A PERSONAL STORY - Teen prostitute speaks

Published: Sunday | September 25, 2011 Comments 0

What's your name? "I can't give that," she said with a chuckle as she shook her head. It had to remain impersonal.

Give me an alias or your initials?

She pauses and then says: PR

How many subjects did you graduate with?

Four.

Shequanda Summers, who says she graduated from Merl Grove High School in 2009 with four passes at the CSEC level in maths, English, religious education and physical education, said she took the job because it was "the fastest way to make a quick money".

She was not a virgin when she started doing business on the back road but Summers said at the time of her initiation she had only known one man sexually.

Now, she has lost count of the number of men she has had sex with. Summers told our news team that she does not keep count of the number of clients she has per night.

She wants to become an entrepreneur, to own a supermarket. She still thinks her dream is attainable.

Summers was very guarded when asked how much money she has saved up so far. "Can't tell you," was the terse response she gave when asked about her savings.

Her parents are not aware of what she does at night, she said, as she tries to go home by 4 o'clock in the mornings after toiling all night.

Summers sells sex at a popular spot on Port Henderson for $2,000. But depending on the circumstance, she is willing to shave $500 off the going rate for just straight sex. If oral sex is involved, the price jumps to $2,500.

Our news team met the young lady of the night last week Tuesday shortly after 2 p.m.

It was humid and the sun seemed to be shining in all its glory but Summers was at her place of employment to catch the early worms it seems.

A member of our news team went undercover as a client seeking to buy sex when he met the soft-spoken young lady on the second storey of the building that houses the sex shop.

Reports reaching The Sunday Gleaner were that girls were being bought in the rural parishes then taken to this particular spot on Port Henderson Road where they are forced to work as sex slaves.

While we did not see much activity during the daylight visit, our covert search of the premises was interrupted when our news team bumped into a man who was doing some work on the second storey of the building that houses the sex shop.

Reception area

We had to think fast, so we asked for the reception area and said we were interested in finding a girl. The man said there was no reception area, and that we should just go knocking on the doors to see if we found a girl that was to our liking. Some of the doors were locked with padlocks. Could the sex slaves be locked in these rooms against their collective will?

A prostitute and about three men were seen in a room with the door wide open. They were just lounging around. The scantily clad sex worker eventually came out of the room and offered her service. I was already downstairs by then sitting in the car, but apparently in a bid to catch some early business she made several sex gestures to me with her hands and mouth. I declined. That was when the man said that Summers was available for business.

She took us to a run-down room on the motel-style building. The door and windows were broken. She clicked the light switch but it remained dark. Inside the room seemed hotter than it was standing in the midday sun.

The interview was quick, swift even. It wasn't personal. This reporter went undercover as a client but when it reached the business end of the deal, I made it clear to her that I only wanted to talk.

I had to make my intentions clear very quickly because by the time she bolted the door, in one fluid motion, her hand was already on the button of the short shorts she was wearing. Judging by how fast she was moving, I knew she would have discarded the wee bit of clothing in no time. She did not even ask my name.

For her it was not personal, just sex. But I was just there to talk. She left her pair of flip-flops at the door. Her gaze almost bore a whole through the door as I filmed the interview from behind her. She just sat at the edge of the bed and spoke in hushed tones with mostly one-word responses.

As with her real clients, this interview was short and to the point. No more than 10 minutes. Slam, bam, thank you Mr Reporter. The interview lasted three minutes and 17 seconds. I was out of there faster than I had gone in.

Not her real name.

tyrone.reid@gleanerjm.com

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