The Time I Fell in Love With a Pimp & Became his Whore — the Game & What to Avoid.

A story and a guide.

13 min read

Freshman year, high school fire drill, sunshine, and social awkwardness. There couldn’t be a more perfect combination for a high school love affair. It was the reign of light-skinned men with curly hair and pink lips. I stood gangling and watching from across the hot concrete swarming with students and the teachers that were trying to keep track of them all. And there he stood, almost a mirage in all his boy-band glory; stealing looks at me when he could, the flock of pubescent teens the only obstacle — I wasn’t the only one in a frenzy over him, girls smothered the dream-boat of a boy in obnoxious giggles and lusty affection.

I couldn’t tell if it was my lady parts or my heart tingling, but an organ or two was was begging me to do something about the inner commotion. I resolved to writing him a letter —  a product of the times I was, it came naturally to divulge all emotion in long-hand. I can’t remember what I said, but I do remember how I felt; affected and mourning the loss of adolescent contentment. Never had I felt so called to be impressive; I was compelled to tie the front of my shirt in a knot so that the show of my mid-drift could put me and sex in the same category when I walked passed him. And that’s how it begins, at least in this case. 

Pimps are spectacular, they are the speck of glimmering gold, light in a monsoon of brown-blue. They make you want to feel things more, its like the frustration of trying to grip jello, but it keeps slipping through your fingers, my story is one example of how an innocent girl can become a hoe. 

Larry was god, levitating above the mild conversation of boys who still showed interest by pulling girls’ ponytails and running as far and as fast as their testosterone would carry them. Larry even managed to put to shame the men in their early twenties who hadn’t gotten the call that their high school glory days were up and that they should probably stop parking in the front of the school building because it was giving very much R. Kelly vibes. Those days it was cool to hang out with the neighborhood pedophile; the men that weren’t too old to be fully creepy — dancing at the top of their twenties — they were just as cute as the school boys except they had a little money, cars, and nowhere to be. Larry beat them out too. He wasn’t trying to though, to beat them out that is, and that’s exactly why he did.

GAME 1

Larry was the cool, calm, collected guy, to this day I’ve never seen a teenager like him. As Zora Neale Hurston would say, “he spoke like he had books in his jaws.” He glided like a Jackson, yet had the hood flair of any nineties Black classic film.

There is nothing that bothers a teen girl more than a boy who seems interested but doesn’t show it. Its the perfect sweet and salty factor, he had a coquettish nature that he bolstered at a young age. 

Anyway, I think you get it now. So, I got him his letter, quickly, brushing past his side while sliding the carefully origami folded note into his soft buttery hands like I was doing a sneak exchange of crack-cocaine. I couldn’t let anyone notice that I was communicating with the cutest, coolest, guy in school, someone would sabotage it, after all it seemed that the high school girls lived to destroy me. If they thought I liked someone they were quick to tell said person something terrible about me to detract from any possible attention he may have given, I couldn’t afford to risk it — like a spy in the night, I dipped out.

I waited.

I waited day after day for him to write me back, I only saw him a couple times in the hall and he was too busy with flimsy girls to speak. I would think to myself; when I catch him alone I will ask him did he read my letter, but I didn’t see him for weeks after that. He wasn’t the type to go to school often, which I realized over time, his absence made the suspense grow and I began to wonder if I would ever see him again.

Longingly I stared out of rain pattered windows wishing he would send a kite. I had a predilection for sorrow and romanticism in the same way some people crave chocolate. 

By the time he returned to school my vagina had pounded me into a pulp, my heart felt as if its young veins would never love again. But all the pain was assuaged when he returned with hope folded neatly in his hand, we did the drug deal, swiftly, and off I went with the letter, finding the nearest solo spot that I could get high in. 

I read, eyes swiping back and forth, rereading parts like I was rewinding a movie. He told me that he felt everything I felt and wanted to explore it more. I can’t recall every word he said, but I remember how he made me feel; full, seen, validated — which is a lot for a teenage girl.

This became our thing, writing letters, passing drugs — whatever you wish to call it. 

After months of this I had made up in my mind that I wanted him to be the first person to electrify my little pum-pum. I had the sexy lingerie, I had practiced body-rolling to Ashanti’s music, and my lip gloss was poppin’. I was everything you were supposed to be as a descendant of the nineties. 

We were at his cousins house, in the bathroom, making out. I saddled him on the toilet, the feelings were heavy. And hot. And right. 

