It all started with a ding on Messenger.

Baby girl was trying to sell pussy pics, and I PayPal’d her twenty bucks.

The very next day, she showed up at my door—husband sitting out in the driveway the whole time. I gave her some money, a pack of cigarettes, a Suboxone, and a couple joints. I told her that’d get her through the day, but she wanted more. I told her, “Fine. Come back when the old lady goes to town.”

Not an hour later, she was back. It took less than five minutes to get her clothes off and into bed while her husband sat outside for fifty straight minutes.

 

I hated seeing her start down that road. I’d seen too many women go from needing help to flat-out selling themselves, all to keep a man’s habit fed. The truth is, once you’re used up, no man sticks around—especially if he ever gets clean. That’s not the kind of woman you grow old with. Maybe I’m wrong. I sure hope so—for her sake.

Trying to Steer Her Straight

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When this all started, she actually hated the thought of trading herself. You could tell she was just trying to keep the lights on and her husband happy—that was her

biggest worry in the world.

On more than one occasion, her husband told me, “I don’t care

what she does. Nothing she does bothers me.” Not once, but multiple times. It made me feel sorry for her.

 

That’s when I got the idea to help. I got her into a clinic, told her if she got clean, maybe he would too. I begged her to save money so her husband could start working for himself. I really did try to do good in the beginning.

But all I ever heard were the same lines: “I want to get clean,” or “he’s so mean to me.” Over and over. 

 

 

                 The Rules, the Vodka, the Threesomes

Tosh and I had already been together four or five times before my wife ever got involved. Every time, her husband sat out in the driveway. Once, even her father-in-law brought her over and sat there for an hour and a                                                        half waiting.

I finally told her to start leaving them at home. It made us all look bad.

Her on words

Eventually, my wife got pulled into it. She set her rules down early. But once the vodka started flowing, the rules got looser. Before long, the three of us were day-drinking and sleeping together once a week… then twice a week… for a year and eight months straight.

Tosh loved the camera too. If we forgot to turn it on, she’d climb out of bed herself just to start recording. We filmed 108 times—each session about two hours long.

 

The Downhill Slide

Six months in, she quit pretending. She wanted no part of real work. Prostitution became her “job,” and things started going downhill fast.

 

I caught her more than once at the Hi-Rise. All it took was fifty bucks, a buddy, and a cell phone. I got videos—stumbling out of elevators, wiping herself off, straightening her clothes. Twice she was caught in the parking lot giving head while her husband and his dad sat in another car across the lot.

They sent me three videos. I still have them.

 

The Motel, the Festival,

A few days after I ran her off, she was in Lexington at the hospital with a sick kid. and , she Snapchatted video clips from  a motel room—of her bent over a coffee table, some guy filming her as he done her from be hind while she was blowing the other one . You couldn’t see her face, but that tramp stamp on her back was one of a kind. If I were betting man , I would say it was the guy from the Hi-Rise and his son. that was who had went to the hospital thats pretty sad a father son at the same time thats just sad.

 

The worst was when my wife caught her at a doctor’s office, kissing that same guy. Tosh ended up with herpes from him—all over her face—from the Polk Salad Festival, the one I paid for.

She’d told me before how he forced himself on her the first time, how she hurt her leg trying to get away, how she had to stop crying before getting back to the car so Shawn wouldn’t know. Yet she kept going back, claiming he was “helping her daughter get a car deal.”

I recorded her telling the story one night, tears running down her face. When she asked why I was filming, I told her, “Because in a bit, I’m running you off for trading yourself to him.”

                                   The Camper and the Texts

Then there was the kid in the camper by the water plant. A buddy was waiting outside to buy a pill while Tosh was inside “working one out.” Her husband sat out in the car, like always.

She called the guy “Bub” in her texts—said maybe he was her stepbrother because her dad dated his mom. Didn’t matter. The messages always ended the same: her begging for help, promising to “take good care of him.”                                                                                                                                                                                                                                   The Final Straw

For the first year, I treated her like a girlfriend, not a hooker. By the end, she was calling herself “Shawn’s little whore” just to piss me off.

She’s out there now telling people she just used me. Truth is, I was stayed mad at her for not straightening up—because I would’ve given her more.

Those last two months, I cut her down to what you’d make at a minimum wage job. Some wasn’t even cash—TV subscriptions, phone plans, store runs . I was good to her. I kept money in her pockets.

But all she wanted was pill money for her husband.

The Breaking Point

The angriest I ever got?

We were day-drinking, waiting on our weekly threesome. She was sitting in my lap wearing nothing but socks when she got a Facebook memory notification.

It was her 20-year anniversary. Neither she nor her husband had remembered, but she sat there writing this long, heartfelt post while I sat there drinking with her, playing with her kitty, waiting on her to finish. i could not belive it when i figured out what she was doing

That was when I knew—I had to replace her.

 

A year and eight months. That’s how long it lasted. I tried to help her, tried to save her from herself.

But in the end, Tosh chose whoring. My wife would put up with a girlfriend, but not a hooker.

 

The whole reason this all blew up was because she ran her mouth. She went around telling people I was too dumb to tell on her.

But I kept warning her: if she turned a trick and then climbed into my bed, I’d kick her out, take her home, and tell on her. And I did tell on her. Problem was, nobody seemed to care.

I told her mother-in-law she’d been out there turning tricks before showing up at my house for a threesome . I told her old man on the phone that he was letting her run off to my place, climb into my bed, and that it was my business what she was doing when she was in Harlan.

This was all right before we fell out. Wednesday, to be exact. She’d been at my place Tuesday for our usual threesome, and I lit into her about going to the high-rise to sell herself. I told her flat out: you can’t be out here turning tricks if you’re coming here twice a week.

I only had three simple rules for her:

Show up when I called—twice a week.

Leave at least 24 hours between me and her old man.

stay clean enough so the clinic wouldn’t kick her out.

That was it.

 

When this all first started, she came in one day with tears in her eyes, telling me how her old man had come home from work and tried to get her to ride around with his boss. She acted like it broke her heart.

But not six months later, she was texting around with the next boss at four in the morning .

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coming up the holler was the way the text read., and when I asked her what was going on, she just said, “Nothing.”

But here’s the thing—she’d been griping about Shawn not getting up at 9 a.m. to go work for Papaw. So why was his boss showing up at 4 a.m.? Yeah. Exactly.