Episode 12

I was working as a receptionist at a financial services company. I was trying to work and keep straight. But then a guy I liked broke up with me and I spiralled. I was depressed and broke, barely covering the rent I owed my dad. A girl I’d met at the safe house had told me about Backpage, and how escorts didn’t need pimps anymore; we could be independent.I went back to escorting. It was hard at first, without the protection of the traffickers. But I was making cool cash in an afternoon—at my receptionist job, I earned just above minimum wage. And as time went on, I got regulars, so the work was more stable, less risky.Because I was on Backpage, pimps kept messaging me; that’s how they recruit girls. One guy sent a picture. He was attractive and he offered to drive me home, no strings attached. Soon we were involved. He introduced me to what’s called “the game”—branding yourself to become a well-known escort. He took great pictures of me and posted them on Backpage so I could get higher-end clients.I was around his other girls now, too, which broke the loneliness of working independently. Girls and pimps all follow each other on Instagram and Snapchat and Twitter. At the time, we liked BlackBerry Messenger because we’d communicate with a PIN instead of a phone number. It became an addictive competition: a girl would post a picture holding the latest Gucci bag, captioned, “Thanks, Daddy!” referring to her trafficker. Then someone else would post a picture of a bigger, newer bag. We were all trying to one-up each other. By the early 2010s, Airbnb had become big. They were great for the game because they’re usually self-check-in and you could use Visa Debit instead of a credit card. Plus, those beautiful apartments photograph well.My traffickers would buy me designer bags and shoesPretty soon, I was giving all my money to my love-vendor, just like I had with my first traffickers. I kept relapsing into this cycle, even though I knew better. I was insecure and I craved approval, so I got back in the game, which just created more self-loathing. My trafficker took me on tours across Canada. We made a lot of money with the guys.Eventually, he left me. Last August, I saw a news report that he’d been shot and killed at a commercial plaza.Soon after, I began a relationship with a guy I’ll call Mike. With him, things were different.

For the first time, I got to experience normal things, like going to mall with a guy and holding his hand. We moved in together, but we kept running out of money. We were always looking for a cheap place to live. We lived in hotels a lot. Eventually, we found a one-bedroom apartment.
I’ve tried to mend fences with my mum, and last January, my youngest brother got me a job at a chain restaurant, working mostly in the kitchen. That place saved my life. My co-workers know my past, but they don’t judge me. They call me by my real name. It helped me so much to know that there are people out there who care. I’d forgotten that.It was horrible. I’ve relapsed into escorting occasionally, on days when I feel bad about myself or stressed about money. But I’ve mostly stayed out of the sex trade for the past year.And I was recently promoted to a management job at the restaurant. It’s another kind of boost, too: a reminder that I’m good at something, that I matter somewhere.
To be continued…..

©Grace Dammy.