These men would pay whatever fee I wanted to charge for time spent with one of my girls working the streets. These men came from all walks of life, some cheated on their wives, some lost their wives during the civil war and some appeared for only the company of a girl, any girl would do; these were lonely, insecured and timid men. 

Some were wounded by a landmine, a grenade or a gun fight but their handicaps didn't stop them from seeking a chance with my girls. There were men with less means, yet, they were convinced they could land a girl. I admired their determination as far as giving them credit where it was due.

Others were plain pathetic. They were dismissed before they could come near me. These were the men who neglected their hygiene. Their stench could be smelt from miles, signaling those within the radius they were on their way. It was time to run and hide. We chased away these men as soon as they entered our field of vision.

These men came from every corner of the kingdom seeking me and my girls in Phnom Penh for one purpose and intetnion only.  How did they hear about me was never clearly explained to me, and I didn't push the issue further or care to know. I chose to be oblivious of things I deemed trivial after realizing that word travels faster than light so I let it spreaded like a virus. I didn't waste a penny advertising my services, but men everywhere seemed to know what I offered and at what price. If I could write, I would have written a menu clearly describing each service provided by the girls. It would have been handy and convenient and sped the negotation process with the men.

Upon seeing me, these men thought this could be it, at last, they could get a girl, any girl, didn't have to be a girl of substance or a well-groomed girl; any girl would be suffice. They had a need, and they came to me, hoping to get the satisfaction that could feed that need. Given I was not a miracle worker, but I did do wonders for some men that came to me with sufficient fund. They would leave me feeling fulfilled, a purpose well served, a goal complete.

They felt human when all their needs  were met satisfyingly.

In a situation like this and the situation they were in, these men knew they couldn't be be picky or choosy. They would just grab what they could get and would feel lucky to get what was given to them, anything helped a lot; their mental attitude was like those men's standing on street corners holding a sign with the thought of collecting change from approaching strangers run rampant inside their heads like a broken record, reminding them to continue standing, more change was coming.

Not all of the men who showed up would get a girl. This was a business and I didn't feel charitable. When men were shown the door, they would leave with their heads down, shoulders slumped, shuffling with a depression bestowed on their faces, only a few would protest my decision to reject them.

Whining, crying and be argumentative would not go far with me; I could not put up with such behaviors, especially when they came from grown men.

There were many factors at play that would get men rejected.  Money was the main root cause for most of the rejections, and I didn't look kindly upon these men. These men should know that I did not, would not, could not offer free or discounted meals at my joint, before working up the courage to approach me and waste my valuable time.

I got many mouths to feed, and I had experienced extreme hunger before so it was imperative the kids in my group get to eat their daily meals so that they didn't have to experience extreme hunger, the kind that was willing to take the kids' lives if these kids were fed the next day.  It was a matter of survival, not simpathy. I simpathised and empathised with these men, but I was thinking from a business perspective and my concerns for the well beings of my kids. Nothing was personal.

These kids didn't come to the streets by choice like I did.  They were thrown and forced out of the living quarters due to a myriad of reasons. Most were orphans because the genocidal Khmer Rouge had slaughters their mom, dad, and sisters and brothers. Their relatives were too poor to feed another mouth . They were lucky they had found me. Soon after, they would regard me a brother, a non-blooded family member. As such, I took upon myself to look after their well beings. 

Who else would do it? There was no one; a government was just forming under the directions of the Vietnamese invaders. I took the initiative and stuck with it through thick and thin and never quivered or cursed at God. It was a previlige and an honest for me to serve and protect those kids.

They were mine. I raised them. I fed them. I protected them. I was one of them. I needed them more than they needed me because isolation had torn me up before and I was incredibly hurt by its viciousness that I did not want to come into contact with it again. My kids provided me that fence -- the fence that separated me from isolation. I made sure  that fence would always be there. Of course I never revealed this information to them.

How could I? It would have weakened me if I did; respect for me would have vanished; this was my skeleton in the closet.  I needed to stay strong, be strong. I was fighting the streets and I had to win every day or I ceased to exist. My kids would have faced isolation and extreme hunger if I had gone to another dimension, another plane, another level of evolution. I wouldn't wish this upon anyone, not even my worst enemies.

Isolation is a cruel beast. It eats you alive from within, doesn't your age. Run should you find yourself facing it. Ask for help. I'm sure there's someone nearby that is willing and ready to offer help. Seize it.

