talk to him, so they never find out.
So hapless Luke would sit at home and get beat up by the serial relationship failures on the dating sites, who run
home and cry in the mirror “Oh my God, I am short, I am am fat, I am ugly and I will never attract a brain surgeon
my same age” when they see ketchup spilled in his kitchen. And meanwhile I am staring at the hooker sites all day,
trying to catch my neighbors posting hooker ads. I was flipping through thousands of pictures of escorts, with zero
chance that I would even pick up the phone and call one.
Luke's solution was to meet girls in Asia and Africa on facebook, and then fly half way around the planet to have
sex with them. I said spend the same money on a BMW, and you will get girls right here in Miami. He said “When I
fly to Asia, I am the BMW.” He is 6 foot and blonde, and ticks every box an American girl puts in her search on the
dating sites. So he was able to meet dozens of girls who aim way too high, and who all ran the other way after the
first date. Or when their best friends don't think his car is the right color, or his jokes aren't funny or something.
It makes it tough for a compulsive sex addict like Luke, whose self-esteem is tied to three random girls a week
being willing to have sex with him. But he would not talk to the girls on the hooker sites.
I said there are all kinds of girls on the hooker pages. There are girls who just got dumped and are in a weird mood.
There are schizophrenic college girls, who will post one time and get arrested in a police sting on the very first
phone call so their fathers have to come pick them up at the police station, like your good friend Rachel. There are
girls who think they could have sex with a stranger, but when that phone actually rings they start asking “What do
you do for a living, how tall are you, can you send me a picture?
There are 500 girls on Miami backpage, with new girls coming and leaving every day. Some of them only post one
time. I am sure there is someone on there who loves to kiss and would never have sex with a stranger. What the girls
on the hooker sites all have in common is they are free spirits. They are not uptight like the girls on the dating sites.
They will ride on your boat with you in the rain, and bring home weird drugs that you may even be willing to try
once. And you won't have to fly to Ethiopia, to find a girl whose 10 best friends all approve of you.
One day I was surprised to see one or two of the 500 girls on Miami backpage were not disgusting, and were
actually pretty. It was February, the peak of tourist and billionaire snowbird season, when all the hookers and
traffickers come to Miami to meet them. So I sent Luke some pictures. Here is a nerdy girl with a long nose like you
like. Here is a girl with a picture of a bong who says she is 420 friendly. She looks like a regular college girl trying
to meet new people, or pay the rent or something. You say backpage girls are too curvy and that is not your type?
Here is a skinny one using some kind of exercise machine.
I said “I will pay to have sex with one of these girls myself, just to prove they are normal and save you flying the
whole way to Ethiopia.” The thought of actually doing it made me want to puke. But I sent Luke all their ad links on
Skype. He didn't even answer my Skype messages.
I knew he was thinking the ads are fake, the pictures aren't real, the skinny blonde girl her face is intentionally cut
off in the picture and you can't even see. She is probably ugly or has one eye or something. I was thinking no, her
face is cut off because she is a normal person who does not want her friends to see her on a hooker site. But it was a
little lame to tell him to call a girl whose face he can't see. It fell short of my standards of good-faith arguing. So just
to make my argument rock solid, so there was no way Luke could find a reason to resist my advice, I called the
I - 8
skinny girl to ask for a face picture.
She had a 407 number. I said you're from Orlando? I'm from Orlando, I love Orlando. She was friendly and easy to
talk to. I was surprised, there was something about her, the sweetest and most easygoing person you could meet. I
asked is there any chance you could send me a face pic? She said no, I don't send face pictures. I said okay, I totally
understand. That's fine, it's just that without a face picture, I'm not going to do business. But I understand, and thank
you it was nice talking to you.
A moment later, I got a text with her face picture. She was stunning. I was born with a picture of a girl in my head,
and that is the picture I had just received in my phone. Assuming it was real. I began to feel bad. Here was a decent
and honest person, and I had just tricked her into sending a face picture against her wishes, and under false
pretenses, when I had no intention of doing business. Real hooker ads say things like “no pic collectors, no time
wasters, do not call until you are ready to see me.” They were talking about me, I had just wasted her time.