I kept pulling his hand down my thighs, he would pull them back up to my breasts, which would’ve been fine if he could enter me through my nipples. I pelvic thrust him a few times, he rocked his jean covered penis gently against me but never taking it further, the heat grew, my little heart burst through my slim bones with desire! Running my fingers through his curly coils, staring lovingly into his eyes, I tried to transmit my feelings, I had read somewhere that men read minds. He gave the energy back, his dirt brown eyes made love to mine, I was falling deeper in love by the moment. I whimpered, nearly crying, just put it in man! Stick it in! The hole is right frickin’ there! What are you waiting for?! But he didn’t. And then it hit me. He’s gay! Of course! Why didn’t I pick up on the juicy licking of the lips, how soft and supple he is, his soft smooth baby voice, he had a feminine air to him — well cleaned, manicured, and careful, that’s why he was different from all of the other high school boys! Aha! 

Gay.

“What is it?” I asked. Looking at him squarely. “Whats the matter? Don’t you want me?” I pouted. Now I couldn’t dress for squat back then but I was long and thin, he literally had the body of a Victoria Secret teen sitting on top of him and he didn’t want to pound it out.

Keep reading.

GAME 2

He explained to me that I was too sweet of a girl to deflower, he wasn’t ready for commitment and believed I should save it for someone more worthy. He essentially said that he was for the streets. As devastated as I was, it made me love him that much more. A common strategy of pimps trying to groom you is by showing no interest in sex, it automatically, to the green (naive), makes it seem that he values the woman more, that he is more emotionally developed and maturer than the average man. As I later discovered he did this to all of the women who worked for him, he made them earn sex. Women wanted him so badly they would do anything to earn his penetration. I’ve seen women gravel for it, question their own attractiveness/desirability, and his interest, all because he wouldn’t copulate. The gift of restraint is needed to be a great pimp.

GAME 3

I found out that he was pimping girls at school. 

It was heart-wrenching. Not because I thought pimping was innately wrong, but because he had relationships with other women. I was too busy being jealous to be an activist or caught up in morality, my own needs were primary and I couldn’t figure out how to get them met. 

I salivated over Lil Fizz posters imagining it was him as they had similar aesthetics. Dancing in my bedroom I’d pretend he was laying on my bed, watching, closely. But he wasn’t. After the school year disappeared so did he for the most part. Over the summer he became engrossed in gang life, selling drugs, and harder pimping. The stories of his luxury life spread throughout the hood, I couldn’t seem to avoid the tales. 

Every now and then we would catch a phone call, hours long — filled with dreamy talk of everything we would be if he was different. It wasn’t until later that I realized he wanted me to change, to be different. As slimy as he was he did have a code, he didn’t want to corrupt a square, he wanted me to corrupt myself, to be so compelled by the ism (game) that I would want to break myself voluntarily. He believed the best persuasion was in the essence of a person, not in lies or encouragement. 

GAME 4

Time. The game was time. Larry was slow to move, slow to react, slow to speak, he didn’t mind taking time. We decided to just remain friends, flirting with the line later on in life — he went to prison, did a bid for pimping and pandering, came out seemingly a different man, we picked up where our friendship left off. At least we tried to. The first night we reconnected I was dizzied by his swell of ease, time in prison had added to his already suave nature. Being around him made me want to be him. I had to have him inside of me just so I could know what it was like to be so easy, mild, it was the closest I’d ever get to calming my anxiety. 

He seemed evolved, beyond the street life, working a straight job and abiding by probation. I was attracted to the idea of getting a reformed criminal and making him my own. Nevertheless, we made love, alas. It was romantic movie worthy. It was precise slow pounds, it seemed like he couldn’t embed himself any further but he would find a way; climbing so deep into my throat I’d holler his name, his makers. He didn’t leave a part of me unscathed, un-bitten, unresolved, un-assailed, leaving me both benumbed and rattled, melting into the sheets only wishing this had happened years before. 

I thought we were a thing. We made it a thing. Love was between us, we said it to each other over drinks and philosophy. We criticized humanity and bonded over our derision. I fell in love, the adult kind. I would’ve married him at the court house if he asked.

This was the love bombing. Love bombing is when a person drowns you in love, affection, favor, compliments, adoration, and then pulls away, but because you are so smitten, you don’t leave the relationship, thinking that if you stay you will see that side of them again.

GAME 5

Larry pulled away. He made excuses not to see me as much. Poked fun at the idea of me working a boring day job, such slow money, and eventually he admitted that he had inducted himself back in the game — jersey on. He told me his life was changing and that I just didn’t fit, he loved me, but it would have to be from afar.

I cried so much I became a tear. Walking around the house covered in day-old sweat, thin with hunger and thoughts of passion. I spent my time rolling blunts, scrolling Netflix, and fathoming better days. I wanted to give him all of me and had he out right asked for it he would’ve received it, in full, but he didn’t ask and I didn’t offer.

We played this sort of game for a few more years, reconnecting for awhile, and pulling away when things got too thick. I think if nothing else he liked the comfort of having someone around who had known him since childhood, I believe there was comfort in the familiarity. I understood him and didn’t judge his indiscretions, I’m sure it was comforting to find someone who loved him in spite of it all. I still view him as human while knowing how slimy he could be. 

