PART I - WHO WAS MANDI JACKSON

 

1. Angel at Starlite Motel - February 2015 - page 2

2. Mystery Blonde on OBT  - February 2013 - page 5

3. Skinny Girl on Backpage.com - February 2015 - page 7

4. Teenager in a Park - February 7, 2015 - page 9

5. Lecturing a Hooker - February 2015 - page 12

6. Revenge of the Pimp - Spring 2015 - page 15

7. Reliable Customer - Summer 2015 - page 20

8. Nuclear Family - Summer 2015 - page 22

9. Pimp on Foodstamps - Fall 2015 - page 24

10. Recognizing her Sacrifice  - October 2015 - page 27

11. White Guy Chris - Winter 2015 - page 28

12. False GHB Arrest - January 2016 - page 31

13. Normal Boyfriends - Spring 2016 - page 34

14. Butanediol "G" -  June 2016 - page 37

15. Jealous Men - Summer 2016  - page 39

16. Homeless Then Vanished - August 2016 - page 42

17. Scott Love - Fall 2016 - page 45

18. Breakup - December 2016 - page 46

 

 

 

1. ANGEL AT STARLITE MOTEL - February 2015

 

I just walked out of a courtroom where a 24-year-old girl received two life sentences, without the possibility of parole. I remember the first night I actually met her, February 7, 2015.

 

I arrived at the Starlite Motel about 30 minutes early. Or at least outside the motel. I didn't know how long it might take to get there on a motorcycle. What I had come to see was hard to believe, and was as likely to be an underage sex sting. I walked up and down the block, to make sure no undercover police were taking up positions. But I also knew she had a pimp. If I got too close I might spook him, and never find out who she was. So I was afraid to go into the motel. I stayed on the other side of the street.

 

She kept texting she was running late. Finally she texted she was at the motel, and to come to room 225. I crossed the street and went in. I had never seen anything like this before.

 

The Starlite was a standard multi-storey open-walkway motel, except it wrapped around the outside of the block and the walkways faced inward with the parking lot in the interior. You had to drive through a door to get inside. It occurs to me today, it was a lot like an apartment building in a far-off place called The Lofts which I also would never know existed but for the unusual habits of  a little blonde girl. The Lofts at Uptown is even a faint imitation of the old Miami architecture at Starlite. (A developer bought The Starlite, it looks like the carcassone entrance has since been torn out, and the map shows apartments called "City Heights.")

 

The Starlite office was a little island in the middle of the parking lot, like the help desk in the middle of Grand Central Station in Manhattan. You could rent a room for a half hour or an hour, and all the hookers and johns would line up there for sometimes 30 minutes to an hour wait or more.

 

The pimps would wait in cars in the parking lot there in the middle, while the hookers went up the stairways to the rooms around the outside. There were no ordinary customers. I didn't know at the time this was her primary place of business. She and her pimp practically lived there. It was the Grand Central Station of prostitution.

 

I wandered around until I found my way up to room 225 and knocked. She said “That was quick.” I explained I was already here when you texted. A look of terror crossed her face. If I had seen her arrive, I might have seen her pimp. Girls who are “independent” or “drive themselves” command a higher price. But more important, selling underage girls is punishable by life. So girls who start out young are taught the first two rules of Fight Club: You do not talk about your pimp, and you do not talk about your pimp. A girl who puts her pimp at risk of a life sentence by letting on that he exists, is as likely to get taken out to the swamp and shot. She told me she had actually been at the office waiting to get a room, just in case I had seen her there.

 

In the room, things were going as I hoped. No sex. She talked about her dogs, and her cat. She was comfortable telling a middle-aged man she just met about her family, like she was neurologically incapable of being fake. She told me she had just been diagnosed with organ failure and lupus, and doctors told her she had only 10 years to live. At first I suspected this was a sad-little-girl act, to make an old guy like me give her money. But I quickly realized it was just what was on her mind at the moment. She spoke in a matter-of-fact way, with no concept of using words to manipulate me. It was just a day at the office, where for some reason she had to go through this small talk with the guys.

 

Then she told me what I had been waiting to hear: She crashed a motorcycle and a couple racing carts, and had multiple concussions. I later found out she also fell out of a tree as a child. This was the theory I was here to confirm, to explain why a 95-pound teenage blonde girl from Orlando, had no fear to meet with a 43-year-old stranger in a disgusting Miami motel after midnight. She was sexually uninhibited by some variation of orbitofrontal syndrome.

 

Then she said “get comfortable.”  Hmm? “GET COMFORTABLE.” She wanted me to take my clothes off.

 

I had psyched myself up to have sex with her if I had to. A few years earlier in a web forum, I told a story about a hooker “Jamie” who invited herself to my house, and I sent her away. A German guy on the forum called me a “total pussy.” My first impulse on this night, when a teenage girl invited me to a motel, was to tell her I was excited to come hang out, but she was too young to have sex with. But I realized that was a non-starter. If I didn't want to have sex, her pimp would take her away. She would think I had no interest in her, or disapproved of her lifestyle. And I would never see her again.

 

So I decided I would try to talk my way through the visit, and only have sex if I had to. But when she said “get comfortable” there was no second way. I was either going to take my clothes off, or she would think I was a cop or on some kind of rescue mission. We would both be out the door in 60 seconds. My skin turned white as I sat on the bed. Like the German guy said, I was a total pussy. I vaguely remember two other things, then next thing I remember, we were having sex.

 

For some people sex is a social ritual, of approval or domination. For others it is a hedonistic fix, or an impulse which they are driven to pursue without any introspection. To me, sex is smoke in the air. You can't take it to the bank. I only have sex with someone I am willing to have a child with. Even then, only with the possibility of pregnancy. To me, sex with a rubber is not even sex.

 

And that is how I found myself, looking down on the white-cheddar stick figure of a naked teenage girl, with me also naked. Emaciated to where she was almost decrepit. And no sign of a police sting, or any other narrative to save me. She was as compliant as a rubber doll. She was too compliant, trained to do whatever I wanted. I am sure if I told her to call me “Captain Primo” she would have.

 

I am not a hedonist. But I had psyched myself up for this. I had resolved to give it my fullest energy and enthusiasm, and act like I enjoyed it. I planned well ahead to play the part like she was the greatest thing to me since sliced bread, to not let on that I had any hesitation or found anything wrong with this. But I just wasn't into it, it was a hard act to play.

 

There was a mirror next to the bed. A long time ago, a girl named Carrie told me her boyfriend got turned on by looking in the mirror while they were having sex. So I looked in the mirror, with a hope that seeing myself having sex with this perfect blonde teenager, would turn me on like it was supposed to. What I saw was a balding, wrinkled, 43-year-old man, wearing a rubber, hunched like a cat over the limp submissive body of a flawless teenager. It was disgusting.

 

Even for the sake of learning about this girl, I could not stand the sight of a Saturday-night joyrider, in a Miami hooker motel, with a rubber. I could not be that person. But I anticipated such an impasse, and brought an extra $750. I brought the extra cash, with the full expectation that it would somehow be separated from me, or held in front of a jury to prove I came to buy sex from a teenager. I put that expectation aside, because it was worth it to find out who this girl was. After a while there was no other way it was going to work, so I said to her “$1000 if I can take off this rubber and just cum.”

 

She said "You have it on you? You are SURE you have the money?" I told her she knew from earlier in the evening that I was good for it. She said okay.

 

I felt my skin touch the skin of a real-life hooker. A hooker who texted me earlier in the night how she could meet me after she was done “runnin and earnin” in Miami. This was also something I anticipated, and pledged to put out of my mind. It was a risk I was willing to take, without ever letting on my true feelings about it. Her body felt like a bag of tiny bones against mine.

 

Within a minute or two without thinking, I blurted out “imagine that.” I just had sex with the limp 95-pound body of a brain-damaged teenage hooker, in a cramped mirror-covered second-floor room of the Starlite Motel in downtown Miami. And I completed the project, according to plan. When I expressed my disbelief out loud with those two words, she had no idea what I was talking about.

 

As I walked out the door, she said “I had fun, you even made me laugh a couple times.” I won't mention the two pillow-talk jokes that made her laugh. What was important, is that I spent $1000, and put on a convincing act that I liked it. Her pimp would definitely bring her looking for me the next week, assuming she lived that long. I would have another chance to find out who she was, her real name and phone number. They were hooked on the sugar. My mission was accomplished. It would only take me two or three weeks to get rid of him.

 

I knew it wasn't her pimp who made her a victim. She, by her own flaws, made herself a victim. She gave herself to whatever person walked up. Getting rid of him wouldn't fix that. She would only continue to find worse and worse scumbags to try to please and be victimized by. I needed to get her out of Miami, in hopes she would live long enough for her brain to reroute to where she could resist people, recognize danger, avoid risks, pursue normal goals each day in an organized way, and take care of herself like a normal person.

 

I never imagined it would not be Miami scumbags in open shirts as I feared at the time,  but soulless predatory halfwits employed by the taxpayer half way across the state, in a heroin-addled white-trash shithole called Seminole County, who would do her in for their own sport and amusement. They would be wearing suits and ties, they would be equipped with nearly unlimited resources designed to make sport of a young person, and they would be dumber and more evil than any pervert who ever pulled up a picture of 16-year-old Mandi Jackson on backpage.com.

 

A different culture meant a different costume. But government employees are still aging mediocre men with crude ambitions. And she was still something the slowest hungriest predators could catch.

 

 

 

2. MYSTERY BLONDE ON OBT  - February 2013
 

I first became curious about hookers because I had two dogs. Drive around Orlando or Miami, and ask at every motel “Do you have a room? I have two dogs.” The motel that finally takes your money, will be the hooker motel. They have tile floors, and don't mind cleaning up.

 

In the summer of 2010 I became disgusted with Miami. I lost my apartment because of a dishonest real estate agent. Every place I tried to rent, the agent was also dishonest. Plus, the whole city smelled like urine. And so I ended up going back and forth between Orlando and Miami. Sometimes I lived in Orlando and would stay at a motel in Miami. Other times I lived in Miami, and would stay at a motel in Orlando, always with my dogs.

 

I noticed there were girls at these motels. Girls would ask to borrow my phone to make a call. Then they would ask if they could step into my room to make the call with a little privacy. Then they would ask if I wanted to let them hang out, and maybe lie down on my bed and rest for a minute. Later I would see them as I drove out of the parking lot. They would ask for a ride somewhere, even though I had seen them in a room with a guy with a car.

 

Some of the girls were not really in high demand. They would be happy to meet any copilot, willing to go along for the ride. Others looked like cute college girls on vacation. The only way you knew they were hookers, is they were at this motel. And sometimes at a distance, you saw girls who looked maybe a little younger, like forest animals who only darted out for a moment and then went back into their hiding place.

 

One time there was a beautiful pregnant college girl, who looked like she broke a pen and got ink on her face. She asked to hide in my room. Moments later a handsome young guy pulled up in a tricked-out Corvette, like he was the quarterback at the local high school. He said “That's my girlfriend. The kid she is pregnant with is mine. That black stuff on her face is from smoking meth. What the fuck is she doing talking to you?” I said she just asked to borrow my phone. He asked who is she staying with? I said just another college girl. “Not some niggers?” he asked. No. “A hooker?” No, just a college girl.  I mean, the girl she is with doesn't look like a hooker. I only know she's a hooker because she is at this motel.

 

That was the Orange Inn, on South Orange Blossom Trail in Orlando. Looking out into the parking lot, from the front window of my room, I began to play a game. Whenever new girls checked in, I would go to backpage.com and try to find their escort ad. It was surprisingly hard. Over many years, I only ever matched two or three girls I saw in person, to an ad on the Internet.

 

Around December 2012 and January of 2013, a new group started passing through the Orange Inn. It was a black guy in a red sedan with a temporary plate. He looked and acted like he had just come into some money, and splurged at the used car lot. The car poured steam from a bad head gasket in the winter air. For that reason, I think he eventually returned it, it was gone. I think it was like a Crown Victoria, and it was a bit of a pimp ride. He arrived from the north, like he could have been coming up Orange Blossom Trail from Apopka. Sometimes his entourage included a mysterious silent blonde girl, with long wavy hair.

 

Once when I was a kid, I saw the Grateful Dead at Nassau Coliseum on Long Island. In the parking lot before the show, I saw the strangest thing. There was a frantic mob of people racing back and forth, in a tight group like a school of fish. Some would stop and break off the back like the tail of a comet. New people ran up from the side and joined the moving pack. Someone explained that in the center of this mob, was a person giving away a free ticket. Everyone who heard what was happening mobbed around him, shouting why they should be the one to get the free ticket.

 

On a smaller scale, that is how it was when the black guy pulled into the Orange Inn with the mysterious blonde girl with the long thick hair. Other people would come out of their rooms, or across the parking lot, to interact. At the center of it was the blonde girl, rail thin, and never saying a word. It was like she was barely there.

 

I have a thing for skinny blonde girls, so I tried to get a look at her face. But it seemed like every time our paths crossed, or I got close, she would turn the other way. I thought maybe she was avoiding me. Years later I figured out she was ashamed of her face. She was turning to show me her hair, because she thought it was her best feature.

 

One time I had just come back from Stars strip club a few miles south on OBT, where there was an angry manager who dressed like he was going to a wedding. I will get to him again later. I saw the blonde girl walking out to the street. This was my chance to see her face. I parked in the gyro place next door, and came walking up the sidewalk back toward the motel to pass her going the other way. She was wearing a soft jacket with a big collar, sweat pants, and uggs, all white. As always, she turned away right before I saw her face. But this time, just as she started back into the motel, she turned and looked at me for a single second.

 

I will never forget seeing her face. It was somehow not what I expected. There was something about it I couldn't put my finger on. In that short time, it did not strike me as pretty or ugly. I couldn't tell if she was 12 or 25. It was like a child with the placid indifference of an adult. She was as pale as a cloud, and there was a blank sadness and calm, like a child who was 100 years old and never left the house or even watched TV.

 

I was friends with Jerome, the black guy who worked the night shift on the front desk. Sometimes I would drive him home, north up OBT, near Apopka. He seemed to know the group in the red sedan, and that is why they came to the Orange Inn. I overheard him say something like “I don't want to have sex with the little white girl. So what if she is a prostitute, I don't care.”

 

In the Fall of 2013, I was in Miami. I went to McDonalds on 36th and Biscayne, and saw two teenage girls run across the street from the Wishes Motel. One was dark and one was light. The taller dark one was okay, and the light one was pretty. I talked to her for a bit, and she would have given me her number if I asked. I often wondered why I didn't. Later that day, I looked for their ad on backpage.com, and found nothing.

 

I told my friend about the two teenage sluts from the Wishes Motel, and how some guys are going to get very lucky tonight. He was in a hurry between Saturday-night dates with two different girls. It was his usual pattern, an early one on a first date, and a late one on a second date. I wondered why am I the way I am? Why do I sit in front of a computer all day, where other guys would be having fun hanging out, with the two out-of-town girls from the Wishes Motel?

 

 

 

3. SKINNY GIRL ON BACKPAGE.COM - February 2015

 

The strippers never guess my friend Luke is depraved. He is a sex addict. He looks like a Christian guy with a wife and an IT job, who would be offended if someone came up and offered him a threesome. Instead they come up to me and offer the threesome, thinking I am the free spirit. But I am the one who actually does find it distasteful. I have brought home and dated a dozen strippers. And then I throw all their stuff in the street, when I find out they are talking to other guys. One even got the manager at Club Madonna to let me do my work inside the club, in hopes that she could make it through the shift without her stuff being in the street when she got home.

 

Poor Luke is not even jealous. A girl could screw 10 guys in his house and he would say “What's for dinner?” But the strippers don't talk to him, so they never find out.

 

So hapless Luke would sit at home and get beat up by the serial relationship failures on the dating sites, who run home and cry in the mirror “Oh my God, I am short, I am am fat, I am ugly and I will never attract a brain surgeon my same age” when they see ketchup spilled in his kitchen. And meanwhile I am staring at the hooker sites all day, trying to catch my neighbors posting hooker ads. I was flipping through thousands of pictures of escorts, with zero chance that I would even pick up the phone and call one.

 

Luke's solution was to meet girls in Asia and Africa on facebook, and then fly half way around the planet to have sex with them. I said spend the same money on a BMW, and you will get girls right here in Miami. He said “When I fly to Asia, I am the BMW.” He is 6 foot and blonde, and ticks every box an American girl puts in her search on the dating sites. So he was able to meet dozens of girls who aim way too high, and who all ran the other way after the first date. Or when their best friends don't think his car is the right color, or his jokes aren't funny or something.