I texted back “stunning” to at least make sure she understood it wasn't because she was ugly. I at least owed her that
much honesty, to let her know I thought the picture was good. But I still felt bad like I had violated her, raping her
of a picture of her face and then walking away without paying. I dialed her number to make some more excuses.
She didn't pick up. I could only imagine what she must be too busy doing. Disgusting. Anyway at least I called. She
is the one who did not answer, so I was off the hook. That was Friday February 6, 2015.
The next day Saturday, I pulled up the dreamgirl pic on my computer to discredit it. If you take 100 pictures of any
girl, one of those pictures will look pretty. There is no way this girl was really that perfect, and I had an impulse to
figure out what her flaws were, what she would really look like if you saw her in person. I edited the top of the face
picture onto a pic from her ad where you could only see the bottom of her face. I reversed the direction. I began to
think you know who this could be? This could be the blonde girl from the Wishes Motel a year and a half ago. That
girl's hair was bleached, she had on too much makeup for a teenager, and she was kind of stubby and trashy looking.
If that's who this girl is, then I was right, the picture is a lucky angle. She really isn't that pretty.
Then on Saturday night I was busy working, and my phone rang.
To me, this was pretty strange. How did she know I was thinking about her? How did she know I have $6000 in my
pocket? I had been doing some contract work for telemarketing companies, and working in sales. I had been
studying the sales process for contractors, estimators, home improvement companies, that sort of thing. And here
was a hooker doing the exact process I had been studying, making an outbound followup call to a prospective
customer. She later told me her first pimp Marvelous from Apopka trained her to do that. He would put her on the
phone and have her talk to the customers herself, because she was under 18.
I was intrigued. I was trying to understand how she "qualified" me relative to other callers. I asked how did you
know to call me? You must get dozens of calls each day, you can't call all of them. Why did you specifically call me
back? She said she gets over 200 calls each day. Do I want to get together?
I was still extremely curious if this was the girl from the Wishes Motel. I think at that time, the total number of
hooker ads I had actually matched to girls in real life was just one, “Miss Arab” whom I spotted at a check-cashing
store. I said can we just meet at a bar or something for five minutes? How much would you charge for that?
She said she would just meet me at a bar for five minutes, for $50. The bar she offered, Bar Louie at Midtown, was
actually very close by.
It only took me a minute after getting off the phone, to think this is the stupidest thing on Earth. Here I have all this
work to do, and I am going to waste my time paying a hooker $50 to meet me at a bar for five minutes, just because
I am obsessively curious to know if it is the same girl I saw 18 months ago at the Wishes Motel.
So I started typing a long, long text, explaining why I was truly sorry but I didn't really have time to meet her. But
before I could finish and send it, she texted me “I'm almost there.” She lived near Bar Louie also. So I got on my
friend's motorcycle to make a quick, quick run over to Bar Louie, to keep my promise and give the Wishes Motel
girl her $50.
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4. TEENAGER IN A PARK - February 7, 2015
For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.
When I got to Bar Louie, there was no blonde girl to be found. I texted “I'm here.”
She asked me to text a picture, which seemed to be some sort of screening. She got the picture and said I looked like
a cop. The only picture I had in my phone, was a screen grab from when I was on “South Beach Tow,” which I show
off to get free french fries at U Save Deli on NW 7th Avenue. She saw the truTV logo in my “South Beach Tow”
picture, and told me the picture looked fake. Why is there a logo in it? It gave me some hope this was not a real
I said I think we met before. She asked how do I know you? I said you were at McDonalds with your dark friend.
She thought I was talking about her pimp. Now she was curious to see me.
At first I was at the wrong entrance to Bar Louie. Then I walked around for a while with her on the phone saying
“You are right in front of me.” Finally I followed her instructions to walk into the park, and saw her standing in the
shadows spying on me.
It was a child.
I don't like typing here, because I never wanted her to know, that I didn't find her beautiful or attractive when I first
saw her. More just goofy and emaciated. It was not the girl from Wishes Motel. The first thing out of my mouth was
“You're not who I thought you were.” I immediately wished I phrased that differently. I was done here, but I still
owed her $50.
She was smiling a smile so big it it seemed like it would break her face. She was ashamed of her teeth and strained
to control it, but she was helpless to. She was so happy to see me.