My first duty regarding my girls was their safety and I took this one particular duty very seriously. No one, except my runners, knew the girls' whereabouts. That was an extreme measure I took to ensure safety for the girls I pimped.

These girls stayed hidden at various locations as they casually went about their businesses as usual until they were told to come to work. At which point, they would drop their errands and head to their assigned places where they were to await a man's arrival.

My network of runners were my telephones, my cell phones, my gps, they relayed information between me and the girls as my negotiations with the men progressed. The runners were the hardest working kids in our group; they were the veins that kept our operation flowed flawlessly. They expensed the most energy, all kudos went to them. They deserved more than just three square meals a day. They deserved a mom, a dad, brothers and sisters; they deserved a loving home, a normal childhood.

I battered these men with a series of questions that would reveal who they were, what their psyches were like, their states of minds at that moment, what type of persons they would become during time of anger.  I was surreptitiously inducing anger in them by asking personal questions that would invoke deep emotional negative responses.

A special skill I acquired while playing on the streets with other kids in the neighborhood.

Some questions could be viewed as offensive especially when they came from the mouth of a child, in a society where grown men were to be looked upon with a certain amount of respect. 

I had absolutely no respect for these men; my respect went to my girls, some had kids older than me, to support and this profession helped them bring food to their dining table. Of course, they deplored being employed this way but didn't mind the goods this profession afforded them.

This was a dog eat dog world, and I supported their efforts, their bravery after hearing they wanted to sell their bodies for financial gain, after being persuaded not to dive into this line of work because the stigma, especially in a close-knit society such as Cambodians', would stay with them for as long as their natural lives, maybe longer. They understood the stigma and chose this profession, anyway. Lives were at stake, tough decisions like these had to be made.

Right or wrong, it was not my place to judge. My job was to provide a safe environment which they could work and the men that they saw would not upset their emotional balance or physically rearrange their facial features.

I became an unlicensed, practicing psychologist, diagnosing these men until I was assured the girls were going to be safe once I entrusted them to the men.  I had to know these men's subconscious mind, I had to know what was lurking behind their thinking, could there be a Jack the Ripper hiding behind their fascades? I had to know.

I was the girls' first line of defense, the boy in the front line, the first to die should there be a deadly incident like a mad man charging in, unloading his gun; I was unafraid, even of the men who were vexed at me simply because they couldn't see any of my girls and there were many men like these.

Some of them had threatened to end me, and I would get in their faces about their intention the way I was getting into the face of Mindeyes19 demanding for the identities of his NSA agents that wanted my head. He wouldn't relenquish such information, stating he'd rather die with the secret -- what a lame excuse, what a cop out, what a fraud. We all knew no such agents existed -- another one of his grandiose claims exposed, busted.

My safety was never a concern; in other word, no one gave a f*ck about my safety. If I were to die, no one would miss me, maybe the kids in my group would whimper a few seconds.  My mom wouldn't even know that I had ceased to exist, left for another dimension.

That was how things were in plain sight. It came with the territory was how I took it.

I made the men understood the girls would always be in charge, and that they couldn't do anything without the girls' approval before hand. The girls held all the power and the men must submit their power to the girls; they must be submissive at all time while in the companies of these girls.

Their time spent with the girls was considered a privilege, abused it and this privilege would be provoked after given a clear explanation, and they couldn't request for a refund. That was another line of defense. This policy was to force the men to be in their best behavior during their time spent with us. One mishap and they would get kicked out. We simply would not take chances nor do we give chances.

These men were full aware that they were on my playground wanting to play with my girls. They knew they had to operate under my rules. These rules were strict but within reason. I was a reasonable young man.

I knew the men's needs and I had what they wanted so it was quite easy to control and manipulate these men, to get them to agree to anything under the sun; the power was in my hand and I didn't have the courage to abuse it. I just wanted safety for the rest of us -- safety of my girls was paramount to me that I put my life on the line for it.

No weapons of any sort could be allowed and would be confiscated for the time being if weapons were brought in, assuming accidentally.

These girls were to be gazed upon and worshipped as if they were the Apsaras, the celestial angels that are gracing the Angkor Wat walls since the Angkorian time.  Some of these girls were moms to some kids some where. How could anyone look at them differently or be indifference to them?

If these men were to offer a negative opinion in association with any of my girls, they would be told to leave by my guards, rersisting my guards would only get their legs broken; this action was left to the discretion of the guards. I would not, could not take part in such violence.

