Run Away Child First Experience As One Turned Out.

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Memoir  |  House: Booksie Classic
This is the second story that takes off from my First Memory. I'm writing as I feel even though I don't feel anything. But as memory's it is. This is all true bits of my life. Kind of like scrambled eggs.

Submitted: July 11, 2012

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Submitted: July 11, 2012



I was a run away, and as the title announces I was fourteen .  At fourteen , no matter how grown up a kid acts, they are still just a kid.

I have never understood how a man could be attracted to a five year old and I surly can not  believe a man would not be able to know the female they are about  to bed is no woman at all, but a child still developing physically and mentally. 

 It's a bit foggy to me, certain experiences of my life.  If only there were some technology that would tie from my memory's to this computer and write it all out, from start to now.  I  will promise to not get side tracked and start another memory chapter in a memory chapter.   If you will promise to be patient.

By the time I'm done You may understand the person I am today.  Or maybe by the time I am done I will understand more the person I am today. 

This continues from a small yet second largest city in Iowa.  Cedar Rapids, 1974 ..........

His name is Wallace. And I don't know what image the average person has of  " pimps "  but if  they are like Huggy Bear from Miami Vice .........I've seen some, maybe not as flamboyant but with the same attitudes.  Those types are the ones who generally not  big users of drugs, but  they do use them as lures on potential additions to their collection of girls / women who do nothing but what told.


Wallace was not that type.   He was skinny, his complexion or  rather skin color was very black.  The sort of black you don't  see right in your face until he speaks.  He was a heroin addict.  Heroin at times makes a person  sometimes to nice, who is usually mean or vis versa .  

Wallace was just plain mean, and brutal damn near sadistic. Whether high or not.   But some how at some time he wasn't so. I  must have seen something in him that night I spent with him.  I pissed myself  the next day when he told me via a fist to my stomach what was going to be what.  He just laughed and showed me down the hall of the second floor boarding house I barely remember being taken to that first night I'd spent with him. 

He gave me a towel and some soap to carry with me and told me to clean myself up.   My shorts and underwear were wet.  but I had nothing else so I washed myself only to put on my urine  wet clothes back on. 


 I have to break my promise. As I sit here remembering I am also thinking, straining to remember where I was living the night I met him and spent with him and the beginning of nightmare experience's. 

In a bit of shock as well as a bit high because before I was escorted out to see my   " meter "   I was shot up with heroin.   Something I wasn't used to the time. 

Kitty corner  the street from this boarding house was a place I was familiar with ! The bowling alley where I had went with my dad many times because he bowled there every week !  Those many times  we would stop at the warehouse where his office was and where he'd take me for sex.   Even after my abortion. Again another story.  

 I was familiar with the green square park where other story's spring up.   Where on Saturdays a girl friend and I used to sneak off to when we were supposed to be just down town buying ' 45's.

One day I'd convinced here to skip school with me to go to the square and hang out .  There was always a hippie guy who played guitar and read from the book " The Hobbit ".  On this particular day we met up with some older black men standing  around drinking wine.  They approached us and asked if we would like  to share their wine.   I said " yes " She said " NO !  I'm going home " ! Maybe half an hour later I  had my head back while one of the guys was pouring wine down my  throat and  suddenly I was being yanked away with such force !!! It was my  dad and my feet were barely on the ground as he hurled me to his car.

 Was I snitched off ?  Probably.   Because my friend wouldn't speak to me, on the school bus or ever. 

Was my dad angry I had skipped school, was with black people men at that, or jealousy ?   Probably all. 

 Strange how close I'd always been to that life, that environment.   Close in proximity and close to the profession.  My dad  was paying by that time. Paying me for sex because I demanded it after learning a couple years before that that he's been lying  about what " all little girls" did with their daddy's. 

 Across the street was a little tavern.  And in front of the tavern were parking meters.   I was told to stand there.   I stood there, from sun up to past sun down.  Sometimes I'd go in a car,  sometimes to a room in the boarding house or sometimes to the home the man who was paying to have sex with  me.  

 I never considered really until the past few years that it was actually rape. Whether  they paid or pimped, it was rape.  Of a minor. 

 This will have to wait for another day. I hope you continue reading me.  




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