It was an incomprehensible hybrid, of a child dressed up in hooker clothes like she was going on 40.
She looked like she raided her mother's closet, and dressed up like what she thought a hooker should look like. It
had an effect similar to Jodie Foster in "Taxi Driver," but I knew she was too young to have seen that movie. I was
ready to pay her, but she invited me to sit on a park bench. Let's talk for a bit.
I said are you really 21? Her eyes looked like 19, and it made sense why she was not actually inside the bar. I
thought she might even be under 18. She thought I was asking if she was older than 21. She said yes, she is only 21.
She immediately started spouting about her dogs and her cat and her Grandma. That a girl like this would be
meeting strangers in Miami, in a park at night, I knew she had no perception of human intentions, like an autistic
person. In particular, no recognition of the evil nature of man, no worry that someone might strangle her. When she
said she just rode into town on her motorcycle from Orlando, I knew she also lacked a sense of risks. She was sweet
and happy, unburdened by the complexities, ambitions, and self-consciousness of an adult mind. She was like
Clarisse in "Fahrenheit 451." She reminded me of me. I decided she must have a brain injury.
A witness in a police report later described her as drawing you in with that smile, like the Cheshire Cat in Alice in
Wonderland. That is a pretty good description. She was that happy to see almost any guy, probably even if he was
coming at her with a chainsaw. Being with her was a vacation from the awful reality of the world, into a Dr. Seuss
We had an awful lot in common, more than I can remember to list here. She lived in Orlando, near the two 7-11's
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across the street from each other on East Colonial. I also stayed by those same two 7-11's. She recently rode down to
Miami on a Ninja 250. I rode to meet her that night on my friend's Ninja 250. My bike was stolen, so I was
shopping for a blue 2006 GSXR. She had ridden on the back of a blue GSXR that same day. Her motorcycle had
also recently been stolen. We both had three dogs. Both our families were full of drama. There were another 10
things like that. She was staying in Miami only like three blocks away from me. Though I never let her know where
I lived, and kept that part a secret.
There were also things we were both not interested in, like TV shows. Like Clarisse McClellan in Fahrenheit 451.
She asked if I wanted to, uh... go back to my house or something. I said I can't. I am just really busy, and my house
is way too much of a mess right now. I'm not set up for visitors.
I said let me give you your $50 already. I only had 20's and 100's, so I gave her $60. Never in human history is a girl
like this going to give me $10 change, so I didn't increase the insult by asking.
I knew she took it as a complete rejection. Especially after the first thing I said was “You're not who I thought you
I thought she was beautiful and awesome. It was just never near any part of my plans, to pay a child to have sex
with me. I had already been shot through the looking glass just talking to her.
Her perception that I didn't like her was the furthest thing from the truth. All I could think to do was give her an
extra $100 bill. She said what is this for? I said “You're a little angel. Of course an old guy like me is going to want
to give you money.” That seemed to cure her rejection and brighten her up, so I left and went home.
Then my phone rang.
She said she had a hotel room, and asked if I wanted to come hang out after she was done “runnin and earnin.”
I was busy. I had plans. I had my night planned. I was not into hanging out in hotel rooms, or partying, or meeting
girls, or paying for sex with teenage girls. And certainly not all of them at the same time, the first time, completely
out of the blue.
But on the other hand she was such a cool relaxed sweet person, and I really wanted to hang out with her. If I didn't,
I knew I would never see this great person again. She would be dead in a park or on the highway, and I would never
know where or when. So I thought I will go over there and hang out, but I will tell her she is too young to have sex
with, and just hang out.
Don't misunderstand. Old girls the same age as me don't like me. I don't own a house, I don't have a career, I don't
own a Mercedes. As I have gotten older, the girls who are actually interested in me have stayed age 22. By age 23,
any girl who is sweet and romantic enough to want to hang out with me, is already married with children.
And from my side, I am not looking for a soul mate. I am not a hippie, looking for someone to take long walks on
the beach. I do not need a person my same age to share my life with, because I am not a hedonist.
But this girl was outside of that system. She was a teenager. She looked like a teenager. She was probably a half
retarded teenager. She looked the same as going over to the local high school and just grabbing one out of the
parking lot. You couldn't even tell yet, what she was going to look like as an adult.
