Added: Mya Risher - Date: 05.08.2021 09:55 - Views: 20720 - Clicks: 3047
I grew up in Oakville with everything I ever wanted. By day, I was going to school and looking after my younger siblings. By night, I was turning tricks in seedy motels. How I was lured into the nightmarish world of sex trafficking. M y early childhood was the best.
I was the eldest of four kids, with two brothers and a sister. I was the happy mama bear to my siblings. We played street hockey and coloured the bricks of our house with chalk. My parents were both in industrial sales, and money was never an issue for us. Our dad drove a Mercedes and we took regular trips to Disney World.
When I was in Grade 5, we moved to a big house with a pool in Oakville. At seven, my youngest brother started playing rep hockey, and overnight, my mom and dad transformed into rabid hockey parents, convinced my brother would be the next Sidney Crosby. Every moment outside of school was devoted to his practices and tournament travel.
My parents were rarely home. If I wanted to eat, it was TV dinners or arena food. And when my siblings started making friends outside the family, I was alone a lot for the first time. At school, I always felt outside of things, overweight and invisible. I learned to read late, which led to a diagnosis of dyslexia. To my ears, teachers were constantly telling me I was stupid, and my classmates seemed to agree. My Catholic high school in Oakville was filled with preppy, jockish kids, different from those in my neighbourhood in Mississauga.
I had few friends, and I hid from my academic problems by playing the wallflower, hoping no one would notice me. It worked. My coming of age coincided with the rise of technology. The digital world was fun until high school, when I got my first laptop. Suddenly, social media was everything, but why would I ever post a picture of myself?
I was not a good-looking kid. I got acne early. Up against the perfect lives I was scanning on Facebook, my self-worth, always fragile, plummeted. My parents let her sleep over at our house a lot. She was kind but tougher than I was, and we bonded over being unathletic misfits.
We were bored and curious, so we agreed to meet him in the parking lot of the Oakville Place mall. On a warm June night, as the mall was closing, a forest-green Lexus pulled up. They were nicely dressed in suits, ties and dress shirts. Even though it was night, they wore sunglasses.
All these material s impressed me. It has leather seats! They must be good guys. I climbed in. We drove to a park and hung out, which was thrilling. Elizabeth drank vodka, and I smoked a little weed when they offered it. When the guys dropped me off, they asked for my MSN. I was flattered. A lot of their questions were also about my family: when they would be home; how close we were. That summer was the best of my life. Mostly we would drive around, stopping at Centennial Park in Brampton, sitting on the ski hill, drinking vodka.
Sometimes Elizabeth and I would dress up in bandage dresses and Guess heels and the guys would take us to clubs and order bottle service. Everything was new, glamorous. Devon was the slickest of the three guys, the leader. Clive was louder, more intense. But it was Shawn who I noticed. He was low-key and charismatic, with a shy smile.
Amazingly, he took a particular interest in me, introducing me to dancehall and reggae music. I figured everything would be different when I got back to school in the fall. I had found my people. Elizabeth was more street-smart than I was. I shrugged it off.
I was already gone by that point. That summer, I lost my virginity to Shawn. I just thought that in order to be cool, you had sex. And I liked him so much. More importantly, he liked me. That was enough. The three of us drove for about half an hour, then Shawn pulled up in front of an apartment building in Mississauga. In the stairwell, the man stopped me suddenly.
Then he pulled out his phone and showed me some videos. This was pre-smartphone, so the clips were fuzzy and short, but I recognized myself immediately from the outfits: my red Guess shoes; my favourite T-shirt. In the clips, I was doing various sexual acts, demeaning things I had no recollection of. Was I drugged? The scenario ran through my head: it would be a social catastrophe.
I was the good kid who never got in trouble. If he took that away from me, I would have nothing. What would I be with these videos out in the world? I made a split-second decision. I knocked on the door and a middle-aged man invited me in. He asked if I wanted a drink or a cigarette. I declined. Whatever was about to happen, I wanted it over fast. He brought me into a back room with a couch in it. I performed oral sex, then he walked me to the door.
He hugged me goodbye. When we went downstairs, Shawn was waiting for us. He drove me home as if nothing had happened. I was 15 years old. Right away, they started calling my home phone , over and over. My mom was asking questions, and I was nervous. They still had the videos.
Two weeks after the first incident, I agreed to meet them one more time. They were my friends, after all. The second time, they took me to an apartment in Waterdown. It was shabby, with the kind of cheap parquet flooring we had in our basement, which made me think how much nicer my house was. The man was in his 50s, and quite polite. He offered me cigarettes, maybe sensing how uncomfortable I was. I had sex with him, and though it felt like I was there for hours, it was probably only about 20 minutes.
Afterwards, I went to a park with Shawn and his crew. It was different than the first time. It was out in the open now, something to be proud of. On the drive home, they let me sit shotgun, a big honour. I hated what I had done, yet I was being rewarded for it—not financially but emotionally—and that felt good.
This contradiction messed with my mind. They left me alone for a few days, and I hoped we were done. But one afternoon I came out of school to find a car idling on the sidewalk, blaring hip hop. I went back inside and tried to leave a different way, but there was a car outside that door, too. They rolled down the window and started shouting my name. Kids gathered, staring. Still in my school uniform, I got in the car, and the guys took me directly to a call. It felt like summer again, with everyone drinking and hanging out the way friends might.
Afterwards, they took us to a motel room where a woman named Astrid was waiting for us. She was in her early 20s, with heavy shoes like a boy would wear and a tight, grim expression on her face. She complimented our outfits, gave us cigarettes and told us we were going to see some guys. Be cute, she told us. Be friendly. She was a gatekeeper. I never saw her have sex with clients; her job was to collect the cash and keep the girls in line.
She scared the hell out of me. I never posted online, or communicated with Shawn and his guys about the calls. Men would just show up asking for things, like a CBJ—a covered blow job, that is, with a condom. There were two beds, and I sat on one, trying not to look while Lucy had sex on the other.Looking for sex in Milton, Ontario
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