The Cycle of Sexual Abuse

Handed down from generation to generation

photo by author — this is the photo that sent Desiree on to fortune if not fame. It is now 30 years old.

Her name was Desiree, a cut-rate madam running a brothel out of a rented apartment in Midtown Manhattan. I was a salesman/erotic writer for a sex magazine with an advertising base that consisted of prostitutes almost entirely. Nice work if you can get it — for a certain type of guy.

I wasn’t especially that type of guy. I was a cab driver and aspiring writer who began my journey at the corporation freelance writing for the boss until one day, he offered me full-time employment.

“How much do you earn driving a cab?” he asked. And then continued, “I’ll match it and give you hospitalization insurance and an expense account.”

I took his offer. My life changed radically that day. For the better in some ways — and the worse in others. But that’s not the story. Back to Desiree.

I first met her when she was working for a different cut-rate madam sending girls on outcalls (they came to you and not vice versa for the rendezvous).

Desiree had entrepreneurial aspirations. And one day, she called to say she was striking out on her own as an independent and wanted to run an ad in the boss’s paper.

As was the usual procedure, I went to wherever, took some photos of Desiree, collected her ad money, and forwarded the materials to the home office for publication.

Desiree was reasonably attractive; the pictures made her look better than in real life, and the ad brought boys to the yard. Within a couple of months, Desiree decided to not only turn her own tricks, but employ other girls to do the same as well.

Over time (years), Desiree became one of my most loyal customers. I knew how and where to run her ads — and the proper copy to write along with the photos to appeal to prospective clients.

Many (like Desiree) on my list of elite clients became friends. I knew my business — and didn’t act like a foaming-at-the-mouth customer they’d become so accustomed to. Often, they saw me as the wise older brother. My Korean clients even called me “oh-pa” (big brother in Korean).

I digress once again. One summer afternoon, when Desiree owed her ad money, she summoned me to her apartment in the projects to come pick up the cash.

The “projects” in New York City are labeled with the acronym NYCHA housing (New York City Housing Authority). Fully 17% of New Yorkers live in these projects. Mostly, they’re located on the fringes of the city, are poorly-maintained, sullied by tenants who just don’t care, and subsidized by the government. The rents are based on income, of which most of the tenants have very little.

Desiree was making good money. But it was off the books, and you know how that goes. Make cash and game the system. Put nothing in and take everything out. It was common in the escort world.

When I got to Desiree’s apartment, I was met by not just Desiree — but her mother, a pit bull, and her five-year-old niece.

“Want a beer, Billy?” Desiree asked harmlessly. Again, I wasn’t just the ad guy, I was a friend and confidant. Diana even once approached me to say “Billy! I have to ask your advice on something ’cause you’re the only person I know who makes any sense.”

The temperature that day was in the 80s — and I was dressed in shorts and a t-shirt what with riding a bike around Manhattan to pick up money in the heat.

As I sat on the couch by the window, Desiree’s niece came over to me, curious to engage with the new friend that had just arrived. I’m very good with children and no surprise, the little girl took to me instantly. Then it happened.

The child placed her hand on my thigh as we conversed.

Desiree went crazy.

“That’s how it starts! Don’t ever put your hand on a grown man like that!” she literally screamed at this innocent little girl who was just doing what came naturally.

I was alarmed at Desiree’s reaction. And when I looked at her mother to see if she felt the same, I saw the reality. At least two generations of childhood sexual abuse, with hopefully a third not on the way was in clear evidence.

Then I looked at the pit bull. He growled, and mama grabbed hold of his chain so he wouldn’t attack.

“Like wowzers! How did all that happen?” I wondered.

The tone of the day completely changed in that instant from carefree and comfortable to as tense as tense could be.

I finished my beer quickly and bid the gathering adieu as tactfully as I could. Nobody blamed me for the moment. I mean — I was just sitting on the couch drinking a beer when this curious five-year-old approached me and did the unthinkable: placed her hand on my leg.

The next time I saw Desiree, she confessed to being sexually abused by her uncle at age six — and that he’d turned her into a drug mule delivering product to project customers. She was perfect for the job. Who’s gonna think a six-year-old is a drug courier?

There’s an assumption by those not in the sex work business that those who earn their living in that trade are able to let strangers inside them for money as a result of their early sexual abuse. They become devalued and desensitized to the point where the women can actually derive a handsome living that way.

And of course, there’s a lot of debate about whether this assumption is truth or mythology. I used to make a joke: “There are only two kinds of hookers. The first admits to her early sexual abuse — and the second doesn’t.”

Crude, I know. But still, the biggest madam in New York once told me that most of the girls she employed had the same history. In her case, she related that after telling her mother that mom’s brother was doing funny things with her, mama responded, “Don’t tell anybody that. He’s supporting this family.”

Eventually, the Fed and State decided that I was breaking the law running ads for sex workers and tag-teamed me and my business into submission. It’s been almost 10 years since I saw any of my old clients.

But occasionally, I’ll go on an escort website to see if any of my old friends are still working. And sure enough, there she was — Desiree selling her service solo. It had been so long I wasn’t sure it was her. So I texted the ad to see and sure enough, it was Dessiree.

“Oh my God, Billy! Call me,” she answered back quickly. Thirty years after I’d first met her, Desiree was still in business. Those formative years were still in full effect all those decades later.

Sexual abuse doesn’t come in an isolated setting. It can be cultural and familial — and a never-ending cycle in many cases. Desiree’s family was the perfect (or imperfect) example.

That niece is now well into her 20s. I wonder if she broke the cycle or continued it. Alas, I’ll never know and can only hope it was the former.

[embed]When New York City Had Three Major League Baseball Teams And there were only 16 in the entire gamemedium.com

[embed]Three Weeks On the Road So you wanted to be a musician? You got what you asked for!medium.com

[embed]Winning a Woman’s Heart By washing the dishes — who’d-a-thunk it?dollarbill108.medium.com

[embed]Memories of New York’s Legendary East Village Past “Start spreading the news”medium.com

[embed]Near Misses at the Big Time Three cautionary taleswritingcooperative.com