The best counter-argument I could come up with, is there have been times and places in history when a guy my age
and a teenager would hang out. So maybe it is just our culture, and it is not unnatural, against the law of God.
And that is why I have been called a pussy before. Because where some guys would just go over and hang out with
the girl, I will spend all night home alone, tied up in contemplation of moral philosophy. It was like I was the crazy
one, where a normal person wouldn't think twice. So I decided to not be so uptight, and just go hang out with her.
I - 11
And if I told her she was too young, or I don't approve of hooking, or where are your parents little girl, then my visit
would come to a quick end. I would never hear from her again. I would never find out who she was. I would never
know what happened to her, or if she was dead in a dumpster.
So I decided I would just go over there and treat her like she was my same age, and not lecture her, and see what
happens. I would slow-play her. And if I have to have sex with her, to not reject her, and fit into the space allotted to
me in the dollhouse of her mind, I will.
And I would pretend to like it. Because anything else would say without words, the same things I was trying to
avoid saying with words. But even worse. She would see in my eyes that I thought she was ugly, or pathetic, or who
knows what. I have tried hanging out with young girls without having sex with them before, and it didn't work out.
So it is time to try the other way.
So I said yes, I want to come hang out with you at your hotel. So she said come to the Starlite Motel at 11:30.
And I went over there with the intention of going along with whatever she had planned, until I could find out more
about who she was. And how she came to be standing in a park in Miami at night, and what I might do to stop it and
send her home.
I - 12
5. LECTURING A HOOKER - Spring 2015
So I went over there, and I fucked her without a rubber, and I paid. And I went home. And the sky didn't fall. And
she was still an angel whom I wanted to find out more about.
So the next week Tuesday or Wednesday I called her and said “What's up?” She was having car trouble. She was at
the dealership in Orlando. They said she got water in the gas tank, and she needed a new gas tank, and it was $1260.
And she was trying to figure out how to pay for it.
I said I'm sure you do have water in your gas tank because you have a jealous boyfriend. He doesn't like you coming
down here to Miami and doing what you do, and he put the water in there. She didn't laugh.
Well anyway, this presented an opportunity to be in contact and develop rapport, without having to stick my dick in
her. So I said I will pay for it. So I sent $1300 Western Union. And just like that, I had her real name Mandi May
So I looked her up. And I saw she was 19, which was a relief. And I saw she lived on the same street as her father,
like 500 feet away. That was a problem. Here I was thinking she was a runaway or something. And all I would have
to do is call her parents and say “Your daughter is here, come get her.”
If her father lived 500 feet away from her, could he not know what was going on? And if he does know, then he
must not care. And if he does care, there must not be anything he can do about it. Or he has already tried. 500 feet
away, anything he could do, he would have already done. So I figure what, I am going to call this guy and say “I
fucked your daughter last night.” And he is going to say “Tell me something I don't know, fuckface.” Or something
like that. Anyway, I guess I didn't really think this through, and it is not quite as simple as I pictured.
So Friday she drives back to Miami, to get together again like we talked about to work off her $1300. Only it is
Valentines Day weekend, and after a while she can't find a hotel. So she asks me if I can try to find a hotel. So both
of us drive around for a few hours separately, until finally I found the last hotel room in Miami, at one of those little
boutique places in MiMo, the Vagabond Motel. It was $180.
She thought that must be pretty posh. So she comes into the room and looks around. The bathroom counter is not
like a normal hotel, it is like made out of wicker or something. She pressed her palms flat on it, and leaned toward
the mirror. It wobbled a little, and she said “this is not very sturdy.” I guess the guys like to do her from behind
while they look in the mirror.
She got a text. She said “I have a stalker. He is texting creepy things. They keep you filled up with drugs so you are
only half alive, and then drag you down Collins Avenue like a piece of meat.” I asked how does he know you? She
never had sex with him. She went to his apartment once, a highrise in Ft. Lauderdale. He seemed nervous, like he
didn't know what to do, so she just gave him a massage, And now he keeps finding her ad and sending her crazy
I kept a blank look on my face, as I realized the "stalker" guy had my same agenda. But the reason he was sending
texts from the next county and getting called a stalker, and I was standing next to her, is I was willing to fuck her. I
tried his way before, and it didn't work. You are either riding in the passenger seat, or you are clinging to the roof.