 

It makes it tough for a compulsive sex addict like Luke, whose self-esteem is tied to three random girls a week being willing to have sex with him. But he would not talk to the girls on the hooker sites.

 

I said there are all kinds of girls on the hooker pages. There are girls who just got dumped and are in a weird mood. There are schizophrenic college girls, who will post one time and get arrested in a police sting on the very first phone call so their fathers have to come pick them up at the police station, like your good friend Rachel. There are girls who think they could have sex with a stranger, but when that phone actually rings they start asking “What do you do for a living, how tall are you, can you send me a picture?”

 

There are 500 girls on Miami backpage, with new girls coming and leaving every day. Some of them only post one time. I am sure there is someone on there who loves to kiss and would never have sex with a stranger. What the girls on the hooker sites all have in common is they are free spirits. They are not uptight like the girls on the dating sites. They will ride on your boat with you in the rain, and bring home weird drugs that you may even be willing to try once. And you won't have to fly to Ethiopia, to find a girl whose 10 best friends all approve of you.

 

One day I was surprised to see one or two of the 500 girls on Miami backpage were not disgusting, and were actually pretty. It was February, the peak of tourist and billionaire snowbird season, when all the hookers and traffickers come to Miami to meet them. So I sent Luke some pictures. Here is a nerdy girl with a long nose like you like. Here is a girl with a picture of a bong who says she is 420 friendly. She looks like a regular college girl trying to meet new people, or pay the rent or something. You say backpage girls are too curvy and that is not your type? Here is a skinny one using some kind of exercise machine.

 

I said “I will pay to have sex with one of these girls myself, just to prove they are normal and save you flying the whole way to Ethiopia.” The thought of actually doing it made me want to puke. But I sent Luke all their ad links on Skype. He didn't even answer my Skype messages.

 

I knew he was thinking the ads are fake, the pictures aren't real, the skinny blonde girl her face is intentionally cut off in the picture and you can't even see. She is probably ugly or has one eye or something. I was thinking no, her face is cut off because she is a normal person who does not want her friends to see her on a hooker site. But it was a little lame to tell him to call a girl whose face he can't see. It fell short of my standards of good-faith arguing. So just to make my argument rock solid, so there was no way Luke could find a reason to resist my advice, I called the skinny girl to ask for a face picture.

 

She had a 407 number. I said you're from Orlando? I'm from Orlando, I love Orlando. She was friendly and easy to talk to. I was surprised, there was something about her, the sweetest and most easygoing person you could meet. I asked is there any chance you could send me a face pic? She said no, I don't send face pictures. I said okay, I totally understand. That's fine, it's just that without a face picture, I'm not going to do business. But I understand, and thank you it was nice talking to you.

 

A moment later, I got a text with her face picture. She was stunning. I was born with a picture of a girl in my head, and that is the picture I had just received in my phone.  Assuming it was real. I began to feel bad. Here was a decent and honest person, and I had just tricked her into sending a face picture against her wishes, and under false pretenses, when I had no intention of doing business. Real hooker ads say things like “no pic collectors, no time wasters, do not call until you are ready to see me.” They were talking about me, I had just wasted her time.

 

I texted back “stunning” to at least make sure she understood it wasn't because she was ugly. I at least owed her that much honesty, to let her know I thought the picture was good. But I still felt bad like I had violated her, raping her of a picture of her face and then walking away without paying. I dialed her number to make some more excuses. She didn't pick up. I could only imagine what she must be too busy doing. Disgusting. Anyway at least I called. She is the one who did not answer, so I was off the hook. That was Friday February 6, 2015.

 

The next day Saturday, I pulled up the dreamgirl pic on my computer to discredit it. If you take 100 pictures of any girl, one of those pictures will look pretty. There is no way this girl was really that perfect, and I had an impulse to figure out what her flaws were, what she would really look like if you saw her in person. I edited the top of the face picture onto a pic from her ad where you could only see the bottom of her face. I reversed the direction. I began to think you know who this could be? This could be the blonde girl from the Wishes Motel a year and a half ago. That girl's hair was bleached, she had on too much makeup for a teenager, and she was kind of stubby and trashy looking. If that's who this girl is, then I was right, the picture is a lucky angle. She really isn't that pretty.

 

Then on Saturday night I was busy working, and my phone rang.

 

To me, this was pretty strange. How did she know I was thinking about her? How did she know I have $6000 in my pocket? I had been doing some contract work for telemarketing companies, and working in sales. I had been studying the sales process for contractors, estimators, home improvement companies,  that sort of thing. And here was a hooker doing the exact process I had been studying, making an outbound followup call to a prospective customer. She later told me her first pimp Marvelous from Apopka trained her to do that. He would put her on the phone and have her talk to the customers herself, because she was under 18.

 

I was intrigued. I was trying to understand how she "qualified" me relative to other callers. I asked how did you know to call me? You must get dozens of calls each day, you can't call all of them. Why did you specifically call me back? She said she gets over 200 calls each day. Do I want to get together?

 

I was still extremely curious if this was the girl from the Wishes Motel. I think at that time, the total number of hooker ads I had actually matched to girls in real life was just one, “Miss Arab” whom I spotted at a check-cashing store. I said can we just meet at a bar or something for five minutes? How much would you charge for that?

 

She said she would just meet me at a bar for five minutes, for $50. The bar she offered, Bar Louie at Midtown, was actually very close by.

 

It only took me a minute after getting off the phone, to think this is the stupidest thing on Earth. Here I have all this work to do, and I am going to waste my time paying a hooker $50 to meet me at a bar for five minutes, just because I am obsessively curious to know if it is the same girl I saw 18 months ago at the Wishes Motel.

 

So I started typing a long, long text, explaining why I was truly sorry but I didn't really have time to meet her. But before I could finish and send it, she texted me “I'm almost there.” She lived near Bar Louie also. So I got on my friend's motorcycle to make a quick, quick run over to Bar Louie, to keep my promise and give the Wishes Motel girl her $50.

 

4. TEENAGER IN A PARK - February 7, 2015

 

For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.

 

When I got to Bar Louie, there was no blonde girl to be found. I texted “I'm here.”

 

She asked me to text a picture, which seemed to be some sort of screening. She got the picture and said I looked like a cop. The only picture I had in my phone, was a screen grab from when I was on “South Beach Tow,” which I show off to get free french fries at U Save Deli on NW 7th Avenue. She saw the truTV logo in my “South Beach Tow” picture, and told me the picture looked fake. Why is there a logo in it? It gave me some hope this was not a real hooker.

 

I said I think we met before. She asked how do I know you? I said you were at McDonalds with your dark friend. She thought I was talking about her pimp. Now she was curious to see me.

 

At first I was at the wrong entrance to Bar Louie. Then I walked around for a while with her on the phone saying “You are right in front of me.” Finally I followed her instructions to walk into the park, and saw her standing in the shadows spying on me.

 

It was a child.

 

I don't like typing here, because I never wanted her to know, that I didn't find her beautiful or attractive when I first saw her. More just goofy and emaciated. It was not the girl from Wishes Motel. The first thing out of my mouth was “You're not who I thought you were.” I immediately wished I phrased that differently. I was done here, but I still owed her $50.

 

She was smiling a smile so big it it seemed like it would break her face. She was ashamed of her teeth and strained to control it, but she was helpless to. She was so happy to see me.

 

It was an incomprehensible hybrid, of a child dressed up in hooker clothes like she was going on 40.

She looked like she raided her mother's closet, and dressed up like what she thought a hooker should look like. It had an effect similar to Jodie Foster in "Taxi Driver," but I knew she was too young to have seen that movie. I was ready to pay her, but she invited me to sit on a park bench. Let's talk for a bit.

 

I said are you really 21? Her eyes looked like 19, and it made sense why she was not actually inside the bar. I thought she might even be under 18. She thought I was asking if she was older than 21. She said yes, she is only 21.

 

She immediately started spouting about her dogs and her cat and her Grandma. That a girl like this would be meeting strangers in Miami, in a park at night, I knew she had no perception of human intentions, like an autistic person. In particular, no recognition of the evil nature of man, no worry that someone might strangle her. When she said she just rode into town on her motorcycle from Orlando, I knew she also lacked a sense of risks. She was sweet and happy, unburdened by the complexities, ambitions, and self-consciousness of an adult mind. She was like Clarisse in "Fahrenheit 451." She reminded me of me. I decided she must have a brain injury.

 

A witness in a police report later described her as drawing you in with that smile, like the Cheshire Cat in Alice in Wonderland. That is a pretty good description. She was that happy to see almost any guy, probably even if he was coming at her with a chainsaw. Being with her was a vacation from the awful reality of the world, into a Dr. Seuss book.

 

We had an awful lot in common, more than I can remember to list here. She lived in Orlando, near the two 7-11's across the street from each other on East Colonial. I also stayed by those same two 7-11's. She recently rode down to Miami on a Ninja 250. I rode to meet her that night on my friend's Ninja 250. My bike was stolen, so I was shopping for a blue 2006 GSXR. She had ridden on the back of a blue GSXR that same day. Her motorcycle had also recently been stolen. We both had three dogs. Both our families were full of drama. There were another 10 things like that. She was staying in Miami only like three blocks away from me. Though I never let her know where I lived, and kept that part a secret.

 

There were also things we were both not interested in, like TV shows. Like Clarisse McClellan in Fahrenheit 451.

 

She asked if I wanted to, uh... go back to my house or something. I said I can't. I am just really busy, and my house is way too much of a mess right now. I'm not set up for visitors.

 

I said let me give you your $50 already. I only had 20's and 100's, so I gave her $60. Never in human history is a girl like this going to give me $10 change, so I didn't increase the insult by asking.

 

I knew she took it as a complete rejection. Especially after the first thing I said was “You're not who I thought you were.”

 

I thought she was beautiful and awesome. It was just never near any part of my plans, to pay a child to have sex with me. I had already been shot through the looking glass just talking to her.

 

Her perception that I didn't like her was the furthest thing from the truth. All I could think to do was give her an extra $100 bill. She said what is this for? I said “You're a little angel. Of course an old guy like me is going to want to give you money.” That seemed to cure her rejection and brighten her up, so I left and went home.

 

 

Then my phone rang.

 

She said she had a hotel room, and asked if I wanted to come hang out after she was done “runnin and earnin.”

 

I was busy. I had plans. I had my night planned. I was not into hanging out in hotel rooms, or partying, or meeting girls, or paying for sex with teenage girls. And certainly not all of them at the same time, the first time, completely out of the blue.

 

But on the other hand she was such a cool relaxed sweet person, and I really wanted to hang out with her.  If I didn't, I knew I would never see this great person again. She would be dead in a park or on the highway, and I would never know where or when. So I thought I will go over there and hang out, but I will tell her she is too young to have sex with, and just hang out.

 

Don't misunderstand. Old girls the same age as me don't like me. I don't own a house, I don't have a career, I don't own a Mercedes. As I have gotten older, the girls who are actually interested in me have stayed age 22. By age 23, any girl who is sweet and romantic enough to want to hang out with me, is already married with children.

 

And from my side, I am not looking for a soul mate. I am not a hippie, looking for someone to take long walks on the beach. I do not need a person my same age to share my life with, because I am not a hedonist.

 

But this girl was outside of that system. She was a teenager. She looked like a teenager. She was probably a half retarded teenager. She looked the same as going over to the local high school and just grabbing one out of the parking lot. You couldn't even tell yet, what she was going to look like as an adult.

 

The best counter-argument I could come up with, is there have been times and places in history when a guy my age and a teenager would hang out. So maybe it is just our culture, and it is not unnatural, against the law of God.

 

And that is why I have been called a pussy before. Because where some guys would just go over and hang out with the girl, I will spend all night home alone, tied up in contemplation of moral philosophy. It was like I was the crazy one, where a normal person wouldn't think twice. So I decided to not be so uptight, and just go hang out with her.

 

And if I told her she was too young, or I don't approve of hooking, or where are your parents little girl, then my visit would come to a quick end. I would never hear from her again. I would never find out who she was. I would never know what happened to her, or if she was dead in a dumpster.

 

So I decided I would just go over there and treat her like she was my same age, and not lecture her, and see what happens. I would slow-play her. And if I have to have sex with her, to not reject her, and fit into the space allotted to me in the dollhouse of her mind, I will.

 

And I would pretend to like it. Because anything else would say without words, the same things I was trying to avoid saying with words. But even worse. She would see in my eyes that I thought she was ugly, or pathetic, or who knows what. I have tried hanging out with young girls without having sex with them before, and it didn't work out. So it is time to try the other way.

 

So I said yes, I want to come hang out with you at your hotel. So she said come to the Starlite Motel at 11:30.

 

And I went over there with the intention of going along with whatever she had planned, until I could find out more about who she was. And how she came to be standing in a park in Miami at night, and what I might do to stop it and send her home.

 

 

 

5. LECTURING A HOOKER - Spring 2015

 

So I went over there, and I fucked her without a rubber, and I paid. And I went home. And the sky didn't fall. And she was still an angel whom I wanted to find out more about.

 

So the next week Tuesday or Wednesday I called her and said “What's up?” She was having car trouble. She was at the dealership in Orlando. They said she got water in the gas tank, and she needed a new gas tank, and it was $1260. And she was trying to figure out how to pay for it.

 

I said I'm sure you do have water in your gas tank because you have a jealous boyfriend. He doesn't like you coming down here to Miami and doing what you do, and he put the water in there. She didn't laugh.

 

Well anyway, this presented an opportunity to be in contact and develop rapport, without having to stick my dick in her. So I said I will pay for it. So I sent $1300 Western Union. And just like that, I had her real name Mandi May Jackson.

 

So I looked her up. And I saw she was 19, which was a relief. And I saw she lived on the same street as her father, like 500 feet away. That was a problem. Here I was thinking she was a runaway or something. And all I would have to do is call her parents and say “Your daughter is here, come get her.”

 

If her father lived 500 feet away from her, could he not know what was going on? And if he does know, then he must not care. And if he does care, there must not be anything he can do about it. Or he has already tried. 500 feet away, anything he could do, he would have already done. So I figure what, I am going to call this guy and say “I fucked your daughter last night.” And he is going to say “Tell me something I don't know, fuckface.” Or something like that. Anyway, I guess I didn't really think this through, and it is not quite as simple as I pictured.

 

So Friday she drives back to Miami, to get together again like we talked about to work off her $1300. Only it is Valentines Day weekend, and after a while she can't find a hotel. So she asks me if I can try to find a hotel. So both of us drive around for a few hours separately, until finally I found the last hotel room in Miami, at one of those little boutique places in MiMo, the Vagabond Motel. It was $180.

 

She thought that must be pretty posh. So she comes into the room and looks around. The bathroom counter is not like a normal hotel, it is like made out of wicker or something. She pressed her palms flat on it, and leaned toward the mirror. It wobbled a little, and she said “this is not very sturdy.” I guess the guys like to do her from behind while they look in the mirror.

 

She got a text. She said “I have a stalker. He is texting creepy things. They keep you filled up with drugs so you are only half alive, and then drag you down Collins Avenue like a piece of meat.” I asked how does he know you? She never had sex with him. She went to his apartment once, a highrise in Ft. Lauderdale. He seemed nervous, like he didn't know what to do, so she just gave him a massage, And now he keeps finding her ad and sending her crazy texts.

 

I kept a blank look on my face, as I realized the "stalker" guy had my same agenda. But the reason he was sending texts from the next county and getting called a stalker, and I was standing next to her, is I was willing to fuck her. I tried his way before, and it didn't work. You are either riding in the passenger seat, or you are clinging to the roof. You are either a romantic suitor, or you are a stalker.

 

Then she says "get comfortable," probably knowing this time what kind of a pussy I am. And she is standing like 10 feet away, leaning against the wall, in a black t-shirt, with the words  “Too Good To Be True” in shimmering sparkle glue. And she smiled a cute devilish smile, and just about laughed at me as I sat alone on the bed. We did some fun things. And my dick was in her after midnight, so I fucked her on Valentines Day.

 

The next day, actual Valentines Day, she wouldn't answer any texts. Disgusting. But then Sunday morning, she calls and asks if I want to get together with her for an hour before she leaves town. So I said yes, and she got a room on the first floor at The Starlite.

 

At this point, I had fucked her twice. And I figured that is enough. I have played her game. She knows I like her. She knows I am a sucker. So it is time to get what I want, which is to lecture her. But first I have to find out a little more about who she is and what the fuck she is doing here.

 

So I went into the room, and I gave her $250 right up front. Now she can walk out any time. She knows she doesn't have to fuck me to get the money.

