holidays, though I didn’t know at the time. We would talk for hours on the phone well into the night and say almost nothing of importance. I had too much to hide, and as with everyone I ever met, I couldn’t say much about myself. There was nothing much to say. If anyone ever asked what my source of income was, I would say I didn’t know as that would be the truth, money came to me. My job was to keep craving it and spending every day and night chasing it. Every minute was to be spent in the line of duty.
Prostitution, pimping, wasn’t that hip-hop fantasy it is made out to be these days by these damn kids with too much money; big fine bootilicious girls in apple bottom jeans dancing around a luxury apartment drinking champagne and all that crap, nothing like that. The real milk men always said pimping wasn’t easy and only fools would run around calling themselves “pimps”, the real milk men played the part and let the people call it what they wanted to. The word was something of a derogatory term for people in the profession long ago.
The pimp game for me was a link between sex, money and drugs. I had later referred to it as the devils work but I didn’t quit though. I spent years dragging drugged up ‘horses’ to high, drunken clientele both male and female and I couldn’t even boast of earnings to make up the nature of the job. One could tell some of the horses where diseased but they would still be a part of the team as long as they were willing and able. It wasn’t the dream job but at least I had something to look forward to the next day and plus the game came to me spontaneously, like every single one of my occupations. I was grateful, grateful to whoever was responsible.
Damn demons!
I was always