You are either a romantic suitor, or you are a stalker.
Then she says "get comfortable," probably knowing this time what kind of a pussy I am. And she is standing like 10
feet away, leaning against the wall, in a black t-shirt, with the words “Too Good To Be True” in shimmering sparkle
glue. And she smiled a cute devilish smile, and just about laughed at me as I sat alone on the bed. We did some fun
things. And my dick was in her after midnight, so I fucked her on Valentines Day.
The next day, actual Valentines Day, she wouldn't answer any texts. Disgusting. But then Sunday morning, she calls
and asks if I want to get together with her for an hour before she leaves town. So I said yes, and she got a room on
the first floor at The Starlite.
I - 13
At this point, I had fucked her twice. And I figured that is enough. I have played her game. She knows I like her.
She knows I am a sucker. So it is time to get what I want, which is to lecture her. But first I have to find out a little
more about who she is and what the fuck she is doing here.
So I went into the room, and I gave her $250 right up front. Now she can walk out any time. She knows she doesn't
have to fuck me to get the money.
So she sat on the bed, and I leaned against the bar, and I asked her questions. I asked her about her dogs, about her
cats, about her family, where she lives, why she comes down to Miami. After a while she must have gotten tired of
being talked to like a little girl. So she blurted out “I'm a PROSTITUTE.” I know, I got that already. She said it in
the voice of a little kid.
So she started telling me prostitute stories. She told me how she and her friend met some guys on the beach, and
went back to their hotel room. And they trapped her in there and wouldn't let her out. So they had to start screaming,
and security came.
I asked “How can you do that?” She misunderstood what I was talking about. She thought I must be asking how can
she have sex with strangers. She said “You just ignore what is happening for a minute, and then afterwards you
forget it happened.” To me, that sounds like she learned to have sex with strangers by being sexually abused as a
But I said no, I mean how can you risk being in a room with people you don't know? With violent strangers. They
could be serial killers, they could strangle you, they could do anything. How can you go into a locked room alone,
with people you have no idea who they are?
She said in a hotel or apartment, they can't do anything to you. Because everyone can hear you, and if you start
shouting, someone will come.
I said how about if you are in some rich guy's mansion? And no one can hear you? She said I will punch him in the
throat and run out.
Then she said your hour is up, I am late, I have to drive to Broward, bye. As we walked out I said wait, can I get
your real phone number? Just so I know I can reach you if you change your number?
She said okay, I will give you this phone number. It is the same one I have had for years, it is not going to change.
She called my phone standing right next to me outside the door. Like a dork I picked up and said “Hello?” And she
I looked up her phone number, and I found out some more about her. I guess when Mandi May was a kid, her dad
wanted her to be a professional racecar driver. Maybe because Danica Patrick was the big thing on TV at the time.
The way kids learn to be racecar drivers is racing something called carts. They tie the kids' hands to the steering
wheel, so when they flip over and roll the cart down the track, they won't stick their arms out and lose them. So the
kids just flip over right on their head. Which I guess Mandi May did a couple times.
When the brain is injured, it reroutes. This is especially true in young people and females. It can have an affect of
setting a 16-year-old person back to age 12. That is something like what I decided happened to Mandi Jackson. But
in a few years it can have what that movie called an "awakening." And a person can regain the skills she lost, though
often using a different part of the brain for the same task. Not using the parts of the frontal lobes, for example, that
are designed to be talented in specific tasks necessary to navigate the world. Instead of having the intuition a person
has about other people with the frontal lobes, Mandi would have to learn logically about human behavior. And
instead of perceiving risks from typical things that would cause fright, she would have to learn to analyze the risks
in situations.
The thing that bothers me the most, is that by the time Mandi might have that "awakening" at age 26 or 27, her life
would already be over. Taken from her by a bunch of dirtbag older men, who had an ambition to amuse themselves,
I - 14
without concern for the wellbeing of the child they were using for amusement. And that Mandi's entire life would be
spent and thrown away, before she even woke up to being an adult, and to understanding the world around her.