At one point it got too good to pull away, for both of us. He was off probation, thick with all the foods he could eat; fat men seemed to be more comfortable. We plainly sat, no frills, just talking, rolling blunts. We held hands, shared war stories, pretended to be committed, well he did, I was. 

After a year of this non-motion, lack of sex, teasing, temptation, I again asked him with the same irritation of my Victoria Secret Model teen self, “what gives?” I asked him what would it take to make this made. And he said simply, with a slight tilt of his head, pretty bland eyes, and now slicked back ponytail, “you have to break yourself.” 

“What?” I explained that I was willing to submit, he advised that submission meant giving me complete control of my life, truly submitting to his will. He told me that he had a boat he operated and that if I wanted to be on it there could only be one captain. I told him that I would think about it, annoyed, he said there was nothing to think about if I had to think about it — Larry removed the offer. 

I spent the next couple months begging to be considered again. I didn’t even know what I was begging to do but I noticed a change in him since the conversation and I wanted to agree to whatever I needed to, to redeem whatever relationship we had before. He had become distant, more careful with words, no longer treated me to dates, and often was short with me. I was suffering from Larry withdrawals. The man was great at complimenting me in ways most men never had, beyond saying I was smart or attractive, he dived into my idiosyncrasies that I found odd but he considered a treasure. He observed me so closely that he would compliment subtle details, like my new socks or a clear coat of polish over my short nails — he was attentive. He was simple, never made me do performative femininity, he allowed me to be obnoxiously loud and ridiculous, he chuckled to my jokes, and kissed me when I felt embarrassed. When I was nervous he could tell, a small look of ease would calm my anxiety. He guided me, advising me when I would tell him a wild story of something that happened to me whereas most men would just respond with a banal, “that’s crazy.” He was a collectible item, once in a lifetime, the kind of man women describe on paper, but matched the bad-boy ideals we longed for simultaneously. I panicked at the thought of him leaving me again for any length of time. At that point it had been over a decade of me waiting for him to love me and here I was ruining it!

I acquiesced. I submitted. I told him that I would become his fully. He assigned me duties, told me to give myself to the men who requested me and bring back the money. I met men, I did not do the sexual favors, but I did meet men who wanted to dote on me. I took their money.

Now here is the twist. I was supposed to give him the money, but rent was due and I couldn’t bring myself to turn over cash to a man for no reason. My college education kept telling me all the things its supposed to tell you, if you know, you know. And I decided to make an excuse to withhold the cash. Boy was he angry. Very. He screamed at me in a way he never had before. Called me every bitch, disgusting, slut, trash. He pounced at me, threatening. I cried. Not just out of fear of the physical impact but because I had disappointed him.

A great part of pimpation is exercising disappointment carefully. It cannot be used in excess or it will become devoid of its power. It has to be used when it counts, at the height of the romance, and when the money isn’t coming as it should. Had Larry been any other guy I would have laughed in his face and sauntered off in the sun never looking back, but he had groomed me and built me up to this moment.

GAME 6

We stopped talking after that incident for another couple of years, well, after he pounded me out sexually. One last sexcapade. One for the road and then he sent me away. I never regretted my decision, but I still wished he was someone different more capable of seeing love beyond a dollar. I questioned whether the intimacy we shared was real or was it all an act?

Larry and I reconnected recently, over social media. He spent much time persuading me to move out of state where he is located. He has a polygamous household he runs and was offering me the opportunity to join the fold. Now about 15 years later I am in my thirties, swollen with the heartbreaks of the years, a single parent, with a struggling writing career. He looks at it as the perfect opportunity to redeem myself. With the Kevin Samuels of the world discouraging men not to love women like me what better option do I have then to join him, the man I love, still pimping. And I considered. He still, after all these years has remained my top three love affairs, and no one still has yet to match his understanding of me. The thought of not having to start over and explain myself on new dates, trying to impress new men with my waning personality sounds appealing.

The idea of giving up on love is a thought process that works to a pimps advantage. We all know that “broken”, discouraged women are the easiest to prey on.

CONCLUSION

I almost went, but the only thing that stopped me, if I’m honest, is my self-development. I’ve worked so hard to master myself. My hobby is self-improvement — discipline. I am healthy, self-aware, well-read, a great mother and friend, awesome conversationalist, patient, kind, attractive, the list goes on. I worked to become that way, I couldn’t avoid this nagging feeling that I should hold out for someone who can appreciate that. Someone out there is waiting for a woman like me. I would be letting him down by giving up. As silly as it sounds that is what kept me from becoming his polygamous whore. And while I never fully broke myself for Larry, he is worn so deeply into my soul, I will always be his romantic-whore, slutting myself out for a taste of his closeness.

I still love him, dearly, I am certain that he will die in my heart. 

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