 

So she sat on the bed, and I leaned against the bar, and I asked her questions. I asked her about her dogs, about her cats, about her family, where she lives, why she comes down to Miami. After a while she must have gotten tired of being talked to like a little girl. So she blurted out “I'm a PROSTITUTE.” I know, I got that already. She said it in the voice of a little kid.

 

So she started telling me prostitute stories. She told me how she and her friend met some guys on the beach, and went back to their hotel room. And they trapped her in there and wouldn't let her out. So they had to start screaming, and security came.

 

I asked “How can you do that?” She misunderstood what I was talking about. She thought I must be asking how can she have sex with strangers. She said “You just ignore what is happening for a minute, and then afterwards you forget it happened.” To me, that sounds like she learned to have sex with strangers by being sexually abused as a child.

 

But I said no, I mean how can you risk being in a room with people you don't know? With violent strangers. They could be serial killers, they could strangle you, they could do anything. How can you go into a locked room alone, with people you have no idea who they are?

 

She said in a hotel or apartment, they can't do anything to you. Because everyone can hear you, and if you start shouting, someone will come.

 

I said how about if you are in some rich guy's mansion? And no one can hear you? She said I will punch him in the throat and run out.

 

Then she said your hour is up, I am late, I have to drive to Broward, bye. As we walked out I said wait, can I get your real phone number? Just so I know I can reach you if you change your number?

 

She said okay, I will give you this phone number. It is the same one I have had for years, it is not going to change. She called my phone standing right next to me outside the door. Like a dork I picked up and said “Hello?” And she laughed.

 

I looked up her phone number, and I found out some more about her. I guess when Mandi May was a kid, her dad wanted her to be a professional racecar driver. Maybe because Danica Patrick was the big thing on TV at the time. The way kids learn to be racecar drivers is racing something called carts. They tie the kids' hands to the steering wheel, so when they flip over and roll the cart down the track, they won't stick their arms out and lose them. So the kids just flip over right on their head. Which I guess Mandi May did a couple times.

 

When the brain is injured, it reroutes. This is especially true in young people and females. It can have an affect of setting a 16-year-old person back to age 12. That is something like what I decided happened to Mandi Jackson. But in a few years it can have what that movie called an "awakening." And a person can regain the skills she lost, though often using a different part of the brain for the same task. Not using the parts of the frontal lobes, for example, that are designed to be talented in specific tasks necessary to navigate the world. Instead of having the intuition a person has about other people with the frontal lobes, Mandi would have to learn logically about human behavior. And instead of perceiving risks from typical things that would cause fright, she would have to learn to analyze the risks in situations.

 

The thing that bothers me the most, is that by the time Mandi might have that "awakening" at age 26 or 27, her life would already be over. Taken from her by a bunch of dirtbag older men, who had an ambition to amuse themselves, without concern for the wellbeing of the child they were using for amusement. And that Mandi's entire life would be spent and thrown away, before she even woke up to being an adult, and to understanding the world around her. Before she ever even had a chance. And awakening to consciousness inside a prison, she would have nothing but a memory of a confused world where she was bounced from one guy to the next.

 

Even more shocking to me, is that it would not be some sleazebags with open shirts in Miami, who used her and left her for dead. But instead some button-down jerks in mediocre Seminole County, working in little cardboard government offices, with a mandate to end a child's life for the public good. And an abusive sex-addict strip-club manager, in an egg-carton apartment, who had no concern for Mandi's future even one hour out. And I learned their difference in costume is only superficial, they only wear what they have to for approval of the culture they live in. Deep down they are identical dirtbags, to Ted Bundy or any balding male sociopath, picking up hookers and disposing of vulnerable young girls, on the streets of any city in Florida.

 

But it is still shocking to me that her murder could be done with the public approval. I always thought it would be one of her customers, and not government employees paid by the taxpayer, who would take her life.

 

 

 

 

 

6. REVENGE OF THE PIMP - Spring 2015

 

The next weekend when she drove into town, she texted me from her real number to see if I wanted a massage. She said she was on her period, and only giving massages that weekend. I looked up her ad, and it was now in the massage section. On the previous Sunday when we just talked, she told me she liked oysters. So I said “How about I pay you $250, and we just go for oysters or something?” I never heard back.

 

It didn't even occur to me until I wrote this, that paying a hooker $250 to not have sex becomes noticeable, the second time in a row. It made perfect sense to me at the time, because a handjob is sodomy. I already fucked her twice without a rubber. But she never told her pimp that part. A normal john is going to take the handjob, or say call me next week. And that is what I should have done. I should have fucked her number three before lecturing again.

 

Maybe she told her pimp how I paid $250 the previous Sunday and didn't even have sex, And instead I spent the whole hour talking about how she was a hooker. Maybe he looked in her real phone and saw she had dialed my number that day. And she had been texting and talking to me not regarding sex. And I knew she liked oysters. However it happened, he found out. I didn't hear anything from her. Then in the middle of the week, I got a text from her real number.

 

It said something like “I am the guy who owns this little girl u been fukin. I got her locked up here. And if you don't send me $2000, u ain't neva gon see her again.”

 

It was so ridiculous. I expected I might get a text like this. And I expected that when I did, I almost certainly would never see the girl again. For that reason, I figured it was a waste of my time from that moment forward, and I don't remember the conversation as well as I would like.

 

At first I wasn't going to text back at all, because there was no point. But to spare us both the suspense, I eventually texted back “Oh well, life's not perfect.”

 

I think I then added something like “It is a little pathetic that God made a person so lacking in skills and creativity, that this is his best plan to feed himself.” Or maybe “You are so retarded, you need to add a little retarded girl to your life plan as an upgrade.” Once I get started, I keep writing. I wish I could remember exactly what I said. “Ur like my trained circus animal, doing back flips for $2k.”

 

Some time later, though I don't remember how long, I got a text from her original hooker phone. She said “He has me locked up in here and he won't let me out. He doesn't know I have this phone.” I told her “Call me.” I wanted to hear it was really her.

 

I didn't hear from her for what seemed like a long time, which is what you would expect if she really was afraid to talk out loud. Then she called and asked me to do her a huge favor just this once and send the $2000, and she would do anything I asked. He told her she is stupid to think any of the guys she has been “seeing” in Miami, would send any money to save her. I told her it would be like me sending $2000 to someone 250 miles away in Orlando, to buy a used car that I have never seen, and I don't even know if the car even exists.

 

She said “I'm not lying.” The tone of her voice was sincere and defeated and desperate. I estimated the chance he really had her locked up and would harm her, and the chance it was not a complete scam, at about 5%, 1 in 20. After pacing up and down the street for a bit (I walked out in the street to get better cell coverage) I decided that if the chance was even as big as 5%, it was worth it to send the money. Plus, they would be hooked. Now this guy's life is centered around me, and I can use that to subvert him and fuck with him in who knows what amusing way.

 

I drove to Western Union and sent her the money. And I texted her that it was sent.

 

Not long after, she texted me they wouldn't give it to her. And Western Union called me asking a bunch of questions. “Do you know this girl? Have you ever met her in person?” Yes she is my friend. I met her in Miami, and I have known her for some time. “How old is she?”

 

I knew she was 19, but she may have told them she was 21. If I said 19 when she told me 21, then it would be my fault she didn't get the money. So I answered “21.” She didn't get the money. But I told her it was her fault not mine, for lying to me about her age.

 

I hurried to Western Union, to make sure they were going to give me my money back. They did, but then they never let me send money again. They put like a red flag on my name. I called a bunch of different numbers to see why I was blocked, and how I could get it lifted. I even found which office Mandi went to in Orlando to try to pick up the money. Someone told me when she went to pick up the money, the agents said it looked like she was being coerced. She was escorted by an older man, and she appeared to be under his control, and forced to act against her wishes.

 

Western Union is pretty sketchy. I am sure it was not the first time they saw something like this, an old white guy sending money, to an old black guy with a little white girl on a leash.

 

I deposited the money directly in her bank account. Then the next day I didn't see her, and I made a plan to kill both of them. I was going to call her from a fake number, to come to a fake address, on an empty street. And I was going to ride up on my motorcycle and shoot both of them through the glass.

 

But then I remembered my other mission, to warn her that the guys she met would kill her, and to save her from them, until her brain had time to re-route and recover from her brain injury. That's how it works in young people, especially girls. It's like they get set back a few years. And then one day at age 25 or 26 the brain spontaneously re-routes and they wake up. She was a child. I just needed to reduce her time on the streets by increasing her time with me, and buy time for her to grow up.

 

It was a long time before I saw her again. We spent the next month arguing in texts. I said “This guy is a clown, why don't you leave him.” She said if I try he will shoot me. It is my understanding he became more violent with her at this time. He started sleeping on the couch with a gun where he could see both doors, and said if she tried to leave he would shoot her. I said I would come over there and shoot him right in the face, and nobody on Earth would care. She begged me not do anything, for fear he would shoot me too or shoot her whole family.

 

I learned that she met him the previous year, when her previous pimp “Marvelous” from Apopka dumped her at the 7-11 on 79th Street and 7th Avenue in Miami for some reason, 250 miles from home with no money and no phone. The next guy who drove up, put her in his car and became her new pimp, Captain Primo.

 

Some people have a romantic preconception of hookers and strippers as strong, independent women. As "sex workers" like they are salty longshoremen. Some people believe the myth of Mandi herself. When the pimp slept on the couch where he could see both doors, it was to keep her from sneaking out with a backpack or something. It was to keep her from leaving. He locked her stuff up that was important to her, he kept the car keys.

 

But he didn't need to watch the doors. All he needed was for Mandi to believe he would shoot her if she left. And it didn't even need to be true. She just had to have the idea in her head that it was true. And she did, even long after both me and her mom told her it was ridiculous because we saw the guy was a cowardly spazz. If you don't know Mandi, you can become very confused taking too seriously what is in her head.

 

A strong, independent woman is someone 30, 40, 50 years old. The demand for 20-year-old hookers is 20 times the demand for 40-year-old hookers. If 95% of the demand for female lawyers were for 20-year-olds, it wouldn't be the same. 60-year-old guys have 1,000 times as much money as 20-year-old guys. So the few 40-year-old hookers that there is demand for, can make some money. But they have to look right, they have to have the right shape, they have to have social skills... they have to be strong and independent. 20-year-old girls it doesn't matter what they look like,  they can make money just by taking their pants off. Girls on backpage are not your middle-class college peers.

 

Each weekend I saw Mandi's ad go up on backpage, at 2:45 AM Friday night. I really could not stand the thought of her going into total strangers' apartments, where it was just a matter of time until something bad happened, like getting arrested or strangled. I texted her “This makes no sense. Why are you taking a risk seeing total strangers for $250, when you can come have sex with someone you know, and I will pay you $500?” But he would not let her come see me.

 

I figure before I go too crazy, maybe she is not even a real hooker. Maybe she looks at the guys, and only fucks them if they are cute or something. So I texted her from a fake number “I am at the Shalimar Motel on Biscayne in Miami. Can you come over?” The Shalimar is a little sleazy. So she might screen me right there.

 

After a few minutes I got a text “1/2 hour or hour?” I said hour. It was at least another 10 minutes before I got an answer. “What room?” 117. “I can be there in 45 minutes.”  That fit with that second Sunday when we just talked, and she said she had to leave to drive back to Broward where she was staying. I said "Okay."

 

After a few more minutes, I got a text saying “Ok, I am on my way.” Nobody drives 45 minutes to turn around when she actually meets the guy because the guy smells funny. This was a real hooker. Disgusting.

 

I started spoofing phone numbers of the Broward County Sheriff where I knew she was staying, and calling her over and over. After that many calls, she would have to do a Google search on the caller ID and see who it was. I called from the phone number of the sex trafficking hotline at Miami police. I called her from the phone number of the Miami Beach police lieutenant in charge of vice or something, which  is what would instantly pop up if you searched the number online.

 

She started changing her phone number. So I kept looking up her ad “blonde sexy bella” and doing the same thing to the new phone number. She started changing her ad and even used a different girl's pics, but I still kept finding it by searching for the keywords “sexy” and “in town for a few days.” But it would be very hard for her regulars to find her. And she couldn't develop new regulars changing her name and phone number every week. She was afraid to pick up the phone for fear it was the sheriff all the time. Eventually she would have to come see me.

 

Finally she texted me that she would be willing to come see me. She was stuck at the Racetrac on Colonial Drive in Orlando with no gas. And if I sent her $50 to buy gas, she would promise to come see me. I said no way. You must have a family member you can borrow $50 from, or you can go to the pawn shop or something. If you want to see me it is your problem to get here. She eventually made it to Miami, but I told her I had better things to do or something. There were girls who were actually interested to see me and would make it a priority.

 

That kind of insulted her to where she was determined to see me. So the following weekend we were kind of relieved to finally get together again at the Starlite. I was so happy to see her alive. She acted a little nervous at first, that I might do something to her. Like lock her up or do something violent. She made me promise in advance over and over, that I did not have some kind of violent plan or trick. Probably her pimp was being cautious.

 

But it went well, and she saw I had some more money in my wallet. So she said “You want to do an overnight? It is $1200 for all night,” or something like that. If you actually wanted to have sex with her, it would be the worst deal of the century. No guy can have sex with her five times. But for someone with my agenda, it was actually my best opportunity to talk to her.

 

So I agreed to it, and we spent the night together. But rather than get to talk to her, she simply fell asleep the whole night. She looked so worn out, I did not have the heart to wake her.

 

But I did learn something. When the guy dropped her off, she said something about how they just went to Popeyes, and now they were happy waiting for her in the car all night playing video games. She said it was her little brother, out in the car playing video games. I knew that wasn't true. I saw the guy she drove up with from the neck down, and it was an adult male wearing some kind of low-end designer bowling shirt. But the way they went to Popeyes and played video games, it sounded like there really was a young person involved.

 

And because the guy started calling and texting her frantically from like 5AM, I learned he was kind of a spazz. He was impatient to come in and lie down with whatever young person was out there, and get some sleep on that soggy bed. Disgusting.

 

The next week she wanted to see me again, and I told her I was not interested. I don't need some greasy spazz who eats at Popeyes, annoying me with his 30 pathetic phone calls. She needs to get a life. She was desperate. I told her fine, just drive the guy's car down a boat ramp, and when he is gone she can come see me again. She said the car was in her name. I told her to prove it, and she texted me the registration.

 

She made him a bunch of money off a guy in Coral Gables. But when they went to the car dealership, he had bad credit from when he lost his house on a liar's loan mortgage. They wouldn't give him the car. He said how about if we put it in her name? Her credit was fine. So they wrote down that she worked at a lawn business, and got financing. And he drove out of there in a used black BMW, with her name on the loan.

 

So again, I didn't see her for a few weeks. Then she texted me late one evening, and asked if she could call me about something, it was really important. I waited and waited. She texted “I can't talk right now, he is listening.” Finally she called and she was crying. She said she let this middle-aged guy move into her house when her boyfriend left her, and she couldn't pay the rent. The guy had a house, but it got foreclosed and he needed a place to stay.

 

She said it was the same boyfriend she had from high school, who had dumped her. They were planning to have a kid, but she had a miscarriage, and that is why he left her. I guessed it was more likely because he uncovered her dirty little secret that she was having sex with old guys on the side to pay the rent. And he caught her hanging out with a black guy.

 

She rambled about how she "lost feeling" in her vagina or something, when she was in middle school. At the time, I had never heard of disassociation or "utilization behavior" from frontal lobe syndrome. But I already knew there is something different about a girl who has sex with strangers. It did not seem at this point like a designed story to get money. More like sincere unhappiness with having become a prostitute.

 

So after her boyfriend left, she let the old guy move into her house to help pay the rent. And now she couldn't get him to move out, and he wouldn't let her leave. He kidnapped her and was beating her and wouldn't let her out. I said this has to be a scam, why don't you just tell your parents?

 

She said she was afraid to tell her father because he had no idea what she was involved in. So she asked her stepmother for help. Her stepmother told her “Just wait until you get evicted for not paying the rent, and the problem will take care of itself.”

 

It took until midnight, and then part of the next day, for her to get all this out. She would send one text, or call and say just a few words, with hours in between. She said it was because she was so scared he would hear her and kill her. It took her like 5 hours to say three sentences. The way it slowly came out, was far, far, beyond what she would need to do, to put on an act.

 

She said please she needs help, can she come down to Miami and talk to me. So I said okay, come to Miami. I predicted this was a scam. She learned she could scam me, from the time I sent the $2000. But I agreed to let her come down, just so I could prove it was a scam. I guaranteed when she got here, all she is going to want is to have sex for money.

