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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
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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
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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
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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 soulles