As I stated earlier, I could be losing my compassion. I could be rude; I could be cruel. This was the very reason why I stressed the importance of compassion, to always have it near so that it could keep our emotionl state well-composed and well-balanced under pressure, under any circumstance.

In other word, we have to and must remain an island against all the waves of violence crashing onto us.  Hold onto our compassion, reign it in if it's trying to leave; it will stabalize us and keep us sane.

Compassion keeps us from losing ourselves and become physically violent against other human beings; the potential of us becoming extremly violent is always there, at the ready, hidden deep within us, waiting for its moment to ruin our lives; many lives ruined each day due to violence.

I had been pushed and pinned against walls many times in the past, but I had never lose my cool; I always remained calm, poise and composed, often times, silent. If I had exploded with violence against my foes, I would feel bad for having damaged them or they would have had my head on a stick if I failed to defend myself.

We saw this cruelty implimented by the Khmer Rouge after they jettisoned compassion. This was one of the great lessons that could be learned from the Cambodian genocide.

I used to get angry when hearing nearly two millions of my people died in silence and no one was screaming, shouting or fighting back against the murderers. Now I believe it was their silence that saved the nation. They died in silence because they didn't want their relatives and friends to face the same fate as they did or maybe their compassion had humbled them to the point of practicing non-violence against their aggressors.

Again, compassion keeps us human. Dignity and integrity keep us whole, and our soul takes us to heaven if such a place exists.

After a man had passed the clearance stage, he was allowed to be with a girl of my chosing, any one of the girls who happened to be working that day. This man would be blindfolded and escorted by the two guards to an undisclosed location where the girl was awaiting him.

The two guards would secure the perameter of the location where the girl and her man were to conduct  business behind a closed door, usually on roof tops, away from all the prying eyes.

We were streets kids that slept on roof tops of sky scrapers. We had access to all the roof tops because most buildings were still vacant. We often used these buildings as our own personal restrooms, just picked a room and went about doing our business. Forget about washing hands, water couldn't travel up a skyrise because there was no pressure; nothing was working.

The guards would stand their posts in case the girl grew uncomfortable at any given time during her interlude with the man or intruders who wanted a free show; none of that shenanigan allowed. I could charge a fee. In fact, I presented the idea to the girls, but none of the girls wanted that so that topic never came up or discussed again.

These interludes would only last fifteen minutes, never longer, again, this allotted time was to protect the girls.

After the man had finished conducting his business with the girl, he would be blindfolded once gain, led to a street; once there, the two guards would release release him to the public, and the girl would return to running her errands or whatever she chose to do with her precious time.

Men that were well to do financially could see the same girls three times and that was it. They could return but must see a different girl; this was to keep a relationship from forming. There were no exceptions to this rule or any other rule; these rules were set in stone. If a girl chose to violate this rule, she would be banished from the group; she could no longer work with us or be recognized by us. She could go back home or remain on the streets, away from us; we could care less.

A rendezvous with one of my girls could be very expensive especially for a poverty stricken country like Cambodia. I kept the fee high intentionally, and the fee would be doubled for each of the men's subsequent returns, to keep most men out or some of them from returning. Only a few extremely wealthy men were able to return to rendezvous with many more girls. 

This system worked well for all involved, and none of my girls would ever get hurt. They girls came to me and they would be accepted into the clan if they kept up with their hygience and weren't too demanding; I didn't want to deal with difficult people; I had enough to manage already.

The girls loved me and showered me with effections; some looked after the boys in our team during their leisure time; some boys felt they had a mom even just for a little while.

These boys were great runners and great at relaying information to and fro. They worked hard, broke a lot sweats for the benefits of our little operation. They hardly complained despite running in  the heat and in the cold, often time, barefoot, in rags; they were glad they weren't naked, eager to be a team player, to be productive in any way they could because they knew without the group, they would be left to the mercy of the environment and other human beings who had lost hope and compassion, people of violence.

Despite of our unfortunate circumstances, we had more fun than most school kids (the only regret I have now is that I can't read or write Khmer; I should have attended school). We had each other. There were always laughters shared, which killed silence and destroyed isolation at the same time, killing two birds with one stone.

Amazingly, we still owned the streets a few years later and didn't return to the life of thievery, of being nomads during those years. We were lucky to have our prostitute pimping business landed on us when it did, because we were running out of neighborhoods and territory to steal from.

How much further could we go in the same direction? Where does it end? We had to take a detour somewhere along the way; we needed a new life, a new approach, a new way of living, a roller coaster ride to keep us in a state of panic and on our toes. God decided to make me a pimp, so that I could continue feeding the kids.