 

It was always the same thing since I met her, When she was on the phone or texting she, she was in absolute distress and misery. But when she walked into the room and I actually saw her in person, she was the happiest a person could be. I don't fully understand what made such a miserable person so happy to see me, but it made it hard to stop doing what I was doing. I think she is drawn to miserable people, and addicted to trying to make them happy. And it makes her miserable when she can't. I was her success.

 

When she said she was going to drive down to Miami, of course the pimp was going to drive her down and wait outside the whole time. But while he did, this was her chance to talk to me in secret under the pretext of having sex. But I knew she would have a change of heart about whether her situation was really desperate. Because being on the road and making money and having sex with an old guy would change her mood. She is not bipolar, she is a flag in the wind. And I wanted to see it happen, to prove my theory. So I said okay.

 

She said okay, she is coming down to Miami so she can talk to me in person. Can I get her a hotel room and then we can use it to visit together and talk? Hmmmmmm. I said okay, I will rent a hotel room, but not until you actually get here. Then she texted that she was 45 minutes away, and could I get the honeymoon suite with a hot tub?

 

She said she has arthritis in her back and needs the hot tub. She doesn't have arthritis. Her dad has arthritis, and needed back surgery. That is why Mandi rented a mobile home up the street from him with her boyfriend, to try to be closer to him and help him during his recovery, even though her stepmother did not want her in the house. She had so much empathy for her father, she convinced herself that she also had arthritis in her back. She has some kind of auto-immune problem, but the honeymoon suite is a strange treatment.

 

So I rented the honeymoon suite and waited. Finally she got there, to talk me about how she was kidnapped and beaten, and I needed to save her. She looked around the room, and sat down on the bed. I said “Do you want to talk? Do you want to have sex? Do you want do one then the other?”

 

She chose sex, as predicted. I said I only have like $153. She said that is fine, I don't need any more money. If she really came with troubles, they were gone when she came through the door. Something just went right that night. When we were done, I could hardly even stand up. She said “I am not going to lie, that was fun.”

 

Her real problem was that she needed the security of being able to fuck me for money. And now that she had, and her money problems were solved, she was happy again. And the guy would not be so violent, now that they had money to pay the electric bill. Life was peachy.

 

But I wanted to hear it from her, just to confirm that my theory was right. I said "Do you want to talk now?" She said it is not really a big deal. Like her stepmother said, they were about to get evicted and the guy would be gone. It would fix the problem in time, without any conflict or me having to do anything.

 

Every week, she begged and begged me for money. One night I was renting a car at the airport to drive some stuff to Melbourne  (I only owned a motorcycle), and I agreed to fuck her in a hotel there by the airport. She kept getting texts, and then suddenly she wanted a burger from Burger King. I told her wait here, I will go get you one. She said yes. Then she said no. I figured out that is where she left the guy waiting, at the Burger King up the street. That was April.

 

 

 

7. RELIABLE CUSTOMER - Summer 2015

 

I saw her off and on over the next few months. I designed a test, to see how unpleasant it was for her to have sex with me. I said "I will pay you $300 each time, to have sex with me on Wednesday and Thursday, for a total of $600. Or we can meet just once on Wednesday, for $500." She chose twice for $600. So she was willing to have sex with me an extra time for just $100.  I came up with another test in November when she needed rent and deposit money. I offered to pull out three times for $400 each, or cum in her twice for $600 each, $1200 total either way. She chose cum inside twice.

 

I fucked her the first of two for $300 each at the Arrow Motel on OBT in Orlando. Her hair was kinky from just being taken out of a braid. I told her you are the most awesome looking girl I have ever seen. She said she didn't believe me and she knew it wasn't true. She was a little suspicious of why I would lie to her and what my motive was. But on the other hand she was having a hard time figuring out why else I would drive the whole way to Orlando to fuck her if I didn't believe what I was saying. I was doing contract work in Melbourne, but I guess she thought I drove the whole way from Miami that day.

 

She needed the money to buy movie tickets, and had to leave in time for the movie. Someone wanted to see the late showing of "Furious 7." Who are you buying the tickets for?

 

I would drive to Orlando sometimes, and at some point I started that job in Melbourne. It was my hope that by sending her money in Orlando, or driving there to have sex with her, she would learn to be dependent on me, and stop coming down to Miami. I figured once she had a regular source of money she could count on, she would no longer feel the need to meet strangers. It would give her the freedom to find something else to do with her life. Even if she just watched TV all day, it would be better than what she was doing.

 

I had been trying since the first week I met her, to separate the money from the sex. I had gotten to where I could give her $200 for nothing, but then she would say she was coming to see me for the remaining $300. Even if I gave her $500 for nothing, she would still say she was coming to see me for another $300. Which was fine, because I wanted the time with her. And I still could not get her to do any activity but sex.

 

On one trip to Orlando, I met up with her and got a little dose of reality. She was working at Dancers Royale. She said "You should come visit me at Dancers. We have girls you would like, really young ones." Of course Mandi assumed I was eager to pay for sex with young girls. She had been a part of that market for underage girls, and assumed I was a part of it also. She texted me a picture of  herself with two other naked girls at her house, all three with tiny boobs. They looked like her same age or younger. They thought they were about to ring the register. But I told Mandi "I don't want to have sex with other girls, because... I kind of love you."

 

Mandi assumed I was one of the lowest outcasts in our society, a person who pays for sex with underage girls. And every time we met, she smiled so big it looked like her face would break.

 

I was having trouble finding a motel in Orlando that would let my dogs stay. I told Mandi I might have to stay in a hotel the whole way in Clermont. What a coincidence, she she told me she found out that day she might be moving to Clermont. Clermont is a cheap rural area west of Orlando, along state road 27. There are some sleazy motels there where a tourist from Disney can meet a hooker, if he is willing to drive a little. It made no sense there would be any reason for her to move there. Her or anyone else.

 

Then I saw there was a newspaper article that day, about arrests in an underage prostitution ring. It said somewhere that men were paying $2000 or $4000 to have sex with teenage girls in Clermont. One story read "Investigators said the men all traveled to a home in Clermont with the hopes of having sex with a child." After reading those articles, most people would run the other direction, or be embarrassed to live in Clermont. But after those stories came out, Mandi was moving there. Mandi was not a reader of newspapers at that time, I guess her pimp read about Clermont, the land of plenty.

 

Does Mandi think it is cool to be involved in some secret criminal thing? I texted her a news story about an armed robbery at Publix. A robber shot an armored truck driver and ran off with like $25k. I told her "Look at this: Broke to rich in 60 seconds. This is real crime." My idea was to demean being a hooker as a low-end crime by comparison. She would realize she was too much of a pussy to do real crime, but at the same time no longer feel cool, or any thrill from doing her minor crime. As usual, she didn't hear a word I said.

 

I told her again, but she had no interest to click my armed-robbery link. She did not have a general interest in crime or fast money. It was specifically being a hooker that made her feel valuable. Like she had a unique talent that other people couldn't match. She honestly thought her vagina, and her willingness to be raped, were unique. I saw this with other girls who were picked on in high school for being different, or for being slow or whatever. In high school they were treated like nothing. But they proved the other kids wrong and became someone important, when rich guys were willing to pay hundreds to have sex with them.

 

A month or two later, there was a bank robbery in the news. Mandi said she could rob a bank with a note. Like "give me $1000" or something. She was so confident there was something special about her that guys would just hand her money. That is the way girls think about their interaction with the world, they don't think to use force. Mandi never had any interest to own a gun as long as I knew her. Even when she told me her pimp was sleeping on the sofa with a gun and wouldn't let her leave, it never occurred to her to get her own gun. Her first and last idea was to use her pussy to control the world around her.

 

Early in the summer, I did finally visit her at Dancers Royale on East Colonial. A guy who looked like a skinny hillbilly Santa Claus walked in, and twirled her hair and winked as he passed by. She said “Gross, I don't even know him.” I think she fucked him. Later in the summer I visited her at Cheetah Hallandale. While she was on stage, an old frail black guy walked up to me and said “You know her? She's sweet isn't she?” I think she fucked him.

 

When I came in the strip club, she had other customers. I heard her use a fake little laugh "teeheheheheee." Then she offered to give me a dance and used it again "teeheheheheee." I never heard her laugh like that at anything funny. I thought that must be her entire stripper strategy, use a fake laugh to sound like a little girl.

 

Years later she laughed like that on the jail phone. It wasn't fake after all. That is the laugh she laughs when she thinks you want to have sex with her. Like if I said on the jail phone "I want to have sex with you," she would laugh "teeheheheheee." It was like for real some bashful involuntary reaction when guys came up to her in the club.

 

Over the summer she got evicted. I just assumed it happened as expected, that she and the guy went their separate ways. She was no longer trapped. She found a new place, and I thought the guy was gone. I don't really remember, but I really thought she told me he was gone.

 

I brought some fried chicken to Dancers and she asked if she could take some home. Who are you taking it home for? A little whore in her hometown, you will never get her all to yourself.

 

The number of times I fucked her got up into the 10's, and then into the 20's. I kept count as a cruel joke on myself. I originally thought I could talk to her and change her life after fucking her just two times.

 

Of the 14 motels where I paid to fuck Mandi Jackson before she turned 21, my favorite was the downtown Orlando Travelodge. I don't actually remember having sex there, it's not that important to me. I liked that I could get a room overlooking the pool, because I could see my motorcycle where I parked it. I could relax that it hadn't been stolen. We were on the balcony looking at my motorcycle when a guy rode by on a bike covered with LED's with an extended swingarm. Mandi thought that was infinitely cooler than my boring white CBR 1000. She is a child.

 

Mandi liked to go out on the balcony and smoke between sessions. And lean her back against the railing, and look back into the room at me. And sip on her gatorade or whatever she was drinking. You could see downtown Orlando, and hotel parties in other rooms. Relaxing on that balcony with a cigarette, looking at the guy she had just satisfied, she was totally at peace. Like a dog that stares at its owner. This is the part she was good at, the stretch where things always went perfect.  Leaning on that balcony and smoking in the summer air, while her spazz pimp sat at home staring at the clock, the world was under control.

 

I fucked her three times at the Travelodge for her 20th birthday. That sounds like my birthday. Except I paid her $1000 and I offered to go see a movie.

 

8. NUCLEAR FAMILY - Summer 2015

 

One night she called me from Broward and she was suicidal. I was in Miami. I hadn't been able to see her for a few weeks, and she had no money and wanted to kill herself. It is true I hadn't given her any money for a few weeks. Not since the week after she had her appendicitis operation. She had been sick with her ongoing health problems, and feeling terrible about herself. Plus, I suspected she had become so desperate she did a porn shoot, where they had her gang-banged by a bunch of black guys.

 

Was she really suicidal? Or was she just saying she was suicidal, to get me to fuck her for money? Was the guy really beating her? Or was she just telling me stories, to get me to fuck her for money? Was she really in such distress? Or was she just telling me she was in distress, to get me to fuck her for money.?As always, it was both. She really believed it, and she knew I would help her.

 

Once she knew I was worried she really might kill herself, she stopped answering texts. And she got what she wanted. I promised to start giving her money again. I told her I was moving back to Orlando because Miami smells like urine everywhere, and I got a new job and I would have no problem helping her every week on a regular basis.

 

Of course when I moved to Orlando and started my new job, I wanted no part of my promise made under duress to a suicidal person. But she said you made a promise! I said this is ridiculous, I cannot be giving you money every week you are not my wife, you are not even my girlfriend. She said you promised you would, so I am going to come over and fuck you twice every week for the money. Plus, my little brother needs school clothes. She texted while I was riding a motorcycle to work on I-4 in the rain, so it was a little hard to argue. She was very determined.

 

I finally gave in. The next week she came and fucked me in Kissimmee, and dropped her little brother off at the Putt-Putt miniature golf. She said he was crying because she couldn't stay and play with them. But she had to see me to make this money so she could take them to Wet 'n Wild next week. This sounded like some weird shit she made up to get money from me. I didn't know what to believe, probably she was spending the money on crack. But anyway, it was not like it was something I had designed or sought to be involved in. I was starting a new job, and trying to find a temporary place I could stay with three dogs until I moved my stuff back from Miami. I had too much else to think about, to dwell on her weird story.

 

But the next week when she asked for money, I told her I need to come over to your house. Why? Of course she was suspicious that I needed to know where she lived.  She already told me where she moved after she got evicted. And I knew it was a lie, because the intersection did not even exist. I explained it is not because I want to stalk you or do something violent. It is just that a guy who spends money needs to see where it is going. When an old guy gives money to a young girl, he has a moral responsibility to make sure it is going for the good, and not for the bad.

 

So I went over expecting to see some disgusting trailer, and it was not that at all. It was a nice little house, with a pool. And the refrigerator had all kinds of nice foods, neatly arranged into sections. There was a section with food for a kid. And there was a section with the juices she needed to drink for her kidney failure. She had two dogs and some cats, and all the dog and cat food was in its place.

 

She said it was her grandparents' house. They were getting foreclosed, so they had moved out. So they were letting her live there with her little brother, until the sheriff came. In the back was her little brother's room, and I was not allowed to go back there.

 

She walked all around picking things up and fidgeting with them. Like a can opener, a toy, an oven mitt, I don't even remember. I thought she was nervous about something, or didn't know what to do to entertain me. But it may have been what they call "utilization behavior."

 

She was wearing cutoff overalls, like a fashion statement of pretending to be a redneck for Halloween. I thought with this nice house, and these designer cutoff overalls, this is not even a redneck. She is a JAP pretending to be a redneck, she is a fake redneck. At some point she told me, her original family name was Jacobson.

 

She looked awfully good in those cutoff overalls, and I was not going to leave without fucking her. She told me she had sent her little brother to the Walmart up the street, and he might come back any minute. She paced back and forth indecisively, checking the blinds like he might be looking in. Finally she told me come into the bathroom in the hall. And she locked the door and turned out the light, so that no one could come in and see what we were doing. She seemed nervous someone would break in the door any moment. She told me you have 30 more seconds, and I hit that schedule.

 

The house was cute and tidy, I approved. So I gave her $700. On my way home, I stopped at a gas station on John Young to buy a cigar. There was a hooker in there trying to buy beer but she was 50 cents short. They told me they had no cigars, and to try the 7-11 around the corner on West Colonial. The hooker asked if I could give her a ride there. When we arrived, she sat in my car and begged to give me a blowjob, for the 50 cents she was short trying to buy beer.

 

I fucked Mandi too many times from the suicide promise, I could not take it any more. She had to beg me to cum in her, just to get hard. Finally I said can we just go out to dinner or something? I had asked on her birthday, if she wanted to go see a movie instead of fucking three times, but she said no. Finally she was receptive. I wanted to go to Le Coq Au Vin on South Orange Avenue in Orlando, because I thought she had potential to be a foodie, like I had been at her age. It had the potential to be a constructive hobby for her, learning how to cook.

 

And that was how I figured out the guy was still there, and he started to get violent again. I heard him shouting in the background, when he heard we were going out to dinner. He wanted her to bring him back a bottle of Fire cinnamon whiskey, before he would agree to let her go. But even as she agreed to each of his demands, it was never enough. So I finally just said fine, we don't need to go out to dinner if it is going to cause so much trouble. You can just come over and fuck me. It is a weird relationship she was in, where the guy wanted her to fuck me for money, but got angry and jealous if she just went out to dinner with me for the same price.

 

 

 

9. PIMP ON FOODSTAMPS - Fall 2015

 

You would think I would remember the exact moment I figured out the pimp followed her to the new house and was still there. But it sent me into a rage. And it turns out I don't remember things that well when I am in a rage.

 

At this point I was trapped not for the sex, but because any time I didn't see her for a week, I began to worry about her. Sometimes I refused to see her. I would lie awake in bed on Friday night, and then go look on backpage Miami and her ad would be there. And I would worry she would get shot or arrested, or something bad would happen. And I would text her “I miss you sexy Kylie” or whatever the name on the ad was, just to get some answer, and know she was okay. And she would drive back to Orlando and fuck me for money.

 

So I was trapped in this sick cycle by worry for her well being, with no idea how to get out of it. And he was still there. But at least his little household was not so idyllic and peachy either. He couldn't get too comfy, because his entire life depended on me, and I was having crazy unprotected sex with his girl twice a week. Though he didn't know about the unprotected part. She insisted I would have to wear a rubber if we ever did a threesome, so nobody would find out. But of course we never did, because I am not into that type of thing.

 

Then finally I found my opening. She was crying about being beaten, and she let on that he had an eight-year-old kid whom he beat also. And she was worried about the kid. It had been his kid all along. All the times she talked about her little brother, and the video games and the school clothes, and the alphabet soup in the refrigerator, it was the pimp's eight-year-old kid. He had a kid.

