Do you need a ride baby?

I’ll never forget the first time someone thought I was a prostitute.  I was only 16 yrs old.  I think I’d like to write about it now. So here goes. 

Some years ago, when I was only 16 (like I said), I was part of a volunteer committee for a charity group.  Every few months we’d have fundraisers for our charity.  In this particular instance, we had a DJ donate his time, as well as, a charitable hall owner donate space for the evening.  The night was a success and we had a great evening of fun, music and dance that raised money for our charity.  All was going well - it was a good night thus far.  

As a volunteer I was part of the clean up crew.  So I stayed late after the event.  Up until just right after this everything was fine. However, as the evening grew late all my friends’ rides came, and then went. They all got their safe ride home as I watched.   My father told me he would pick me up after the event (at 10pm) just like every other girl friend of mine.  But 10pm came and went.  The last of my friends offered me a ride home, but I told them it was OK, my dad was on his way. I was sure.  He said he would be there. 

The hall proprietor came out to lock the door and ask me if I was OK.  I said yes, my dad was on his way.  Now remember, this was before the time when we all had cell phones so instant communication wasn’t an option.  The hall owner offered to let me use the house phone (e.g. landline), because he was worried. I saw the concern on his face, so to settle his mind, I did, but the phone rang off the wall back at home.  Dad obviously had to be on his way to get me.  After much re-assurance, he went on his way home. 

I sat there on the steps of the hall, downtown on a Friday night, waiting for my dad to come get me.  10:30pm came and went. It was now 11pm.   I should probably add some perspective here for good measure.  The owner of the hall, who often donated in kind, was also located in the bad part of downtown, where the colourful characters came out at night.  Including the ladies of the night. Thus, it wasn’t long until the action picked up.  

The first car stopped for me at 11pm.  “Hey, do you need a ride?” he rolled down his window and asked me.  “No, I’m OK.” I replied.  Confused, he asked if I was sure then he moved on, slightly perplexed.  Several more cars slowed down, glanced me over, asked if I needed a lift before being uncharacteristically declined by a woman such as myself.  It was only after the second invitation that I realize what was going on.  All these men thought I was hooking.  I was 16. I was waiting for my dad who forgot about me and left me vulnerable to these predators. 

I always found it funny when I heard about those fathers who threatened to pull out shotguns on any guy who threatened to lay a dishonorable hand on their daughter.  Did those really exist?  My father never did anything like that. I thought that father was a creation of primetime comedy television.  My father - the real life father - was the type of man who didn’t really care that his daughter was left alone waiting for a ride home in the bad part of downtown on a Friday night while he lazily slept on the couch.  Lost in the land of nod. Dreaming sweet dreams of sugar plums dancing in his head.   

Alas, 2 hrs late he awoke, realized he needed to pick me up and finally did so.  Luckily, no one too aggressive approached me that night.   It was the first time I truly realized how less my father cared about my well-being than any of my other girl-friends fathers did for them.  I felt really shitty all of a sudden. 

Suddenly I felt confused, scared, sad, alone, frightened and disappointed. Please continue to add whatever word is appropriate here _______.

My dad didn’t give a fuck about leaving me alone in the bad part of downtown on Friday night while strange men preyed on me.  This was my first experience with prostitution.  I was 16.  Of course I was not really for sale until several years later, but it was quite the awakening experience.  I wish my father cared more about me.  Maybe I would’ve turned out different. But there’s no point asking what if questions.  They’ll only drive us crazy. 

I often wonder how much this experience affected my life. If this didn't happen would I have thought as much about prostitution as I did?  Would things have been different if my dad wasn't a lazy ass?  Argh - these are what if questions.  I told myself I'm not allowed to ask these questions.  No good will come of them.