Before she ever even had a chance. And awakening to consciousness inside a prison, she would have nothing but a
memory of a confused world where she was bounced from one guy to the next.
Even more shocking to me, is that it would not be some sleazebags with open shirts in Miami, who used her and left
her for dead. But instead some button-down jerks in mediocre Seminole County, working in little cardboard
government offices, with a mandate to end a child's life for the public good. And an abusive sex-addict strip-club
manager, in an egg-carton apartment, who had no concern for Mandi's future even one hour out. And I learned their
difference in costume is only superficial, they only wear what they have to for approval of the culture they live in.
Deep down they are identical dirtbags, to Ted Bundy or any balding male sociopath, picking up hookers and
disposing of vulnerable young girls, on the streets of any city in Florida.
But it is still shocking to me that her murder could be done with the public approval. I always thought it would be
one of her customers, and not government employees paid by the taxpayer, who would take her life.
I - 15
6. REVENGE OF THE PIMP - Spring 2015
The next weekend when she drove into town, she texted me from her real number to see if I wanted a massage. She
said she was on her period, and only giving massages that weekend. I looked up her ad, and it was now in the
massage section. On the previous Sunday when we just talked, she told me she liked oysters. So I said “How about I
pay you $250, and we just go for oysters or something?” I never heard back.
It didn't even occur to me until I wrote this, that paying a hooker $250 to not have sex becomes noticeable, the
second time in a row. It made perfect sense to me at the time, because a handjob is sodomy. I already fucked her
twice without a rubber. But she never told her pimp that part. A normal john is going to take the handjob, or say call
me next week. And that is what I should have done. I should have fucked her number three before lecturing again.
Maybe she told her pimp how I paid $250 the previous Sunday and didn't even have sex, And instead I spent the
whole hour talking about how she was a hooker. Maybe he looked in her real phone and saw she had dialed my
number that day. And she had been texting and talking to me not regarding sex. And I knew she liked oysters.
However it happened, he found out. I didn't hear anything from her. Then in the middle of the week, I got a text
from her real number.
It said something like “I am the guy who owns this little girl u been fukin. I got her locked up here. And if you don't
send me $2000, u ain't neva gon see her again.”
It was so ridiculous. I expected I might get a text like this. And I expected that when I did, I almost certainly would
never see the girl again. For that reason, I figured it was a waste of my time from that moment forward, and I don't
remember the conversation as well as I would like.
At first I wasn't going to text back at all, because there was no point. But to spare us both the suspense, I eventually
texted back “Oh well, life's not perfect.”
I think I then added something like “It is a little pathetic that God made a person so lacking in skills and creativity,
that this is his best plan to feed himself.” Or maybe “You are so retarded, you need to add a little retarded girl to
your life plan as an upgrade.” Once I get started, I keep writing. I wish I could remember exactly what I said. “Ur
like my trained circus animal, doing back flips for $2k.”
Some time later, though I don't remember how long, I got a text from her original hooker phone. She said “He has
me locked up in here and he won't let me out. He doesn't know I have this phone.” I told her “Call me.” I wanted to
hear it was really her.
I didn't hear from her for what seemed like a long time, which is what you would expect if she really was afraid to
talk out loud. Then she called and asked me to do her a huge favor just this once and send the $2000, and she would
do anything I asked. He told her she is stupid to think any of the guys she has been “seeing” in Miami, would send
any money to save her. I told her it would be like me sending $2000 to someone 250 miles away in Orlando, to buy
a used car that I have never seen, and I don't even know if the car even exists.
She said “I'm not lying.” The tone of her voice was sincere and defeated and desperate. I estimated the chance he
really had her locked up and would harm her, and the chance it was not a complete scam, at about 5%, 1 in 20. After
pacing up and down the street for a bit (I walked out in the street to get better cell coverage) I decided that if the
chance was even as big as 5%, it was worth it to send the money. Plus, they would be hooked. Now this guy's life is
centered around me, and I can use that to subvert him and fuck with him in who knows what amusing way.
I drove to Western Union and sent her the money. And I texted her that it was sent.
Not long after, she texted me they wouldn't give it to her. And Western Union called me asking a bunch of questions.