 

She really was afraid she would be shot if she left. But it was the kid, that was keeping her in the relationship. There is some psychology that drives women to steal babies from maternity wards. She and her boyfriend had planned a family together. After the miscarriage and her boyfriend left her, she was determined to have that household she planned. So she latched onto a guy with a kid she could take care of. And she fucked me desperately to spend all her money on them, to keep the kid from having to go back to his mother. The key to breaking the cycle was the kid.

 

Sitting in the last room, at the back of the first floor of the Greenland Suites on West Colonial, and using my laptop on their wifi, I typed a complaint to the Florida Department of Children and Families. I said there was a young white girl on Amon Drive, who was bringing a child down to Miami, and using him as a cover for drugs and prostitution. The essence of it, so far as their concern for the kid, was true. And I said she was victimizing an older black guy, the kid's father, by forcing him to play along with this. And I wrote the complaint from the point of view of a black girl who lived up the street from them.

 

The point of doing it this way, is so he would not think the complaint came from me or someone she knew. If he did, he would take her out in the forest and shoot her, for putting him at risk of having his kid taken away. So I told it from the point of view of someone who knew him, complaining about her. They still suspected I was the one who wrote it, but they weren't sure. And it had another effect. When I said she was the ringleader victimizing the other two, it guaranteed the kid would never be allowed to hang out with the evil white girl again.

 

But before I continue, I want to clarify something. This was a 100-pound 20-year-old girl with health problems and the mind of a child in la-la land, who had pledged her life to some random guy's kid. And the guy was a 35-year-old with a gun from out of town with no job. So I never ever ever imagined the DCF would believe she was victimizing him and his kid. I thought they would go over there and see what was obviously going on, and save the mentally ill girl. The only point of saying she was victimizing him, was to make it confusing who wrote the complaint. It would seem like whoever wrote it was a crazy. Specifically, a crazy jealous black girl, with an irrational hatred of white girls.

 

The pimp did claim to be a drug dealer, specifically weed, when Mandi met him. He represented himself as being totally gangster. And when Mandi met new people, she generally did not tell them she was having unprotected sex with gray-haired strangers at the Starlite Motel for money. She told them she was running cocaine up from Miami or something. She may even have told some people she was doing porn. Who knows, anything but what she was actually doing.

 

After I found out the pimp was still there I got angry. One of those last times he sent her to ask me for money, I asked her why don't you actually sell some drugs or something and leave me alone? I said your pimp claims to be a weed dealer. So I don't understand why you are so desperate. Can't he just go sell some weed, why does he send you over to fuck me for money? She explained that her pimp was extremely careful and cautious, and would never actually do anything like that where he thought it was possible he could get arrested. She basically recited his calculation as he explained it in his own words. He calculated that transporting drugs was too risky.

 

But she had been going down to Miami, and the drugs had a nice sound. And I also said they beat the kid, or whatever question the DCF complaint form specifically asked. Was there sexual abuse? No. Was there physical abuse? Yes. I don't know that it was anything more than common corporal punishment, when the kid didn't do his schoolwork. But Mandi said the kid was terrified and screaming or something, which REALLY bothered her. I don't know if the DCF recognizes any corporal punishment as a valid tool for disciplining children.

 

The complaint was just to get the DCF through the door, without putting Mandi in danger. So the DCF would go over there, and realize the complaint about the evil white girl was completely misguided, but fix whatever they really saw once the complaint got them through the door. Instead, they accepted the complaint as completely true. They said you poor, poor man, this girl is victimizing you because you are vulnerable and dependent on her because you are unemployed. You are trapped doing this by hunger, and by the need to feed your kid. You are forced to do whatever she asks, because you have nowhere else to go.

 

Poor Mandi was shocked and heartbroken, that someone had accused her of harming the kid, and they were over there looking with evil eyes at the white girl. It was funny as hell, but it didn't matter to me, it worked.

 

The DCF came and interviewed the kid. The pimp could no longer take the kid down to Miami with them, to sleep in that soggy bed. And he could not leave the kid alone in Orlando and go with her. So he had to stay in Orlando with the kid, while she went to Miami by herself to pay for their groceries. The DCF even made the pimp and the kid sign up for foodstamps, so they would not be dependent on Mandi. It was only maybe two weeks going to Miami alone, before another pimp down there grabbed her, and locked her up so she could not go back to Orlando.

 

The Orlando pimp went down there pouring tears, and tried to get her back. Eventually someone called her father, to let him know Mandi was locked up down there and needed someone to come rescue her. And meanwhile the Orlando pimp was driving crazy around Miami in the BMW. I don't know the whole story of what happened or how. But her father went down with a friend or an uncle or someone, and managed to come back with the one thing that really mattered: the car.

 

She did come back to Orlando. But the guy was now completely psychotic carrying a gun all day. The DCF was probably coming every week to ask the kid about drugs, and everything was broken. Her mother went over there with a cop friend or something, to watch while she packed her bags and ran away to her mother's apartment. They left the pimp by himself pouring tears, with a promise he would be evicted. Finally he had no choice but to leave and go back to Miami alone. He called her family the KKK, and blamed her for meeting him with “fat pockets” and leaving him broke.

 

It had been the same guy the whole time, from when I met Mandi to the day he was gone. And in that time, she never said a single thing to hint that he existed. In all the time she rambled about her Grandma, and her dad's back surgery, and later a guy named Chris Dahl, Mandi never gave me a single descriptive detail about her pimp. My entire knowledge of him came from 1) when he texted me I would never see her again, and the following conversations where I said he was a spazz and Mandi said he would shoot her family, 2) one time I saw this chest and arms from the second floor, through the windshield, as he drove Mandi into the Starlite, 3) she said an older guy moved into her house but I didn't know what the connection was 4) when he was complaining in the background after he heard Mandi agree on the phone to meet me for dinner, 5) finally, when she said he beat the kid, which is what enabled me to get rid of him.

 

In the end, she didn't think much of the pimp. One of those last times she asked me for money before I got rid of him, she had been forced to explain to me that he didn't sell drugs, or do anything else. He just lay on the sofa with a gun all day. After that she couldn't ask me for money without hearing what a loser he was. Before she admitted it was about the kid, I asked her why she was so devoted to a broke person. She said it is not about money. I said "I can see that." She didn't have a good comeback, and that is why she probably finally mentioned the kid.

 

I said the obvious thing everyone says to every girl: Why doesn't he get a job so that you don't have to fuck me? After he was gone, he was still bitching at her in texts, and stalking her for a while. She said something to him like "Why didn't you get a job?" I am not sure how much she meant it, but she was trying to respond to him and argue back. His answer was, in effect, I know a little white girl is not going to stick around if I am not there to beat her all day. I have to be gangster, not just some chump. That was totally wrong. Mandi loved a guy who worked any job. She just wanted to be needed.

 

It was some time later still, that Mandi finally showed me a single small picture with him in the background, and told me his name was “Captain Primo.” So don't make the mistake of thinking Mandi tells me all the stuff I tell you here. Other than the fluff, she was very sparing in what she said, like a hooker is supposed to be. If she is afraid you will get angry, she will smoke you with 20 minutes of fluff, like a kid to a mom, before deciding whether to say the one thing she is thinking of saying. She was a brick wall when it came to the other guys. It would typically take me at least a month, and a lot of guessing, to figure out if another guy even existed.

 

From that day on, she never had a pimp again, so far as I know. September 29, 2015, is the last day I ever saw her ad go up on backpage. I thought with the kid gone, she would no longer have any use for me. The cycle was over, my problems were done. But I was wrong.

 

She had a brain injury, which meant she was always suffering from depression and general distress. Just spinning wheels running in all directions, without getting anywhere. She was the most energetic girl I ever met. She didn't know what to do, she would drive. And she knew if she called me crying, I would at least meet her at a gas station and give her a tank of gas.

 

I still kept count of the number of times I had sex with her, as it climbed from the 30's into the 40's. Every time it reached a new number, say 41, I said that is it. 41 is the highest it is ever going to get, I am never going to have sex with her again. 41. Next week still 41. 41 forever.

 

 

 

10. RECOGNIZING HER SACRIFICE  - October 2015

 

I couldn't stand her giving other guys a better deal than me. Maybe she likes a guy. She gives him free sex, gifts. I give her money, and she turns around and buys something for the guy. So I got jealous. I said I am not doing it. "You never did that stuff for me. You never gave me anything."

 

She said "It's not like I never did shit for you. I did a lot for you."

 

What did you ever give me?

 

Mandi: What do you mean what did I ever give you?

 

What did you ever give me?

 

Mandi: You really don't know?

 

No.

 

Mandi: My body. I sacrificed my body.

 

Her tone was not fucking around, like a terminal cancer patient in his last month. You would have thought I left her crippled. There had to be some counter-argument, like she liked her job. She shot it down. That first night I had sex with her, I made a pledge to never let on I didn't like it. It sounded like she was saying, she made that same pledge.

 

I told her I'm not a sexually oriented person. I don't value sex. She said she is the same way. Sometimes when  I got jealous she would say "Don't mind-fuck yourself. I have sex with you more than I have sex with my boyfriend." Because she needed the money.  And that was just life. Doesn't mean she wasn't scarred by it.

 

 

 

11. WHITE GUY CHRIS - Winter 2015

 

Then one day she came over excited, and told me a secret. She met a white guy she liked. He was a mechanic.

 

That's where what she told me ends, and this is where what I figured out begins.

 

The secret white guy was probably the first guy since her boyfriend from high school that she had sex with, who was not a pimp or a customer. And he was a mechanic, so she imagined her dad would approve. If he was not a pimp or a drug dealer, then I had no choice but to approve also.

 

Mandi and I had sex as usual, and then she used my bathroom to clean up, and put on her makeup and make herself perfect to go meet him. This relationship was not likely to work. Of course I was jealous that she put on her makeup for him and not for me, and of course it was disgusting. I told her it was disgusting. She said that at least she took a shower.

 

This was her first “normal” relationship that she was so excited about. The white guy's name was Chris. He had like a 7-year-old son. The son left his mom and came to live with Chris around this time.

 

Over the previous summer, when I was sending her money and visiting her in Orlando so she wouldn't come to Miami, Mandi was dancing the day shift at Rachel's on South Orange. Rachel's is open for lunch only on weekdays, so the girls can meet businessmen who come in for lunch, and then fuck them at night and on weekends. Every day the same young guy (meaning like 32 years old) would come in with his friend for the all-you-can-eat lunch buffet. He would tip her like everyone is supposed to, when she walked around the room after being on stage. But they never had any reason to talk to each other.

 

After I reported the kid to the DCF in October 2015 and she had trouble going to Miami without her pimp, she went into Stars to apply for a job. The guy from the lunch buffet was sitting with the Stars manager, and they gave her some kind of foofoo drink in a giant cup, even though she was not yet 21. She learned the guy from the Rachel's lunch buffet was named Chris. She went to Chris's house that night, and he served her a huge pile of cocaine. She said “You bought me that drink, you served me all this cocaine, so are you going to fuck me or what?” He said yes, but he was just not certain he was allowed to, and he was waiting to be sure. Because to anyone, she looked like an innocent child.

 

When Mandi was a kid, her family's house in Conway got foreclosed. And her parents got divorced, and her dad got a new family with a new little blonde girl, and that is when everything went wrong. Chris' family also got foreclosed in Conway. But Chris now owned a house in Conway. And he pretended to be a mechanic, which is what Mandi always wanted to be and was actually extremely good at. So Chris represented hope to fix what went wrong in her childhood, and she wanted to be just like him. She started carefully dressing exactly like him, with a bandanna and baseball cap, when she put her clothes back on after I fucked her.

 

I eventually learned a trick: You could always tell when she found a new guy. Because the way she dressed, or the type of motorcycle she dreamed of owning, would suddenly change; to how the guy dressed, or what bike he liked.

 

She lived at her mother's apartment with her dog in Lake Mary until the pimp moved out, and then she and her mother moved back into the foreclosed house. She left her dog to pee on her Mom's floor in Lake Mary, and spent every night at Chris' house.

 

I asked "Why don't you ever spend all night at my house?" She said "You get some cocaine and chop up lines and serve them to me all night, then I will stay over at your house all night and do it." It wasn't the cocaine. It was that I don't do fun. Mandi always had to come up with ideas to try to make me less angry all the time. "Let's get sushi. Let's go warm up at the tanning salon. Let's look at puppies at the pet store. Let's ride the slingshot at Magical Midway. That will snap you out of it. My dad welded the safety cage."

 

So we rode the slingshot, and Mandi spent the entire ride looking at my face to see if my expression changed. We rode it a second time, to see if my expression changed. Then she looked at the video replay, to see if my expression changed. I do not give a fuck about the slingshot at Magical Midway. You cannot take it to the bank.

 

Everywhere we went together, people stared at us. She was young, and I was old. I was dark and she was light, obviously I wasn't her relative. One day she refused to fuck me until I bought her nitrous oxide. So we walk into Climax smoke shop on East Colonial, and everybody looked at us. She looked at me and said "The reason you have so many wrinkles is because you're always angry." It's true, I did not like her doing nitrous.

 

She said a black Hummer (Escalade?) was stalking her over at Chris's house. One day she came over to see me, to buy her mom groceries. As soon as she arrived, the crying pimp who had gone back to Miami, started blowing up her phone in a rage.

 

The next week she found a satellite tracker hidden in her car trunk. She was asking if I put it there. Most girls would call the police if they found a satellite tracker in their trunk. I thought it could have been Chris. Because Chris and his friends all work in car audio and as mechanics. The pimp was a hustler, who could not connect two wires together.

 

But probably it was the pimp who put the satellite tracker in her car, and that is why he lit up her phone when he saw her arrive at my house. He knew she would walk out with money while his kid ate foodstamp Ramen in Miami. He told her “you got a new nigga.” She said he might drive up and kill her any place any minute, and she said there was nothing she could do about it. She went home to Chris house.

 

Then she said she found a room she could rent, but she needed to fuck me twice to make a deposit. So I fucked her and gave her the money. This was right around Thanksgiving. I suspected it was at Chris house, but she said it was in an adjacent neighborhood, at her best friend Jenna's house from high school with her boyfriend the mayor's son. There was no justifiable reason for us to continue our relationship at this point. But one day after Thanksgiving she begged and begged me to meet her at South Orange and Delaney to lend her $160 and I did. When I noticed the vet bill from her dog, she grabbed it away from me and we got into an argument. I knew it must have Chris' address on it.

 

(move up to accurate earlier timeline?)

I had been searching for months for a way to point out to Mandi that our relationship was not the best thing. But without being so harsh that she would take it too personally or stop talking to me. I wanted a non-sexual relationship. Or at least that is what I wanted until she figured out that is what I wanted, and made quick work of it by crying on the phone and then showing up in short shorts.

 

So I finally came up with the word "weird." I said "Our relationship is weird." Mandi had a fit, and just about burst into tears. She said "It's not weird, I'm your ho." She was so angry that I was going to cut her off. I wanted to tell her she was "naive" but there was no equivalent word that would be more familiar to her.

 

From that point I really tried to just turn off my phone when she texted me in some kind of distress. I went into Rachel's at lunch to find a new ho. There was a little Jewish guy there with the gayest mohawk in human history. The big guy with him, whom I later learned was James Jay Arnold, called him "Chris." Disgusting. I texted her, and said I just saw your broke gay boyfriend at Rachel's, eating the buffet like a starving Cambodian. She worried I had gone by her high-school friends house the previous night and saw she wasn't living there. So she told me she spent the night in the McDonald's parking lot and just woke up.

 

The next time I saw her was her Dad's birthday. She dropped Chris and his friends off at Publix on South Orange, and met me across the street in the SoDo Target parking garage while they shopped. She thought she was going to have to give me a blowjob to buy her dad a new wrench set. But you can't take sodomy to the bank. So I just gave her the money.

 

Then I fucked her again around Christmas, because she was desperate to buy a gift card for every member of her Dad's step-family. And I fucked her once or twice in between at her mom's house, while she told her mom and little brother to wait outside.  I was up to near 50.

 

I was jealous of Chris, and refused to pay his mortgage. I stopped answering her texts altogether, and finally she stopped texting. But as usual, after a few days of not texting, I became worried. Her phone didn't ring. I went on facebook to find someone who knew her mother and could tell her mother to call me. Finally I was able to get in contact with her mother. Mandi had been arrested and was in jail in Georgia.

 

 

12. FALSE GHB ARREST - January 2016

 

One night in January Mandi texted me that she was going to Georgia and might not come back. I understood her to be saying "I am moving out of state and this is your last chance to see me." She thought I might give her some money. I told her good, go to Georgia. You are stuck in a rut and moving to a new place might be good for you and for me. See ya.

