Why Won’t They Stop?
written by: Louise Gallagher
I never meant for my resume to include a stint as a ‘prostitute.’ Yet, the night before my 43rd birthday, I stand on a street corner in six-inch stilettos, dressed to attract ‘johns’ for sex.
I am terrified.
Everything about this night feels foreign, except the street itself. I’ve walked it hundreds of times – from my downtown office to the YWCA, on weekend runs along the river that slips through the centre of the city like a snake through prairie grass, meeting friends for after-work drinks.
By day, the street bustles: businesspeople hurrying between skyscrapers, office workers on power walks, delivery trucks, bicycle messengers, cars zipping along or waiting at traffic signals.
Now, the businesspeople and office workers are gone. The street’s underbelly lies exposed beneath the glow of streetlights and the slow cruise of headlights.
Cars parade by. Behind each wheel, a lone man inspects the scantily clad women lined up along the street beside me: posing, smiling, laughing, flirting. Some smoke, some apply lipstick. All the while, trying to catch the eye of a ‘john’ and through that distant contact, get him to pull over and negotiate for sex.
I am one of them.
But I don’t want to be. How could I be? I’m well educated, a professional communicator. I have a job. I know people. People know me.
It’s the people I know that worry me most. What if one of my clients is a john who stops? What if people I know see me? I want to hold a sign in front of my chest that reads, “I’m just here for research.”
More than a bad idea, that sign is a wake-up call to my own unconscious prejudices. I’ve shared coffee with these girls, heard their stories, been coached by them, and thanked for taking the time to really ‘see’ them. Yet, I still don’t want anyone ‘on my side of the street’ to see me and think I belong here, on this dark side.
I jut my right hip out. I have a job to do, and that job doesn’t include self-examination. It’s to use my made-up sex appeal to convince a ‘john’ to pull over so we can discuss paid-for-sex and agree on a price. And once a price is agreed, step back and tell him, “I’ve changed my mind.”
I am not to get in a car.
Unlike the girls, I have two undercover officers, Ron and Glen, parked down the block, watching. For six months, they’ve guided me into street life and the challenges of ‘the trade’ with underage girls.
Fathers themselves, getting these young girls somewhere safe is more than just a job. It’s their mission.
They’re good at it.
My job on this night – to go eyeball-to-eyeball with a john to understand what these young girls go through – I’m not very good at it.
I’m dressed for the role: a sparkly, silver dress from my daughters’ tickle-trunk, it’s more a suggestion than clothing, a skimpy stretch of shimmering fabric designed for maximum flesh, minimum coverage. Black garter belt holding up black fishnet stockings. Leftovers from a Lisa Minelli Cabaret Halloween costume. Actress or dancer would have looked far more appealing than ‘street walker’ on my resume.
But, covering it all, I hold a girlfriend’s borrowed fur coat tight beneath my chin. I will not expose my body. Not to the December cold, and definitely not to the johns’ gaze.
What the F**k am I doing here? Terrified isn’t a big enough word to describe how I feel.
A newer model car rolls by. Slowly. The driver bends towards the steering wheel, his eyes on me. He pulls over. Stops.
F**k.
***
Months before, I met with a group of street-engaged teens at an agency where I volunteer. We agreed we’d write a play together and they would perform at a benefit concert I was organizing for the agency. I thought it would be easy. Once a week, they’d turn up. Tell their stories. We’d weave them into a play showcasing their hardships, resilience, strength, humanity. Their words would bridge ‘mean street’ and ‘main street.’ Those who judged would understand – street life isn’t a dream. It’s a nightmare. A nightmare that, like a tantrum-throwing toddler clutching a toy, grabs hold and refuses to let go.
Their stories deepened my understanding. Still, I never imagined that, instead of drinks with friends or Christmas shopping with my two pre-teen daughters, I’d be on a street corner, under lamplight, luring men for sex.
Then, I met Crystal.
***
“How old do you think she is?” Glen asks from the front passenger seat of an undercover police car, pointing at a girl on a corner in front of a convenience store.
They call this corner, Kiddy Porn Corner. Johns know they’ll find underage girls here.
I peer from the backseat’s darkness, parked just outside a streetlight’s halo. “Eighteen?”
He shakes his head. “Sixteen.” Four years older than my eldest.
We watch her strutting on stilettos. Pink bouffant, lacy pink bra, mini skirt.
A car pulls up. She leans into the open passenger window. Chats. Opens the door. Gets in. We watch their taillights disappear.
“That’s Crystal,” Ron says. “Hair’s a different color but…”
“You’re right,” Glen agrees. “Maybe tonight’s our night?”
Ron pulls away. We follow the car through side streets, into an affluent neighborhood at downtown’s edge. Past multi-million-dollar mansions, mostly dark in these wee hours of the morning. It’s quiet. Peaceful. The city a distant hum through leafy trees.