“Do you know this girl? Have you ever met her in person?” Yes she is my friend. I met her in Miami, and I have
known her for some time. “How old is she?”
I - 16
I knew she was 19, but she may have told them she was 21. If I said 19 when she told me 21, then it would be my
fault she didn't get the money. So I answered “21.” She didn't get the money. But I told her it was her fault not mine,
for lying to me about her age.
I hurried to Western Union, to make sure they were going to give me my money back. They did, but then they never
let me send money again. They put like a red flag on my name. I called a bunch of different numbers to see why I
was blocked, and how I could get it lifted. I even found which office Mandi went to in Orlando to try to pick up the
money. Someone told me when she went to pick up the money, the agents said it looked like she was being coerced.
She was escorted by an older man, and she appeared to be under his control, and forced to act against her wishes.
Western Union is pretty sketchy. I am sure it was not the first time they saw something like this, an old white guy
sending money, to an old black guy with a little white girl on a leash.
I deposited the money directly in her bank account. Then the next day I didn't see her, and I made a plan to kill both
of them. I was going to call her from a fake number, to come to a fake address, on an empty street. And I was going
to ride up on my motorcycle and shoot both of them through the glass.
But then I remembered my other mission, to warn her that the guys she met would kill her, and to save her from
them, until her brain had time to re-route and recover from her brain injury. That's how it works in young people,
especially girls. It's like they get set back a few years. And then one day at age 25 or 26 the brain spontaneously re-
routes and they wake up. She was a child. I just needed to reduce her time on the streets by increasing her time with
me, and buy time for her to grow up.
It was a long time before I saw her again. We spent the next month arguing in texts. I said “This guy is a clown, why
don't you leave him.” She said if I try he will shoot me. It is my understanding he became more violent with her at
this time. He started sleeping on the couch with a gun where he could see both doors, and said if she tried to leave
he would shoot her. I said I would come over there and shoot him right in the face, and nobody on Earth would care.
She begged me not do anything, for fear he would shoot me too or shoot her whole family.
I learned that she met him the previous year, when her previous pimp “Marvelous” from Apopka dumped her at the
7-11 on 79th Street and 7th Avenue in Miami for some reason, 250 miles from home with no money and no phone.
The next guy who drove up, put her in his car and became her new pimp, Captain Primo.
Some people have a romantic preconception of hookers and strippers as strong, independent women. As "sex
workers" like they are salty longshoremen. Some people believe the myth of Mandi herself. When the pimp slept on
the couch where he could see both doors, it was to keep her from sneaking out with a backpack or something. It was
to keep her from leaving. He locked her stuff up that was important to her, he kept the car keys.
But he didn't need to watch the doors. All he needed was for Mandi to believe he would shoot her if she left. And it
didn't even need to be true. She just had to have the idea in her head that it was true. And she did, even long after
both me and her mom told her it was ridiculous because we saw the guy was a cowardly spazz. If you don't know
Mandi, you can become very confused taking too seriously what is in her head.
A strong, independent woman is someone 30, 40, 50 years old. The demand for 20-year-old hookers is 20 times the
demand for 40-year-old hookers. If 95% of the demand for female lawyers were for 20-year-olds, it wouldn't be the
same. 60-year-old guys have 1,000 times as much money as 20-year-old guys. So the few 40-year-old hookers that
there is demand for, can make some money. But they have to look right, they have to have the right shape, they have
to have social skills... they have to be strong and independent. 20-year-old girls it doesn't matter what they look like,
they can make money just by taking their pants off. Girls on backpage are not your middle-class college peers.
Each weekend I saw Mandi's ad go up on backpage, at 2:45 AM Friday night. I really could not stand the thought of
her going into total strangers' apartments, where it was just a matter of time until something bad happened, like
getting arrested or strangled. I texted her “This makes no sense. Why are you taking a risk seeing total strangers for
$250, when you can come have sex with someone you know, and I will pay you $500?” But he would not let her
come see me.
I - 17
I figure before I go too crazy, maybe she is not even a real hooker. Maybe she looks at the guys, and only fucks
them if they are cute or something. So I texted her from a fake number “I am at the Shalimar Motel on Biscayne in
Miami. Can you come over?” The Shalimar is a little sleazy. So she might screen me right there.
