"Yes. I address social issues in my plays, articles, and documentaries, all of which get distributed over the Internet and sometime in the print media. My real concerns are human rights and poverty. I hope to make a difference by publicizing the sufferings of the oppressed." To me she sounded both sincere and naïve.
We traded biographical information. She was a graduate of Arizona State who majored in Internet journalism. She ended up getting exposure because her dad was in the media business so she used her Father's contacts (and maybe her tits and ass – I am always suspicious when good looking women just move quickly into their careers unless they are simultaneously putting out of the side). She kept asking for on camera time and getting turned down. Eventually she wore them down and got a shot on morning g television addressing social issues in the Phoenix. After that, her Arizona reputation grew, and Shelly expanded to be a one woman, social issues media person. She was talented, smart, good looking, and aggressive, just the type that Patrick would target for his blackmail scheme...basically women who thought they were in control and could manipulate men as required.
Finally, after five minutes of the who-are-you game, I asked the question that I really wanted to ask, "Shelley, how did you end up here?"
A really strange look came over her face. I thought she might cry. "I did something really dumb. I was down her by myself for an industry conference and decided to stay over for two days – kind of R&R from 16 hour days plus I have a baby girl that is teething, and I just wanted to get away from it all – sort of an escape."
"What happened?"
"Elaine, I am not completely sure. I have thought about it a lot." Then her voice got kind of distant, as though she had told the story many times before. "My hotel was at Montego Bay. I spent the day at the pool, and then went in to get a drink and cool off. I was talking to this bartender named Mack, and this black guy named Michael bought me some drinks. The three of us, Mack, Michael, and I, were having a good time talking about nothing in particular. Then it all gets very confused because I must have been drunk – too much sun and too many island drinks."
She continued, "Then there is a gap of maybe one to two hours. I have disjointed flashbacks of having sex with Michael and two or three other guys whom I did not know. Sort of like a dream. What I do remember is a policeman or hotel security guy bursting in to the room and calling me a "whore." When he arrived, I sort of came to on the bed on my hands and knees with a black guy's penis in my mouth, a white guy having sex with me from behind, and flashbulbs going off. Michael was not there, and I never saw him again. The two guys having sex with me were told to leave, and they did. I was naked on the bed, curled into a fetal position. I remember that the bed and the room smelled of cum and that I could taste cum in my mouth and feel it dripping down the inside of my thighs."
The story was a variation on a theme – fingered by the bartender, seduced by Michael, drugged into anonymous sex with strangers, incriminating photographs, and pressure to work in a whore house as punishment/blackmail. "What happened next?" I asked.
"The guy with the badge told me I was going to jail for 30 days and that my family and employer would be notified by the U.S.Embassy. I begged to be let go. He said that there was a $15,000 cash fine. I could not raise that kind of money so I told him I could get $5,000 as cash on both my Visa and my Mastercard. He told me that he knew where I could get a loan. He went to the phone and called. Ten minutes later Patrick showed up. But you know what happened in those ten minutes? – That cop raped me. He kept looking at my breasts – I was naked and disoriented and he never let me get dressed before he handcuffed my hands behind my back. Then after he called Patrick, he pushed me on to the bed. I fell on my hands that were cuffed behind me, my feet were still on the floor, and my butt was on the edge of the bed. He stepped between my legs, unzipped his pants, pulled out his dick, and began to rub it in my pubic hair. He kept telling me that I was going to jail and that the 'bull dykes' and the 'guard studs' were going to 'fuck my brains out.'
"He kept telling me not to scream. I remember being so scared."
Shelley had begun to fidget about the time she started her story. This fidgeting had become more extreme, and she no longer met my eyes. I knew that Shelley was reliving something that would stay with her the rest of her life. I could not have stopped her, and, I had to admit, a curiosity as to what happened to her. I told myself that it was not prurient interest but a real need to know so that I could estimate what these men were like and how I could survive.
Her eyes were darting about, never still. It was as if she were reading a roster of events or one of those scripts on a newscast – an accident that happened to someone else. However, she was speaking much too fast, and it was this above all that betrayed the tension that she was under.
"Then he put his hand on my throat and told me to open my legs as wide as I could. I did my best to respond. I felt like I was floating on the ceiling, just watching, and that it was not happening to me. Then he got between my legs and tried to put it in, but he couldn't. He kept losing his erection, even though I was wet for the other men" She laughed a mirthless laugh. "Only I could get sexually assaulted by an impotent cop!"
"Shelley, you do not have to tell me anything else. Let's stop here."