 

I don't know what all they were doing in Georgia. Mandi had flights of fancy that she was on some new life adventure, and Chris Dahl would marry her or something. It was Mandi, and Chris Dahl, their roommate and convicted meth dealer James Jay Arnold, and another meth dealer with an active case, Johnathan Travis Jones. Mandi was 20, and all these dudes were like 35 and 40.

 

T was loaded with cash and bought some backpacks, and bought some new designer clothes and put them in the backpacks. A few weeks later, when police let us get the property out of Mandi's car at the impound, it was packed to the gills with stuff. It filled my extended-cab pickup. There was a suitcase, bags, boxes, kitchen stuff, random stuff, guys stuff. She never provided me any relevant details of  what they were doing, but it seemed like everything someone owned was in there. The police were laughing at me under their umbrellas, after the tenth trip from her car to mine.

 

The guys Mandi was with rented a Mercedes at the party car rental place near the Orlando airport. I don't think any of those guys even had a car that would make it to Georgia. If they did, probably they would not want to get pulled over with meth and get it confiscated. T paid the rental place with cash, and they disconnected the satellite transponder so they could drive out of state. And Mandi drove in her own car.

 

At some point they rented a motel room. But T got paranoid when he saw some cops at the motel, so they left and rented a room at a different motel. By any rational analysis, Mandi had nothing to do with any of this, and was just brought along as a sex toy. Or at worst, to look more like a family driving to Disney.

 

Somewhere north of the Georgia border near Macon, the Mercedes hit a coyote and got totaled. The way Mandi described it, with the exact details of every step the coyote took, Mandi would have to be riding in the Mercedes when it happened. Given that Mandi would not let anyone else drive her BMW and was almost certainly driving her own car when the Mercedes hit the coyote, it seems just as likely she is making up stories. She could have only seen about half of what she claimed to have seen, if the Mercedes was in front and she was following right behind.

 

In any case, they used AAA to have the totaled Mercedes towed back to Orlando. And they went to the airport to rent another car. T flashed some cash at the rental counter. An employee at the rental counter tipped off police that someone was traveling with a large amount of cash.

 

Just as they drove out of the airport with the new rental car, they pulled off to the side and took a backpack out of Mandi's car that had meth in it, and put it in the new rental car. They surely knew Mandi was stupid enough to drive down the road with a load of meth while they tailed her. But they were not stupid enough to trust her with meth in her car.

 

They all arrived at the airport in Mandi's car. So it makes perfect sense everything from the crashed Mercedes rental car was in her car. But they only took out their meth and put it in the new rental car as soon as they left. So it seems they left everything else that had been in the rental car that crashed, in Mandi's car.

 

But Mandi would rather tell you she was a meth trafficker just because she briefly had meth in her car, than that she fucked all these guys in motels in exchange for weed. The truth is not much to brag about. The truth is embarrassing and childlike. The truth is that next thing she got arrested, and spent two weeks in jail, for something totally legal worth $10.

 

After they left the airport, they were driving South down I-75 through Butts County. Mandi was driving behind with James, and Chris was driving the rental car with T and some meth in front. A police car came racing up behind Mandi, but went past her and pulled over the rental car with Chris driving. Police asked if they had any large amounts of cash, and arrested T and Chris for a large amount of cash, and the backpack with meth in the back. Mandi watched this from a rest area with like an Arby's or something.

 

Mandi and James spent the night in a motel together. The next day, Mandi and James headed south again, and got pulled over for a window tint violation in Monroe County. Given the low probability of someone pulling over a random car on I-75 for a window tint violation, and the fact that James drove off with Chris' girl, it is just as likely Chris tried to get James arrested to win some points with the police. Like "It is not my meth, it belongs to this other guy in a BMW with a girl."

 

That is definitely what happened a few months later. On September 1, 2016. both Chris and James got arrested at Chris house in Orlando. Chris put all his meth in James' car, and waived his right to remain silent, to say all the meth belonged to James and he had no idea what it was. James then told police all the meth in his car belonged to Chris.

 

So Mandi and James got pulled over going south on I-75 in Georgia, and James who had just smoked a joint pretended to be asleep. Mandi told the police she was a stripper and they had come from Atlanta where they were looking at some motorcycles. Because everyone knows, police would never be suspicious of a stripper and a biker. Mandi told police there was a gun in the car which was hers. Mandi also told them she had some “G” in the trunk which she used to get high. Remember, Mandi had everything in the world that belonged to three guys on a road trip, packed in her car after their rental car crashed.

 

The police had no idea that “G” is what people in Conway call butanediol, which was legal in Georgia and everywhere else. Because it costs $1 a pound and doesn't do anything. Mandi also had no idea what was in her car. So the police thought it was 7 pounds of GHB worth $25,000. They charged her with major trafficking felonies with a firearm, and let James go.

 

Why did Mandi tell police she owned the gun in her car? Mandi had Chris' dog Blue in the car, probably because it is a $250 cleaning fee if they catch you with a pet in the rental. James told Mandi he was a registered sex offender. Whether he is, I don't know, but he is a convicted felon. James told Mandi if he got caught with a gun they would both get arrested and Blue would go to the pound. So he told Mandi to say the gun in the car was hers, so that Blue the Dog wouldn't have to go to the pound.

 

A female bondsman in Forsyth was willing to let Mandi out for $700, because she was obviously a young girl who got stuck holding the bag by some older guys who took advantage of her. But by the time I got there, the bondswoman changed her mind. She said everyone in jail knew Mandi was some big drug dealer, which was totally false. At this point, Mandi had not even committed a crime. The so-called GHB was a totally legal substance, so she was not breaking the law by having a gun in her car. Georgia allows open carry in Walmart. But they mistook Mandi for such a major criminal by this point, not even a bondswoman wanted anything to do with her.

 

Mandi described to me making friends with the local drug dealers in Monroe County Jail, in hopes to get some weed as soon as she got out, which I assumed was because she has CTE. She basically told them "I'm a drug dealer, too. Where can I get some weed around here?" But the bondswoman decided Mandi was some evil out-of-state drug kingpin and wanted nothing to do with her. It took me three more days to come up with the full $2500 bond in cash.

 

I had my own theory, why everyone thought the little blonde girl with the black BMW was a drug dealer. Mandi was in disbelief when I reported her to the Department of Children of Families, because they actually believed she was a drug dealer. They actually believed what I meant to be an idiotic story, that Mandi was victimizing the older guy, who in reality used a gun to stop her from leaving. It made an impression on her. She got more confident to tell people she sold drugs, as a believable story to explain where the money I gave her was coming from.

 

I suspect the first time Mandi was forced to lie urgently and say she was a drug dealer, was when her pimp put the BMW in her name. She didn't tell her sister and stepsister that she had been screwing fat old guys with gray hair, and giving all the money to the pimp. As best as I can piece it together from memory, she told them her friend was a drug dealer. Or let them believe that, if that is what they wanted to believe.

 

After I got rid of her pimp, she started hanging out with her best friend Jenna, and people from high school again. When she went to Jenna's house, she might flash some hundred dollar bills. But she would never admit I gave them to her. Around the same time, I noticed she had some random drug paraphernalia in her car like empty bags or something. I don't remember exactly what it was. I kept giving her money each week, to buy the opportunity to check her car, and lecture her about having drug paraphernalia visible and risking getting arrested for no reason.

 

I gave her money, and I told her to throw away the drug paraphernalia, And it went in one ear and out the other. It never occurred to me she was driving straight to Jenna's house, where she needed the drug paraphernalia to put on an act of where she just got he money I gave her. So the more money I gave her to try to get her to throw the drug paraphernalia away, the more she needed the drug paraphernalia as props in her act of where she got the money.

 

The bizarre world in her mind, and in her car, was a reflection of the world she lived in. Every old guy wanted to have sex with her. Most guys did not want her to have sex with other guys. Nobody else wanted her to have sex with old guys. And everybody wanted everything kept secret. So she told her high-school friends she was selling drugs, which was a socially acceptable explanation of where her money came from.

 

A few weeks before they went to Georgia, she and Chris and James drove to Tampa to help T move. I guess they rented a UHaul truck, and Mandi followed them up I-4 in her car. But she told me the story like Chris owned a new moving business, and she was part owner, and James was their employee. Poor girl had done so little apart from driving to Tampa to suck dicks, going to Tampa to move furniture was a mind-expanding experience for her. It was like Chris was a pimp, but moving furniture instead of sex. I didn't know all their names at the time, I just knew they did drugs all day. So if the way Mandi told me about it was true, if they really had a functional moving business, it seemed like a positive thing.

 

While they were moving the furniture, Mandi needed an excuse to slip away and meet one of her old tricks from Dollhouse Tampa. She told them she was delivering drugs or something. But they knew. They said something to her later about "that other business." She was absolutely crushed and ashamed. She ditched them and drove back to Orlando alone, crying the whole way. She called me in tears about how she would be a homeless outcast, because her new friends figured out she was a hooker, not a drug dealer. She asked if she could come see me and get some money.

 

This was a month later that she got arrested in Georgia. And so far as the girls in the Monroe County Georgia jail knew, Mandi was a drug dealer. So I went to bond out my little drug kingpin. And she did her best to pay off the bond when we got back to the motel.

 

We checked to see if Chris was still in jail, and I figured out that his name was Chris Dahl. Mandi either didn't know what his full name was, or didn't want to tell me. I found it by searching for meth arrests.

 

On the drive back to Orlando, Mandi found a plastic dropper in the stuff we got from her car. She got really excited it might have some residue of whatever drug she was arrested with, and started licking it. Then she got extremely hyper, and started waving to people on the highway out the car window. I did not believe she could have actually gotten high from licking whatever invisible amount might be on there. But she was putting on a show for me, trying to convey that whatever that dropper was used for was fun and energetic, whereas I am stiff and boring.

 

By the time she got back to Chris house in Orlando, her dog was sick from nobody taking care, and Chris' kid was pouring tears. Chris bond was $30,000, and he was in jail in Georgia for like another four months. Chris' sister Carrie told Mandi she couldn't stay at the house any more, no more strippers were allowed. She told Mandi that she and Chris both had young kids to think about, is why she made the decision to throw Mandi out. That really crushed Mandi, because she was only there for the kids. She cried all day about Chris' kid crying.

 

Of course three months later, the Georgia crime lab tested the “GHB” and realized the idiot girl had no idea what was in her car. She did not even commit a crime, but she spent two weeks in jail and had her car impounded for three months, before they figured it out and dropped all charges. Mandi had no idea what they had been feeding her, or that “G” means butanediol. All she knew is she could drink it all day and still be able to drive, and she thought it gave her better sex. Butanediol had no legal restrictions in Georgia whatsoever.

 

G is not a "date rape drug" it does not incapacitate people. It makes stupid horny people excited.

 

13. NORMAL BOYFRIENDS - Spring 2016

 

It was an uncomfortable time for Mandi after I bonded her out. She didn't have a car and I acted like I owned her. But she took advantage of it to make me pay for a new tattoo on her arm. The tattoo on her back is a tribute to her grandfather, it is a picture of his car. And the tattoo on her arm was going to be a tribute to her dad. Life is weird when Mandi is involved. It was weird to pay for something I objected to, a tattoo, as a tribute to a person who hated me.

 

Mandi is fascinated with living things, like an armadillo or a snake or a spider, it doesn't matter. And her dad likes to go boating. She already had an octopus on her forearm. I paid to add an anchor and some coral and a jellyfish, to make it an "underwater ocean." And it was supposed to say "daddy's girl" though we never got that far. It is the first thing she wants when she gets out of jail. Her mission every day in prison is to please some jealous girls in prison, and I think to console her dad for her being there.

 

I never took pictures of Mandi before, because it seemed outside the appropriate boundaries of our relationship. But after I bonded her out I got some good ones. I got a really good picture of her eating a free Frosty with her Free Frosty Card at Wendy's. That's the one she asks me to send, to show the girls in jail. I got another one of her eating a hamburger with 16 patties at Freddy's Frozen Custard on South Orange Avenue where her little brother worked. I guess he had been boasting about how many patties he put on a single burger. So she outdid her little brother.

 

She was on a lot of new anxiety medications. She stayed home all day, mostly sleeping and eating Lucky Charms. She made me go on Amazon.com and buy her a 5-pound bag that was only Charms. She she started to put on weight, to where she was both the skinniest and the fattest girl I ever had sex with. She spent three whole days like a kid who wants a candy bar in the checkout, demanding I buy her a potbellied pig. Every few days she would break her phone or drop it in a hole or something, and she needed a new one.

 

And she made me spend a few hundred dollars to register her corgi dog Lorelei as a service dog. She wanted to bring her in more places like motels, and Walmart. Mandi has a missing capacity to experience pleasure. She primarily seeks to experience it through the eyes of others. Like if your grandmother not only baked cookies, but also had sex with you. Mandi was so eager to see Lorelei's reaction to all the items on the shelves in Walmart. Lorelei immediately pooped in the cereal aisle, and Mandi turned around and ran straight out. I wasn't in there to see it. For some reason Mandi suddenly went back to not wanting to be seen with me.

 

For two weeks, Mandi May was my reluctant girlfriend. Unfortunately, I was living or working 90 minutes away in Melbourne. And Mandi's car was in the impound in Georgia. That meant her Mom got home from work before I could get to Orlando, so what little sex we had was in the Walmart parking lot. And Mandi spent more time hanging around the house with her little brother's friends from high school, than with me. She was hanging out with people like 16, 17, 18 years old, and having a great time.

 

It was obvious to me one day, that she must have met some other guy her own age. I saw her get dressed up to stay home. She no longer wanted me around the house, or anyone seeing me with her. At this point I had stopped giving her cash, and would only buy her Walmart gift cards. Without a car, she was also dependent on me to drive her shopping. On the way back from Walmart, she was literally singing a love song in the car. This was the happiest and most excited I had ever seen her, she was totally in love with some secret person. I should have been happy, but I was devastated. It was the right thing, at the wrong time.

 

She begged me to keep up my promise to have sex with her for rent and deposit money. I said you found a new guy, I know it. It's dysfunctional, it's demented what you want to do. It's sick. I can't participate in that. It's not right. But my real issue was that she had been my girlfriend for two weeks. And now I had been dumped. Having sex with her the same as if I hadn't been dumped, like a sex robot, was worthless to me by comparison. I was in a bitchy mood.

 

We had to argue quietly, because her little brother was up the hall. I said something like “I know you are a romantic. So you should understand that I am a romantic also.” I know I said “I need to be romanced.” Finally I gave in and had sex with her, and she eagerly took on the challenge to make it romantic. But we had to be really quiet. She couldn't leave the house with me, or her new boyfriend might find out. He was on his way over. If we took a trip to the Walmart parking lot, he might arrive before we got back, and see me dropping her off.

 

I have not seen her as happy since, or smile as big a smile, as when she lay on her back a few minutes later with my semen streaming out of her vagina. She was dreamy. She had found the love of a lifetime. And now she was happy and relieved, because she had the money she needed to focus on making her new relationship work. Brain injuries are not a crime!

 

Remember, this was the same foreclosed house where we had sex in the hall bathroom, with the door locked and the light off, while her pimp who she said was her little brother, was at Walmart with his kid, who I didn't know existed. And the room she said was her little brother's room, now actually was her little brother's room. Though it never had been before. And there is no way she could have predicted it would be, before I told the DCF she was a drug kingpin, and they put her pimp on foodstamps.

 

Her new boyfriend could never see me. That was the last time I was allowed over there before the Sheriff threw them out. They got foreclosed and moved into a townhouse. Mandi was not allowed to bring her seven cats, and she was irate that I broke my promise to take them. I said no way am I getting stuck married to seven cats, while some other guy gets the pussy. She felt very betrayed, and we had a falling out. I wasn't fucking her, and helping her buy love in her new relationship. I told her “you got a new nigga.” I didn't know her new boyfriend was black. I was just quoting what her pimp said when he got thrown out. But she thought I must have been stalking her to see who the new boyfriend was. She told me I needed to mind my own business, and fuck her for money.

 

Mandi never understood that you can't buy a normal guy's love with money. If your relationship is on the rocks, having sex with a stranger, and bringing home the money and giving every penny of it to him won't fix things. And she never understood how you can give every guy exactly what he wants, and at the end of it everyone hates you and lies about you.

 

I thought having a normal relationship with a guy her own age was the best thing that happened to Mandi. All I know about him is it was someone she grew up with, who was black, owned a poodle, and had a lot of tattoos. And of course he didn't show up to work and got fired, within a few weeks of moving in with Mandi. But Mandi tried to hide all that from me, in hopes to start fucking me for money again. I have some idea what his name is, or at least his nickname. But the kid may even have been younger than her, and does not deserve to have his name mentioned here.

