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 DARK DECEMBER
 
DARK DECEMBER It was freezing, all I could think about was getting out of the cold. Decembers in Texas were verycold indeed. Looking down at my feet to step on my cigarette, I realized my feet were hurting, ontop of everything. Who cares, the stilettos were worth every ache. My mind started to recallcertain childhood memories that I would much rather forget, as I nervously paced at the corner waiting for my cab. Ah yes, my ride to my predicated destiny. Mama was a self-proclaimed preacher woman, and she sure did predicate my future, “you little whore, I knew the moment youwere born you were no good!” Yeah, guess mama was right, and tonight I was gonna show her, boy was I gonna show her.How did I get to this point in my life? Well, it was a matter of being at the right place, at the righttime. Actually, it was more like being at the wrong place, at the wrong time, all the time.Anyway, I had already been dancing for a year. At sixteen, I was a drop out with a child. Mydaughter’s father went back to his mom’s, he always was a momma’s boy and there was no wayin hell ma would take me back. So, my options were limited. It went something like this; work asa maid, now that was demeaning, or dance, be glamorous, have fun, and make lots of money – needless to say, I made my choice. An older, by older I meant she was 24, friend advised me,with much enthusiasm and praise that my beauty was going to waste on that stage. There was anew business in town, an escort service and this would really pay me the bucks. So I met withthe “manager”, who explained all I had to do was escort these gentlemen wherever they neededto go. This much, the service was paid for, anything else was…..well, entirely up to me. I alreadyknew I’d probably be accompanying them as far as the closest bed. But hey, this was my destiny,right?The yellow cab honked loudly snapping me back into harsh reality. Little did I know mydownward descent into hell started when I pulled my second foot into that cab. “So where tomuñeca?” the driver asked, oh - by the way muñeca means doll in Spanish, which truly offendedme.” How dare he, I’m a woman, doesn’t he see me, all dressed up and definitely withsomewhere to go?” So I gave him the motel’s address in my most adult voice. I realized myvoice quivered a little bit and felt embarrassed. Here I was, a big girl now, on my first escort out-call. I had really arrived. As the car slowly entered the motel’s driveway, my anxiety grew, mychest hurt. “What am I feeling, no this can’t be, I’m not scared of anything”, started talking tomyself. All of a sudden, there it was, a thunderous sobbing that took both me and the driver bysurprise. “Shit”, I remember saying it out loud, “I can’t let my mascara run”. I wanted to stopcrying, I really, really did, but couldn’t, the tears kept gushing out. Just about then the peppy,happy-go-lucky driver turned around and with a somber look said, “dis your first tym muñeca?”I nodded between sobs. He offered me some tissue, “is gonna be okay preciosa”, he said. Ironic,“preciosa” means precious and I felt far, far from precious at that moment. For a split second Ithought of telling the cabby to take me home. Then, I thought about my child and my younger 
 
sister waiting for me at home. I couldn’t return without money, they, we depended on me. Momhad kicked my sister out after an over dose, way to go ma! So, now she was my babysitter and Ithe sole-provider. So, in a twisted yet very real way, I felt responsible for our livelihood.Mr. Cabby, double parked at the motel’s entrance and said “lisen if u wan I wait for u”, his accentwas thick, reminded me of my father’s. But, that’s a whole different story. So, there he was thisfatherly, friendly soon to be stand-by driver, offering some kind of moral support. I noddedagain, pulled the flask out of my purse and took a fast swig of scotch. My faithful liquid courage.I wiped my tears and my snotty nose and exited the cab slowly. Up the stairs I went, my heelsechoing loudly off the cement steps. Still felt a knot in my gut as I knocked on the door whichopened much too soon for my liking. He smiled, I smiled back. Small talk, “it’s a cold night,huh? You gonna keep me warm?” “Of course”, I answered, “I aim to please”. Where the f…ck did I learned these terms, oh well, they worked made me feel like a pro. The anguish andembarrassment I felt while undressing made my movements awkward. My lack of experiencewas showing. I feared rejection and humiliation not realizing that it was exactly that lack of experience, awkwardness and fear, that fed the stranger’s hunger. Something like busting acherry, initiation of a ho. His hands scorched my skin while I cringed and tried not to show it. Icried out in my mind, “God if you exist, please help me!” Didn’t realize it then, but my prayer was answered. I closed my eyes and suddenly found myself in another place. There it was a peaceful meadow that reeked of jasmine and fresh cut grass where I walked barefooted. I glanced back as if looking at a movie screen behind me. There she was, suffocating under the weight of the stranger. I looked away, couldn’t bear to see anymore less I might feel her pain. Thus the prayer was answered, though I didn’t know it at the time. Many years down the road I found outthe exact definition of it. Its called d-i-s-s-o-c-i-a-t-i-o-n: “
to separate from association or union with another”. As in insanity, as in “dissociative disorders”. Wow! I actually didsome research and one descriptive phrase stands out;
“an individual presenting with thisdisorder is often a demoralized and suspicious person who believes the world is unjust or thathe/she is an evil person”. HELLO.I conveniently snapped back into reality as he was handing me the crisp bills, lots of them, and atip to boot! It was over, done. My initiation into whoredom, commemorated with blood, sweat,snot and tears. The cold night’s air struck me sober as I walked downstairs. Much to my relief,Mr. Cabby was there, patiently waiting. Alas, a perfect relationship, a dashing duo. Somethingalong the lines of “Driving Miss Daisy”, or maybe more like driving miss daisy all night long, asshe bangs all around town. Whatever, I just needed to go home, take a shower and count mymoney. I took many a shower those early years.As time went by, it became easier, in a mechanical sort of way. One minute there, the next I’mgone. Never get personal, and never, absolutely never, kiss on the lips. That was much too personal.
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AmericanSappho

HI Bertha, I just discovered your message from December. I'm new to Scribd.com. I'm sure glad I found you and all your writings. I'm looking forward to reading them. Thank you!!! Edith

reply02 / 22 / 2011
Jesluvangel

Such a sad story. It was well written. I could feel myself floating outside and looking in... I think those of us who have ever experienced pain can recall out of body experiences.

reply11 / 27 / 2009
Berta Avila

Thank you I appreciate your comment and your empathy. Its wonderful how we can all connect through our writings, what a gift we all share.

01 / 12 / 2010
Adventure Mimi

You are brave and inspiring. Although our stories are quite different, they share some links. Dissociation and refusing to kiss anyone on the lips for over 15 years. There is a strange safety in that practice .

reply11 / 02 / 2009
Berta Avila

Thank you - sorry it took me so long to respond just too much going on. Its somewhat comforting to know someone else understands dissociation is a defense mechanism, a protection of one's wounded spirit.

01 / 12 / 2010
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