She kept going as if I had not spoken. "Next he pushed my knees up to my breasts and tried to put it in my rectum. I had never done that, even with my husband. I was horrified. On top of everything else, I was horrified at what he was trying. And still he was getting soft and not penetrating me. I could see that he was angry, and this made me even more scared. Finally, he pulled me off the bed on to my knees. He wanted to put it in my mouth. He told me that if I wanted to live, 'you had better make me come.' I realized no one could help me. I felt so totally trapped and knew that I had to please this man in order to live so I opened my mouth and began to lick his penis. I sucked him for what seemed forever. I had no saliva; my mouth was completely dry."
Tears had come to her eyes. My own emotions kept bouncing back and forth between anger and sympathy. "Shelley, do you want a drink or a cup of coffee?"
She shook her head no, and kept on with the story. She was caught up in the memory now and wanted to get to the end of it. "He kept me sucking and licking. He told me to lick his asshole. 'Smells bad, doesn't it' was what he said, and he laughed. Then he put his penis in my mouth, and it got good and hard. I thought he might go off in my mouth. If he did I was afraid that I would vomit all over him, and he would kill for it. Then he took his penis out, lifted me up, threw me on the bed, same position as originally, on my back, butt at the edge, feet touching the floor, legs wide, and hands cuffed behind my back. Then he stepped up, pushed hard, and I felt him penetrate me. He put his hands on my breasts, pinched my nipples hard, and told me to get 'fucking.' So I began to lever up my hips to meet his thrusts. He kept it up for the longest time, pinching my nipples all the time so it really hurt. Finally, I could tell he was coming. When he withdrew, he still was ejaculating so some of it got on my stomach and all over my pubic hair. I felt and saw this stranger's cum all over me!"
I realized then that the worst part of being raped was not the physical violation of our bodies. The worst part is the fear. I thought it was over, but Shelley kept on talking.
"Then he pulled me back on to the floor and told me to clean him off. So I ran my tongue up and down his dick and even slurped his balls gently into my mouth. I could smell both him and me on his penis. I functioned on auto-pilot. I was dependent on pleasing him to survive. My licking him made him hard again so he put it in my mouth, grabbed my hair to hold my head in place, and then began sawing in and out of my mouth. I knew he was going to cum again but this time in my mouth so I concentrated on not vomiting. I could feel and taste him. I closed my eyes, but he told me to open them. When I did, he pulled his penis out of my mouth, and I could feel my face getting wet. He dragged his penis all over my face, spurting come all over my eyes and nose and mouth and chin. He said 'You white cunt. Wear some nigger cum. Looks good on you, bitch.' I was so confused that I felt gratitude toward him for not killing me. I was ready to do anything he asked."
"Shelley, Shelley, Shelley, let's stop here. OK?"
"No. I have to tell you. It may help you to survive – and it feels better after I tell my story. Where was I?" she asked rhetorically. "Just as he finished cumming on my face, there was a knock at the door. The cop zipped himself up and answered it. I stood up, still handcuffed, come on my face and thighs, totally afraid and disoriented. That was when Patrick entered the scene. He looked over at me, smiled and told me not to worry.
The cop explained that I was an American whore that was going to jail unless I could pay the $15,000 fine and that I was short $5,000. I kept saying to Patrick, 'please help me.' I remember him coming over, looking into my eyes, and saying 'I will take care of you. Trust me.' Then he put his hand under one of my breasts and lifted it up, like he was testing the weight and texture of meat he was buying at the grocery store. But I still had this feeling of almost affection for him because he said he would help me."
That was when I remembered what Danelle had said about the 'Patty Hearst syndrome' where someone that is abducted actually bonds with their captor. Shelley had been – and probably still was – so traumatized that she felt dependent, even fond of, Patrick – the man who set it all up and brought her to fuck her way out of a whore house. It was like a TV movie where the street prostitute proclaims her love for the pimp that abuses her.
She continued. "I felt so helpless. For the first time since I was a little child, I was convinced that I could not control the situation. It was not the physical pain but the shame. I was mortified, humiliated, and de-humanized." Her tone become less certain. "Patrick was my savior. He got me out of there. Now I am almost finished paying him back for the $5,000 of his own money that he loaned me so that I would not go to jail and have it reported back home. I get out of here tomorrow," she said. "Back to the good old USA, only four days later than scheduled. And no one will ever know." She seemed less and less confident now. "Plus I can use the experience for a great series of stories of prostitution in Phoenix with the angle that 'sex work' is required by a male-dominated society and that prostitutes deserve more consideration."
