He sells his shit hole to not starve to death.

It’s called survival.

Not that long ago, he was born to someone. No one knows who. He has no papers. He’s undocumented. I have a hard time thinking he is illegal. He’s definitely legally here. In fact, I would guess, he’s probably not traveled twenty-five miles from where he was born wherever that is.

He is not a good candidate for trafficking. Because he is extraordinarily tough, and he has a mind of his own. He will express it. No problem there. You are not going to dominate or scare this kid. “If a tricks tells me he’s gonna kill me, I say ‘Go right ahead.’”

He trusts no one. Why should he.

Journalists go for rides with cops. This is kinda like that, but I’m not a cop.”

I know what this kid faces because I’ve been there.

I know the violence.

I know the twisted fist in your stomach when the hunger has filled you with an insidious burn.

I know the twisted fist in your ass when some trick has paid you extra to push it in all the way to his elbow.

I know how it feels when the trick beats you up instead of paying you.

There are no more convincing or arresting arguments for the decriminalization of sex work than sex work itself.

It hurts to watch this kid.

It hurts to be him, too.

We have yet to talk about HIV.

But we will. But we will.

I’m sitting in the backseat of a car parked across the street. I am clicking away – writing this – on my phone like I always do. He doesn’t wait long.

A car arrives. The kid leans in.

He smiles. He climbs in the car.

It pulls away. I have seen enough.

I sincerely hope he winds up with enough cash tonight to buy some food. He sells his shit hole to not starve to death.

It’s called survival.