 

Mandi was never a drug addict. The reason I gave Mandi Walmart gift cards is because she is mindless. If she has Lucky Charms, she will sit and eat them nonstop until they are gone. If she has weed, she will smoke straight through it, and then have none. If you give her money, she will give it all to some guy with a cute kid.  If she were a drug addict, she would shoot all her heroin into her arm at once and die. So she absolutely is not a drug addict. Drug addicts are self-centered and pleasure-seeking, Mandi is giving. Her hand tattoo was in the tone of a skateboarder.

 

But Mandi knew some people saw her as a drug addict. And she may have thought she was. She was not qualified to diagnose or understand what a drug addict is. When I didn't want to have sex for money, she thought I might be more willing to give her Walmart gift cards which she couldn't spend on drugs. So I said okay. And then she went to Walmart and mindlessly blew it on cookie dough and dog food and who knows what. The money was gone just as fast, but she was more likely to be left with something to show for it.

 

It was her birthday. We went and looked at puppies. She wouldn't let me pet the puppy, without lecturing me what puppies like and don't like. Then she came to my house and fucked me for $300 birthday money. Later she came back and begged me for another $150.  She had plans. She was going to take her poodle boyfriend and their friends to the water park or something, I didn't really know. We sat in her car in my driveway. She thought she would have to blow me for the money, but I just gave it to her. It was the most magical moment ever, just me and Alice in Wonderland taking a moment to sit in her car in my driveway.

 

Then she was gone to celebrate her birthday. At 4 AM she texted me. Would I be willing to buy her a black CBR 1000 for her birthday that someone was selling for cheap? Chris Dahl must be out of jail. I was so angry, I drove to her house and slashed her tire. Then I drove to her Dad's work, and told him "Your daughter owes me $2450. And I know you are going to take the hard way."

 

It was her mother who sabotaged Mandi's new dream relationship. The rent needed paid. Some tattoo-covered black kid, who lost his job from hanging out with Mandi, and moved in with his poodle that peed all over the house, was not going to help with the bills and only get her pregnant. So Mandi's Mom wrote on the family whiteboard in the kitchen “Need rent. Mandi go see David.” Her own mother told Mandi to go fuck her old middle-aged hooker customer from Miami for money. And she wrote it on the family whiteboard in the middle of the kitchen, just so her boyfriend who lost his job would see it.

 

Mandi somehow convinced me she did not have a boyfriend. So I fucked her and paid the rent. So her boyfriend went and fucked his previous black girlfriend, and Mandi was absolutely devastated. From that day forward all he and Mandi did was argue all day. She was in a terrible state, coming over to my house crying for no apparent reason. I had no idea she had a boyfriend or that he dumped her. I told her father she must be binging and fasting on her meds, and it was making her bipolar.

 

But at least with poodle boy gone, Mandi could come see me for money again. One day she was doing something with her phone while she took her clothes off. She said she was texting, arguing with other members of her family about something. But I saw her pose, taking pictures of herself near the door, and then sitting on the bed. I think she was making a snapchat story of herself coming to fuck me, She wanted poodle boy over at his black girlfriend's house to see what she was doing.

 

Mandi was so angry at her mom for sabotaging her relationship with the dream guy of a lifetime, she needed a new place to live. After she got her car back from Georgia and turned 21, and I gave her some money, she started going to the Ale House on Semoran. Her best friend from high school Jenna worked there as a hostess. Mandi sat at the bar by herself, drinking margaritas.

 

There was black guy working in the Ale House kitchen with crazy tattoos named Tywaun. He was 40 years old. He had a cute kid, his son looked to be about age 6. She went over to smoke weed with him, and just like that she had a new place to live.

 

The day she moved in with Tywaun, was the first time I ever wanted to have sex with her enough, I was willing to pay to do it. Mandi changed the oil on a car or two, and a jet ski, to try to please the people at her new house. Then she called and asked if I would have sex for money so she could buy them things. I said no, its wrong and I won't do it. She dropped way down in price, or offered to have sex for a tank of gas or something. I said no. She told me how she just changed the oil in a car and a jet ski, and asked if I would pay her to change the oil on my truck. I said okay.

 

I have never seen anything as cute as her little legs sticking out from under that truck while she primed the oil filter. And then she came out smudged with oil. I took her to Harbor Freight and bought her $180 of tools. When I realized she was about to leave, I couldn't resist. I said "How much to fuck you?" She said $500. I said I don't have it how about $400? She said okay. On that day I got to have sex with the cutest prettiest sexiest hottest most beautiful girl ever born. I think that was number 54.

 

I told her she has to do a "cute girl oil change" business on craigslist, like the sexy maids. It would have made a fortune. I was really afraid she would get so many customers she would never need me or talk to me again. So she left and went back to Tywaun's house, though I had no idea he existed at that time, or where she was living. And I went driving around to stalk her and figure out where the jet ski was that she changed the oil on. I went to Chris Dahl house to see if he had a jet ski in his driveway. He didn't.

 

You notice Tywaun wasn't her same age. I didn't know that right away. As usual, things were hidden from me. But when I found out, it made it fair game to throw every grenade I could come up with. The older he was, the more morally justified I could feel.

 

After Mandi moved out and went to live with Tywaun, eventually her mom did not pay the rent and got evicted.

 

 

 

 

 

14. BUTANEDIOL "G" -  June 2016

 

When they dropped the imaginary GHB charges in Georgia, I drove Mandi to Forsyth to get her car back and get my bond money back. Of course I fucked her a couple times the night I bonded her out, so $1200 of it was hers. At the time, she said she was fucking me “like a friend of a friend.”  I assumed she meant James, the friend of Chris, whom she stayed at the motel with the night before she went to jail, with a milk jug of butanediol.

 

I went home and bought a new TV, she went back to her young poodle boyfriend and paid her mom's rent, and we never even had sex. But she could not stop going around telling people she got caught with $25,000 of something. It made her a somebody.

 

She said  the sex position she used with a "friend of a friend" was a lot of  work, it was the most athletic and demanding on her of all sex positions. And that is why she would only use it for someone with social good will, in a special situation. I came to understand that staying in a Georgia motel with a gallon of butanediol would have been such an occasion for her to engage in this physically strenuous sex position. The substance excited her.

 

She told me when she was staying at Chris house, he kept a big jar of butanediol on a shelf. She would go and take sips all day. She said it made sex "the way sex was meant to be." Just for the record, she was talking about sex with Chris. She called butanediol "G" like in the Georgia police report.

 

I fucked her in December and January while she was staying at Chris house, and she never mentioned butanediol. There was one day when she was crazy for sex while her mom was at happy hour, and she told me to sit in a chair in case anyone walked in. But on that day that she proposed a great idea that we should rent a hotel room and fuck on xanax. I believe having sex with customers had been tense for her, and drugs made it something new and different.

 

One time after having sex on cocaine, Mandi had an epiphany. She came over and asked me if I had secretly been doing cocaine all along, when I was having sex with her. Apparently the way I had sex with her was different from the other guys, it was longer and faster or something. And she thought cocaine must be the secret. The real explanation is we didn't do any other activities together. If I just said "hi" and "bye" that would have been our whole relationship. The only avenue available for me to expand our relationship, was to go longer and harder.

 

I looked up butanediol "G", and saw I could get it for like a dollar a pound. I wanted to prove that to Mandi, that this was just carburetor cleaner, and the real story was how stupid she was thinking it was anything fancy. So I ordered a bottle, and it was indeed a pretty decent solvent for something I was working on. It smelled like an auto repair shop.

 

When I told her I had it, she said she was coming right over. She said she would fuck me for it. I think I paid something like $11.

 

She told me it is not the real thing unless it burns when you put it on your tongue. So I let her put it on her tongue, and it burned. She was ecstatic, and I really was at a loss to resist her wanting to take some. So I took some myself to see once and for all what, if anything, it really did that she was so excited about.

 

After a while we drove in her car to 7-11 to get some drinks. On the way back she said "I have no problem driving, I don't even really feel anything. I have a strong resistance is why it doesn't affect me, I can handle G." She kept taking more, in hopes to actually get high, but all she ended up doing was puking. It didn't affect me either.

 

Then she spent about an hour crying how she was cursed, and another hour making funny faces into snapchat filters. She said “See, this is what I sit by myself and do all day. This is all I'm really doing when you think I'm cheating on you.”

 

Then I fucked her for the final test, to see if it really made you have better sex. And it did, just because you were receptive to the idea it might. It gave us an occasion to try something new. She said “Babe, I want to make a million dollars showing everybody how good this stuff is. But I need you to be my business partner.”

 

After she had a falling out with her mom for sabotaging her boyfriend, Mandi found a new boyfriend to move in with. He was a 40-year-old black guy with crazy tattoos, Tywaun. She was determined to take the butanediol and see if it made her have better sex with him. I didn't want any more trouble with it, so after shaking my head with nothing I could say to change her mind, I finally just let her take it so she would leave me alone. She put a little bit of butanediol for me in my boy dog's medicine syringe, so that I would not feel left behind. My boy dog was dead, he wasn't going to miss it.

 

At some point on her way out, she saw my neighbors from across West Muriel Street, a sort of bohemian looking young couple. The guy said “It looks like you got some G there.” I was surprised, how did he know that? It was a clear liquid in an unmarked bottle. Mandi told me “See, everyone knows what G is.” She pulled up the news story from Georgia on her phone, to brag to my neighbors she got arrested with $25,000 of the stuff. Then she gave the guy some, but stopped him short before he could drink all of it, and left.

 

I knew what was about to happen. There was no point thinking about it. An hour later, I texted her "Tell your boyfriend to make sure you don't take too much of that stuff or you will puke all over the place again." She texted back “too late :)” My boy dog had just died of liver failure. When I told Mandi he stopped eating, she drove over to try to give him a treat, but he couldn't eat it. (When the other dogs tried to eat his treat, is one of the times she got on her high horse about morals.) I warned her she will go the way of the boy taking that stuff.

 

Her boyfriend was at work when she got home. But she was determined to find someone to take it and have sex with her. So she gave it to her landlord and another guy at the house, and had a threesome. When her boyfriend got home he was heartbroken and devastated to learn, she just had sex with his best friend and his landlord. So she gave him some to see if it would do anything, and had sex with him also. I don't think anybody else even got as far as she did, to the point of puking.

 

She needed to move her furniture out of her mom's house, and the landlord would not let her move stuff into her new boyfriend's house. So I met her at her mom's house to bring her stuff to my house. There was a guy there in her little brother's grade, who had always crushed on her but never got anywhere. I walked right past this kid, 45 years old, and broke his heart fucking her upstairs while they all listened.

 

That was number 57, almost all of them when she was living with another guy. And 57 is still the number today. Then I took the opportunity to snatch back what little butanediol was left, to save her from any more compulsive ridiculousness.

 

--------------2022 additional notes: Mandi drives too fast and she always said I drive too slow. When we went to Georgia to get her car back, I drove 55 the whole way out of fear the transmission in my old truck would break.

 

The only thing I could find online about butanediol was that bodybuilders use it as a supplement. Mandi immediately started rambling to the woman behind the desk at the sheriff's office something about how the stuff in her car was a bodybuilding supplement and she wanted it back.

 

Mandi thought I was going to buy her car insurance. She felt a little betrayed when I told her to drive back to Florida without insurance. She then got back home way ahead of me.

 

A few days later she changed my oil and I bought her tools at Harbor Freight. On the way back there is a spot where the right lane suddenly turns into a highway entrance. She merged a little sharply into the center lane, and I told her she should drive more carefully if she has no insurance. She did not want to tell me she had a secret boyfriend who bought her insurance. She was still angry at me for not buying her insurance and she merged sharply again.

 

Mandi is not a doctor or chemist. The only drug she ever bought for herself was weed. Beyond that she did not have any clear thoughts on what the names were for the different drugs or what was in them, other than maybe cocaine. When the newspapers said the stuff in her car was worth $25,000 she accepted that. But she was still confused why they called it "GHB" and said it incapacitates people (and whether it made you stronger).

 

It was maybe a week after that when we were driving back from getting drinks after she took the butanediol. I was looking at her driving because she is cute. She misunderstood that I was complaining about her driving again. So she said something approximately "Don't worry I can drive fine, I have a tolerance G doesn't affect me."

 

15. JEALOUS MEN - Summer 2015

 

Her new boyfriend was disgusted right after she moved in, when she told him she was coming to my house to fuck me for money. He told her “make sure you take a shower before you come home.” He did everything he could to pry her off me, and I did everything I could to sabotage him. He was a total clown. He was 40 years old, and not even a serious participant in the human race. But to Mandi's childish mind, he just seemed awfully cute and cool. Plus he had that cute 6-year-old son which she could eventually get her hands on.

 

The landlord was some freaky blonde divorcee, with a fetish for renting rooms in her house to young black guys and fucking them. When Mandi showed up fucking one of her boys and she saw Mandi liked fucking black guys, she let Mandi stay as bait to attract more of them. Mandi paid that bill, by getting the one guy the old woman hadn't fucked, to fuck her in the threesome. But the poor kid took too much cocaine and couldn't get hard. He always wanted a second chance, even with his best friend's girlfriend. But he never got one so far as I know.

 

I was in a rage. Because by having sex with Mandi while Tywaun was at work, a 52-year-old woman was willing to sabotage Mandi's relationship with Tywaun for nothing. She was an older adult, who should have felt at least some duty or responsibility to do the right thing for a young girl under her roof. An adult woman has some responsibility like I have, to at least try to leave Mandi better off than when she found her.

 

When I sabotage Mandi's relationships, at least I offer an alternative. I am willing to spend money, or come pick her up when she is lost. I am willing to stand by her for the rest of her life. But the freaky woman was willing to sabotage Mandi's relationship with Tywaun, just so she could have sex with some young black guy one time.

 

The reason why Mandi's furniture and stuff was at my house, is because the freaky woman was not even willing to let Mandi bring small items into the house. She was willing to have sex with a 21-year-old girl, but then that 21-year-old girl was not even allowed to bring a stuffed animal into the house. To me the woman was sick, satan. Mandi was in the clutches of satan.

 

Like I said before, I don't remember too well when I am in a rage. So the whole time Mandi was with Tywaun, I don't remember as well as I would like to.

 

I saw how Mandi's mom sabotaging her relationship with poodle boy, led to the drama that forced Mandi to move out. And I saw how calling the DCF turned over the snow globe with her pimp. All this I twisted around in my mind, during the 90 minute drive to work in Melbourne. So I called the police on my way to work, and sent them to the freaky lady's house. Tywaun's best friend started a confrontation, and got arrested when he complained about it. To get revenge, they said they were going to come kill me. I thought that is great. But the freaky lady convinced them it is "not worth it."

 

I told Mandi “Listen Snow White, it is not safe for you to live there. One day that woman will get jealous of you fucking her dwarves, and she will sabotage you. She could frame you any hour of the day for anything, and you will go to prison for who knows what.” I was really worried about the day the woman had enough of her. But Mandi was in heaven over there and too busy to respond.

 

They say “all is fair in love and war.” But in the past, I had always measured my actions against the question “Will she be better off for having met me?” Now I was just sending nonstop crazy texts, to drive Mandi into an uncontrollable tear fountain and her boyfriend into a crazy froth, in hopes they would all go crazy over there, and the old freaky lady would have no choice but to throw her sex toys out in the street.

 

At some point one of the boy toys made Mandi call me, and he grabbed her phone and said he was going to kill me. He later accused me of calling him a “nigger.” I didn't. I called him a “child.” I told Mandi to not waste my time putting her little kid friends on the phone saying silly kid things. I wish I could remember exactly what I said.

 

I decided to bait those clowns to come over. So I carried all Mandi's furniture out to the lawn. I texted her “All your furniture is out on my lawn and you need to come get it. Tell the freaky woman to send over one of her house boys or lawn jockeys.” This would force her boyfriend to come with her to help load the furniture. He would surely imagine I had called him a “nigger” again, and do something stupid and get arrested. In theory I could even shoot him. But it was also a reminder to Mandi, of how her loyal friend and sex partner the freaky woman, would not even let Mandi bring a stuffed animal into the house. I was in a rage to pry her off those dangerous freaks.

 

I kept texting her, and getting no response. Then, after two hours, the exact amount of time she always spends putting on makeup to come see me, she finally showed up. By herself. In perfect makeup. Her plan was obviously to just fuck me so I would shut up and put the furniture back in the house. If experience was any guide, she expected I would even send her home with some pizza money for her new clan. But I wanted none of that and blocked her from coming onto the property.