Street life may not be as glamorous as we would like it to be or make it to be, but our stomachs were full most of the day. We slept well in the warmth of blankets on roof tops, and we basked under the sun during the day, no school, no pressure, no responsibilities, no worries -- this was life of luxury.

Because we didn't have hard roofs over our heads, we got to see more stars than the most previliged kids in the kingdom.

We bathed in the river in front of the Royal Palace. We fished there, too, only with grenades standing atop of a military ship that was half sunk. How I loved swimming in that lake in only my trunk, stopped to gawk at beautiful Khmer girls bathing in their sarongs, behind me stood the majestic royal palace.

Everything was innocent then, a total contradiction to way we lived.

Some could say we lived a blessed life. In some ways, we did.

Life was rough; it could get worse. Because I had such great companies with me most of the time, street life wasn't so bad. The longer I remained on the streets, the more I became accustomed to it. I became one with it. 

I started to repeat my daily routine as if I was living a normal life, as if I had a home to go to, as if I had someone waiting for me, as if there wasn't anything unusual about my circumstance. In some ways, there wasn't anything unusual about my life at all. I was a normal kid living a normal life.

I lived as if I was a teenager, as if I was an adult and at one point, I lived as if I was the king of this kingdom while I was wandering the grounds of the Royal Palace after breaking in; I walked on silver floors, enthralled by the ornateness of all the rooms, and sat on a golden chair, wishing I could have a piece of it -- that was the pinnacle point of my life -- a street kid sitting on the king's throne, that was my connection to the Cambodian king; this was before the palace was opened to visitors, when only a guard manning the front gates; anyone could have broken in if that person wanted to do so.

In so many ways, it was my previlige to be living on the streets of Phnom Penh, Cambodia, right after the fall of the Khmer Rouge regime. I was experiencing life in its lowest form, which was surviving under the harshest, most unforgiving conditions while support a bunch of street kids who had absolutely nothing and under the most life-threatening situations, and I walked out with my compassion, dignity and integrity intact.

How did I fall into the life of a street pimp?

As street kids, our main concern was food, followed by a place to sleep without getting harassed by the property owners or the authority. Once we had that worked out, we spent our day reveling on streets, playing games for rubber bands and marbles. Of course, I had the most rubber bands, everyone wanted to win some of mine through card dealings.

The problem was I got very good at every game; again, the strategy to win any game is to figure out your edges or disadvantages. Get those worked out until you are on par with your opponent; a fifty percent chance of winning; if not, walk away from it. You can't get this odd in any casino; the casinos already got their edges worked out, wrote out the rules to favor them in the long run and you had to play by their rules. With the edges locked in and in their favor, the house would always win.

Don't play in a casino.

Go to the streets where every player has a fifty percent chance of winning in any game. The winner is decided by luck and a small percentage by strategy. You win some; you lose some -- that’s the name of the game.

You play for fun and the excitement, to bond with your fellow man, not to break his leg or his arm because he pays you a little later than usual.

As we were having fun one afternoon, a young female sprinted through our circle of players, knocking some to the cement sidewalk while some grabbed onto her.

She explained between breaths that the city police were in hot pursuit of her.  When she explained her situations to us, her eyes traveled to me. Although she didn’t speak to me directly, I sensed she wanted my help, any help I could give to get her out of this predicament would be greatly appreciated. And when I looked up, my eyes would meet hers; a connection was established at the moment, a moment that forever stamped on my mind.

Her smile was genuine, simple, honest was radiating from her. She glowed like a person who had finally reached Nirvana. She was one of a kind. Somehow, circumstances threw her into this predicament she was trying to run from, and I was the only one she looked to for assistance.

How could I turned her turn in or turned away from her? Her eyes were pleading and I couldn’t take my eyes off her, although she was quite attractive -- attraction was not the reason, and she was way older than any of us kids. I wanted a mom but not a mom that young.

I found myself conflicted by her troubles. I honestly didn’t wish for this. I was content with the facts we had food and a place to sleep. How much more could a street kid need?

Our eyes met again, and I knew I had to jump to action, she had to be rescued from the approaching police. Her Creator sent her to me or else she wouldn't be running into us or given the chance to meet me -- I had nothing, I knew no one.

What could I possibly do for her? She seemed more put together than I could ever be; she held her head up high, she was confident, sure of herself; she was pulling me like gravity towards her; I fought it; in the end, I relented to her pull.

More to come

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