After a few minutes I got a text “1/2 hour or hour?” I said hour. It was at least another 10 minutes before I got an
answer. “What room?” 117. “I can be there in 45 minutes.” That fit with that second Sunday when we just talked,
and she said she had to leave to drive back to Broward where she was staying. I said "Okay."
After a few more minutes, I got a text saying “Ok, I am on my way.” Nobody drives 45 minutes to turn around when
she actually meets the guy because the guy smells funny. This was a real hooker. Disgusting.
I started spoofing phone numbers of the Broward County Sheriff where I knew she was staying, and calling her over
and over. After that many calls, she would have to do a Google search on the caller ID and see who it was. I called
from the phone number of the sex trafficking hotline at Miami police. I called her from the phone number of the
Miami Beach police lieutenant in charge of vice or something, which is what would instantly pop up if you
searched the number online.
She started changing her phone number. So I kept looking up her ad “blonde sexy bella” and doing the same thing to
the new phone number. She started changing her ad and even used a different girl's pics, but I still kept finding it by
searching for the keywords “sexy” and “in town for a few days.” But it would be very hard for her regulars to find
her. And she couldn't develop new regulars changing her name and phone number every week. She was afraid to
pick up the phone for fear it was the sheriff all the time. Eventually she would have to come see me.
Finally she texted me that she would be willing to come see me. She was stuck at the Racetrac on Colonial Drive in
Orlando with no gas. And if I sent her $50 to buy gas, she would promise to come see me. I said no way. You must
have a family member you can borrow $50 from, or you can go to the pawn shop or something. If you want to see
me it is your problem to get here. She eventually made it to Miami, but I told her I had better things to do or
something. There were girls who were actually interested to see me and would make it a priority.
That kind of insulted her to where she was determined to see me. So the following weekend we were kind of
relieved to finally get together again at the Starlite. I was so happy to see her alive. She acted a little nervous at first,
that I might do something to her. Like lock her up or do something violent. She made me promise in advance over
and over, that I did not have some kind of violent plan or trick. Probably her pimp was being cautious.
But it went well, and she saw I had some more money in my wallet. So she said “You want to do an overnight? It is
$1200 for all night,” or something like that. If you actually wanted to have sex with her, it would be the worst deal
of the century. No guy can have sex with her five times. But for someone with my agenda, it was actually my best
opportunity to talk to her.
So I agreed to it, and we spent the night together. But rather than get to talk to her, she simply fell asleep the whole
night. She looked so worn out, I did not have the heart to wake her.
But I did learn something. When the guy dropped her off, she said something about how they just went to Popeyes,
and now they were happy waiting for her in the car all night playing video games. She said it was her little brother,
out in the car playing video games. I knew that wasn't true. I saw the guy she drove up with from the neck down,
and it was an adult male wearing some kind of low-end designer bowling shirt. But the way they went to Popeyes
and played video games, it sounded like there really was a young person involved.
And because the guy started calling and texting her frantically from like 5AM, I learned he was kind of a spazz. He
was impatient to come in and lie down with whatever young person was out there, and get some sleep on that soggy
bed. Disgusting.
The next week she wanted to see me again, and I told her I was not interested. I don't need some greasy spazz who
eats at Popeyes, annoying me with his 30 pathetic phone calls. She needs to get a life. She was desperate. I told her
fine, just drive the guy's car down a boat ramp, and when he is gone she can come see me again. She said the car
was in her name. I told her to prove it, and she texted me the registration.
I - 18
She made him a bunch of money off a guy in Coral Gables. But when they went to the car dealership, he had bad
credit from when he lost his house on a liar's loan mortgage. They wouldn't give him the car. He said how about if
we put it in her name? Her credit was fine. So they wrote down that she worked at a lawn business, and got
financing. And he drove out of there in a used black BMW, with her name on the loan.
So again, I didn't see her for a few weeks. Then she texted me late one evening, and asked if she could call me about
something, it was really important. I waited and waited. She texted “I can't talk right now, he is listening.” Finally
she called and she was crying. She said she let this middle-aged guy move into her house when her boyfriend left
her, and she couldn't pay the rent. The guy had a house, but it got foreclosed and he needed a place to stay.
She said it was the sa