 

Today I was different. So she called the police on me to get even for me sending the police to the freaky woman's house. With an adult doing the talking on one side and a child doing the talking on the other, of course Mandi ended up the one who got arrested. You can see right here I am able to tell my story in a clear way. Where Mandi is next to mute, has no idea how the world works, and can think of only one or two childish lines.

 

Mandi was surprisingly mellow throughout the whole thing. She was probably accustomed to rage from her pimp, and knew to just let it blow over.

 

The police asked if I really wanted to press charges. I thought of course not. She is an angel who for real is just trying to please everyone at once. She doesn't know it's impossible.

 

But then I considered this girl has finally become too carefree, driving around town, crying, fucking everyone in sight, and making the wrong guys jealous. Me. It is only going to come to trouble. She is like a bear in Yellowstone, who has learned to come to campers for food and will someday get shot. So I decided to teach her a lesson. I thought the experience would sober her up to the realities of the world, and teach her what I always wanted her to learn, that old guys are dangerous. So I told them to arrest her, and the next day I bonded her out. All she learned is that I was a jerk and a psycho. And to never talk to police again. And that she needed to find a new sugar daddy.

 

Yes it's true that I had a machete.

 

It just made me so angry. It's like they were gang-banging her over there, and they wouldn't even let her bring a stuffed animal into the house! And she preferred that over me. I must smash the degenerate free-love pervert snow globe.

 

There is one more thing I did, at the peak of my rage. But like I said, I don't remember too well in a rage. I put her hope chest, the one her grandfather made for her right before he died, out in the street. I texted “your hope chest is out in the street with the trash, you need to come get it.” No answer. Again I texted. Hours later, the next morning it was still there and I had not heard from her. I went out and smashed it. The neighborhood kids rode their bicycles over it. Scrap collectors from up the street eventually gathered up the pieces. I WILL TEACH HER A LESSON WHO RUNS THINGS. I WILL SMASH ALL HER FUCKING DREAMS.

 

I don't remember if that was before the furniture or after the furniture. If it was after, there would have been a restraining order and I am not sure what I was thinking by texting her. I got a sheriff to escort me to drop off her furniture at her dad's house. There were two stuffed animals in a special place which I forgot, and I later took to his work. I told her father he could get the shattered pieces of her hope chest from the neighbor up the street. I still have some pieces that fell off the hope chest, in hope that I can someday reattach them.

 

The Orange County prosecutor contacted me, to see if I wanted to move forward, or drop the restraining order. Of course I didn't want to press charges. Mandi is a sweet angel, who spent two hours putting on makeup to come fuck me that night. She came to make peace. But her Dad got snippy with me so I kept the restraining order to show him the power of his words is zero. And now his daughter is in prison.

 

I also developed another motive. I thought if I could push the prosecutor to pursue the charges by making up all kinds of stories about Mandi like she was public enemy #1, she and her dad might be forced to accept some kind of deferred-sentence deal with drug testing. I told the prosecutor that is what I really wanted. My idea was if they threw her in jail any time she tested positive, she couldn't be lured by guys with cocaine any more, but only by me with Walmart gift cards. But Mandi and her dad wouldn't take it. It was the principle of the thing. They didn't like being lied about by a middle-aged man who fucked his teenage daughter.

 

The case went forward, the judge kept the restraining order for her to stay away from me, and that was that. It was over, the last I really saw of her.

 

 

16. HOMELESS THEN VANISHED - August 2016

 

After the restraining order, I worried about Mandi all the time. When the Pulse shooting woke my dogs up and someone rang my doorbell at 2AM, I ran out there to see if it was Mandi.

 

I kept track of Mandi through her Instagram and Tywaun's facebook. It looked like they rented a new place, maybe a skid-row motel. I guessed the freaky woman finally threw them out. At least that part of my plan worked. Mandi showed a video with her dog in her new home. If I remember, the freaky woman had a problem letting Mandi's dog in the house.

 

Then something happened. Maybe Tywaun lost his job at Ale House. Maybe he went crazy from Mandi cheating on him to pay the rent. He posted a video of himself driving north past the Jacksonville skyline. He moved back to Georgia, and he didn't take Mandi with him. He kept posting videos of like white girls having hotdogs shot at their head. And he engaged in visible public exchanges with other white girls whom he was friends with. For the second boyfriend in a row, Mandi was devastated.

 

It was July. I went to Dancers Royale and her car was there. There was a blanket across the windshield, like she had been homeless and sleeping in it until Dancers opened. She must be homeless now, living in her car with her dog. Tywaun posted videos of puppies, and other things he knew Mandi would like. He posted a picture of his shy nervous kid, surrounded by other women.

 

Then for the first time since I met her suddenly she vanished. Her phone stopped working on August 20th, three months after I bought her the new phone at Metro for her birthday, with her stripper name “Brittany Love” on the account. I had been sending her nasty little messages, to try to fuck with her head and sabotage her relationship. That's fair, right? The day her phone stopped working, was the day after the bill would have been due. She had no activity on facebook, and no activity on Instagram. I was worried about her.

 

What I didn't know, is someone created a new facebook account, with the name "Mandi Jackon" without the "s". You couldn't find it by searching. And she didn't tell anyone or add her larger circle of friends, only enough close relations to make it believable. This account was being used for a special purpose, to placate one boyfriend, and maybe to make another one jealous. On September 2nd, She responded to Tywaun's video driving north past Jacksonville, with her own picture driving north through Jacksonville over the Dames Point Bridge. Tywaun had been driving to Georgia without her, now Mandi was driving through Georgia to her sister's wedding in Tennessee. There was a strange guy with her.

 

All I knew is her phone was turned off. I went to Rachel's to make sure she was alive. All I saw was that fat Chris Dahl, fat and with a beard after a season in jail. He was sitting in his usual drug dealer spot like a deviant Santa Claus, and staring at me like a surprised retard. Disgusting.

 

On September 1st, 2016, on my way to work in Melbourne, I wrote a long rant about how Florida dipshits in ranch houses like Chris Dahl have no idea how to sell drugs without getting arrested. I sent it to Mandi's little brother on facebook around 10 AM. Two hours later, Chris Dahl got arrested for selling meth at his Florida dipshit ranch house. It became Orange County case 48-2016-CF-011304-O  which is now sealed.

 

It was October. Again I went to Dancers Royale, with a plan to turn right around and leave again if her car was there. On this day her car wasn't there. So I went in. Having come from bright sunlight, I kind of blindly found my way past the stage through the club. Suddenly my eyes adjusted to the dark and Mandi was standing right in front of me, facing the other way. She was shouting “woohoo” to the delight of the skinny hillbilly Santa Claus from the previous summer, whom she denied knowing at the time. I turned around and walked straight out.

 

Somebody must have seen me walk up an inch behind her, and then turn around and walk straight out the door like a Halloween horror villain. Because when I got to my car in the lot out back, two three four five six strippers stuck their heads out the back door. They stared at me in horror, like they were afraid if they stepped too far out into the open I might kill them. A manager came and ushered them all back in, staring at me, and I left.

 

Mandi must be leaving her car with someone while she works. She would certainly tell that someone how she had a close brush with the stalker who came right up behind her. An old sugar daddy was stalking her.

 

On 10/18/2016, someone put Mandi as "in a relationship" with the new stranger, in the creepy "Mandi Jackon" facebook account. Though I didn't know this at the time, because I was unable to find the account.

Tywaun posted a goofy old video of himself rapping in Mandi's car passenger seat. Around 10/24/2016, Mandi responded with a picture on Instagram of herself,  pointing to some strange new guy in her passenger seat, sitting where Tywaun sat, wearing sunglasses.

 

Then one day, I saw Mandi add two cute young black guys on Instagram. One was a mechanic or worked at an auto parts store near where Mandi worked at her aunt's sign shop. The other was some kind of artist with a ton of tattoos. These were the exact kind of guys Mandi would like. It might as well have been her previous two boyfriends, poodle-boy with tattoos, and Tywaun. Tywaun responded with a snarky post on facebook, that working at an auto parts store doesn't make you a mechanic.

 

The next day Mandi's Instagram was private, and her profile pic had been replaced with a picture of the strange guy. I looked at follower lists of everyone in my browser history, and finally found him. His name was Scott Love.

 

He must have snapped when she added those black guys. I would. He was obviously very jealous or protective or something, to have taken away her phone and her instagram now. There were some accounts where the last time she logged in, was on my computer or her brother's computer. She later told me there were two months when she didn't have a phone. That would have been straight through to when she added the two black guys, and her Instagram went private.

 

If she didn't have a phone, and I know she never had a computer, then probably her instagram account was logged in on his phone. Her social media was not being used in a way that a girl uses it. Girls post pictures boasting of cool or fun or luxury things. Her social media was being used 100% to state she was in a relationship with Scott Love.

 

He had like 20 rows on the Orange County Court website, and like 10 felony mugshots. One was for armed robbery, but that was like 14 years ago when he was a juvenile. I saw he had two or three kids. One looked like a 9-year-old boy. Mandi had found another dipshit with a kid, to throw herself at. I emailed her dad.

 

To me, the social media stuff that Mandi posted with this new guy Scott Love was not Mandi. It was not her style. It was not the way she thought or felt. It was insincere.

 

I sent her a message that I didn't believe her photos and captions were sincere. The look on her face was role-playing, acting. I had seen the same look in the picture she showed me with her pimp. And in that picture, she told me her pimp ordered her to look like that, and then chose that picture because she did.

 

Was it all a scam to make Tywaun jealous? It had gone beyond that. There was a new person she was trying to please, and the social media posts pleased him. I think the audience for what she posted was three people, 1) Tywaun, 2) Scott Love, and 3) her Dad.

 

Her Dad was as traumatized as a guy like that can get, when I brought the sheriff to his house and dumped her broken furniture in his driveway. And now Mandi was engaged in a long-term project to heal him and make up for it with a bunch of compliant pleasing behavior. She was pretending to be in a sincere monogamous relationship with this white guy Scott Love, because she felt so bad for her Dad and what I had done.

 

And she also really needed a place to live! She was tired of me sabotaging whatever she did and wherever she went. So she hid out and played a part for her father.

It was November. Again I went to Dancers Royale and she wasn't there. Mandi Jackson? You know her? Everyone knows her. She's been a stripper in Orlando since the Nixon administration. I heard she stopped stripping to go to school and become a welder. Who does she think she is, she can't weld. She's gone, I don't know where she went.

 

All the strippers at Dancers were ugly. I drank 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 Jack and diet cokes. The manager said I had to leave. Fuck you, I just spent $150, my money's not green here? I even tipped some random girl $100 to compensate for refusing to talk to any of them. Go away, I'm just looking for a little blonde girl. At every strip club there were girls who knew her, it was just a matter of time.

 

Really sir, we're asking you to leave for your own safety. It's just that we notice you are on two wheels today. My R1 was out back. The shorty pipe, and the afterburner from the broken smog system was so loud and ridiculous, I could not come or leave without someone looking out the back door.  I left.

 

I'm not telling you to tell Mandi Jackson there is a drunk middle-aged psycho riding around looking for her on a black motorcycle. But I am telling you to tell Mandi Jackson there is a drunk middle-aged psycho riding around looking for her on a black motorcycle.

 

It's like I brought my own sound track everywhere I went. I could be going 10 mph and every curve was the climax of an action movie. All I could hear was that unchanging incessant engine rising and falling, and oppressing my thoughts, as I rode up and down the empty roads. Semoran, Hofner, South Orange, Conway, Dixie Belle, Curry Ford. They were empty without a little angel blonde girl, spinning around and around and around in her BMW all day, like Alice in Wonderland.

 

Where is Alice in Wonderland? Where is Alice in Wonderland? Where is Alice in Wonderland?

 

Alice doesn't live here any more. Someone stole her, and has her tied up in a bed, behind a thousand doors and curtains. Someone stole her, and flew her up to the clouds. Nevermore.

 

 

 

17. SCOTT LOVE - Fall 2016

 

This guy was different. For the first time, someone had really put the bitch on lockdown. But I was determined to sabotage him, same as had been done to all the other guys, by either me or her mom.

 

Looking at his court records, it seemed like this guy couldn't leave the house without fucking something up and getting arrested. He crashed his car backing out of the driveway. He got a ticket for improper backing. He crashed a motorcycle a block from his house. He waved a toy gun at someone. He also had a habit, in multiple police reports, of getting his girlfriends to take the blame. But I hadn't read that far yet.

 

So all I had to do was get him out of the house, and he would fuck up and get arrested. And the key to getting him out of the house is getting her out of the house. Once she is out cheating on him and better-dealing him, he is going to lose his cool and lose his job and lose his mind the same as every other guy. He is going to have time on his hands, and he is going to start taking drugs or smoking weed again, maybe even selling it. And he is going to come out of the house, and get caught with weed in the car and go to prison. And that will be that.

 

So I started trying to plant subversive ideas, to get Mandi out of the house. Tell her whatever she is doing is doomed to fail. Tell her she will lose Scott unless she becomes a bartender to support him. But when she turns 30 she will be too old to make enough money as a bartender, and it will all fall apart.

 

It was not hard to come up with desolate, subversive things to say, ideas to plant, things to provoke him. But it was hard for me to find channels to say them, with a restraining order. I had been sending text messages, then her phone got shut off. Her instagram was private, her facebook was secret. So I was limited in the types of messages I could send, or the people I could talk to whom she might talk to, to transfer the ideas secondhand like a virus. It was hard to gain points of contact, or find levers to pull, from behind a restraining order and not even knowing where she was.

 

But it's not like she needs me to say desolate things. People are naturally nasty. Everyone will say “Your life plan to go to welding school or hang out with Scott Love is stupid.” Everyone will have their own ideas, their own opinions, to share with this impressionable young girl who is just learning to not be some guy's property.

 

Mandi's mother noticed Scott was possessive. Every single time she went anywhere, Scott Love was with her. As a female, Mandi's mom thought it was beyond that level where it becomes unhealthy.

 

There may have only been one person who was telling Mandi to stay with Scott Love, but it was the most important person: Her father. The first reasons why are obvious. Scott Love was Mandi's first boyfriend in however many years, who was both not black and within 10 years of her age. There was a second reason.

 

When the restraining order went away, when I dropped those charges, Mandi's Dad was afraid she would come back to me. And he was afraid this time I really would kill her. So he literally needed Scott Love to protect her from me, and save Mandi's life. Mandi's dad needed three things that Scott Love seemed prepared to deliver:

 

1) Keep Mandi away from pimps

2) Keep Mandi away from drugs,

3) Above all, KEEP MANDI AWAY FROM VIOLENT PSYCHOPATH DAVID

 

It was December. I came out of Dancers, did a U turn on Colonial, and went to Diamond on Semoran, where all the girls were ugly. I used Hofner to cut over to Rachels, and the girls were all cackling harpies. I rode over to Stars and there were no girls at all. I cut through Rockwood to avoid a cop by the 7-11 on Hansel.

 

I rode past Chris Dahl's house and Mandi's car was there.

 

 

18. BREAKUP - December 2016

 

It was a long time coming. Something had finally cracked. She was out and about.

 

Now you don't know except that I am telling you here, Mandi Jackson likes Chris Dahl way better than she likes Scott Love (or me or anyone else). Always has, always will. He is the one who gave her sex "the way sex was meant to be." It's unfortunate that she likes Chris Dahl, and you might even say she is sick in the head for liking Chris Dahl, and its even hard to believe and hard to accept that she likes Chris Dahl. But she does. Trust me on this. He is miserable, and has a miserable dog and a miserable kid. That draws her to him.

 

He is so miserable that on that first night, he wasn't even sure if he was allowed to have sex with her.

 

So I don't know what she is doing at Chris Dahl's house on this day, or if Scott is with her or what. There were a lot of people there, a lot of motorcycles like a party. But I know this much: If she is at Chris Dahl's house, something cracked. It's over. Whether Scott Love realizes it yet or not. Best thing for him would be to go home and just find some new skank.

 

But things don't end clean like that. They fight on their way down, like the drawn-out winding-down death of a spastic sea creature.

 

Fuck, look at me, David. I'm still fucking Mandi's shit up five years after she made it clear she doesn't like me. Five years, 200 guys, 100 pounds, and two life sentences. Because she is a child. And just like how Mandi fucked strangers in Miami for the sake of a child, so does the fact that she is a child reach deep into my psyche.

 

It was long overdue, and I don't know what hand I had in it, but now this guy Scott Love is finally out of the house. His girlfriend is cheating on him, and it is just a matter of time before he does one of his fuckups. So I am checking the Orange County Jail website every morning and every night to see what it is going to be and when.

 

And that's when I got a knock on my door.