The car pulls into an elementary school parking lot. Stops in the furthest corner. Kills its lights.
Oh god. I have friends whose children go to this school. How do I tell them about… this?
Lights out, Ron stops our car at the lot’s edge. “Stay here,” he tells me. They climb out. Flashlights in hand. Crouched low, they sneak up on either side of the john’s car, simultaneously snapping their lights on the occupants inside.
Even from where I sit, I can hear the expletives erupting from inside the car. Ron’s voice is low. Patient. Calm. Glen watches the driver.
Silence. The passenger door opens. The girl, Crystal, steps out. The driver starts the car, tires screech, he’s gone.
Ron and Glen talk to Crystal. Ron motions towards their car. Crystal’s voice echoes: “Fine!” So young. She teeters towards the car. Ron and Glen follow.
She opens the far side passenger door and gets in.
***
Weeks before, when I began working with the teens on the play, I had no intention of going on ride-alongs. It was the kids who’d suggested it. Ron and Glen were about the only two police officers they talked about positively. They set up the meet. Ron and Glen suggested I join them on their nightly rounds.
It was an education. One I wish I hadn’t learned. One I’m grateful to have acquired. Any judgments or pre-conceived notions I had about who these teens were quickly bled away beneath the stark, brutal reality of what I witnessed.
They weren’t bad kids. They were kids who in bad situations, had little room to do the right thing. All they could do was the thing they had learned throughout their young, difficult lives. Survive.
***
Crystal climbs in. Her surprise matches mine. Weeks of ride-alongs, this is the first time anyone’s joined me in the back seat.
I don’t know what to say. Where to look. What to do.
I do nothing.
She looks at me. “What’d they get you for?”
Glen laughs. “Louise is our guest, Crystal. She’s writing a play about girls like you.”
Crystal’s bright blue eyes scan me. “Hmmm…” She purses her ruby lips, wiggles her nose. “What do you know about girls like me?”
Good question. “Only what you’re willing to share,” I reply.
“I got nothing to share,” she says, pulling up the flap of her pink patent leather purse to extract a pack of cigarettes.
“Crystal,” Glen says softly. “You know better.”
“Fu…” Disgusted. She shoves the pack back. Fumbles the clasp. The purse falls open. Cellophane-wrapped condoms spill out, rolling across her lap, onto the floor. Like a slinky.
“Fuck!” She grabs them, stuffing them back. A choked sob.
My hand moves towards her. Glen motions me to stop. My hand returns to my lap. Arms pressed to my body. I desperately want to tell her it’s going to be okay. I can’t lie. Later, Glen explains: For kids like Crystal, touch isn’t safe.
Quietly, Ron asks, “So, are you ready to let us take you somewhere safe? Where people can help you.”
“I told ya’ before. I don’t need rescuing.” A pause. “Anyway, I got a place.” Her tone, my daughters trying to get me to stop asking questions about their day.
“Are you sure?” Ron asks. “Still living at your aunt’s?”
She shrugs. “Nah. She kicked me out. I’m stayin’ with a friend.”
“Who’s the friend?” he probes.
“Nobody you’d know,” she replies. Too quickly.
“Maybe we could drive you there now?”
“Nope. Just take me back downtown. Gotta meet friends.”
“You sure you want to do that?”
“We done here?”
“For now. But Crystal… that loser back there, he’s not the answer.”
“Right. And you are?”
“No. But we can help you find a better answer. That’s why we’re here.”
Crystal juts her chin, flicks her hair back with one slender hand. “I don’t need no help. Can we go? Now?”
There’s not much else Ron and Glen can do. At sixteen, they can’t hold her without consent.
The ride downtown is silent. As she exits, she leans back in. Blue eyes meet my brown. “Hey, lady. I hope your play goes okay,” she says, then disappears into the night.
I never see her again. Months later, Ron and Glen tell me she eventually got help. It took several bad dates, a severe beating, a broken collar bone. But she got off the streets.
Many girls aren’t so lucky. Their bad dates end in irreparable damage. Faces. Bodies. Or worse. Death.
***
I don’t fear being beaten. I’m not getting into a john’s car.
I’m coached by Ron, Glen, and the kids in the play. How to stand. Speak. Catch a john’s attention. The names of acts I can offer. Their prices. The services read like a shopping list. Golden shower/$90. Blow job/$80. How did my body become a cash register?
Each coaching session, I question my sanity. One night, my 43rd birthday looming, I ask Ron and Glen, “What if nobody stops? I’m almost 43.”
Glen laughs. “They’ll stop for anything.”
“I’m not an anything,” I declare.
Glen nods slowly. “On the street, you’re a nothing.”
***
I walk slowly towards the passenger door of the car idling at the curb. My hands clutch the collar of my coat tighter.
My mind races through the directions: Talk to the john. Be flirty. Give him your list. Tell him the price. Then, tell him you’ve changed your mind. You’re not getting in.
The girls have the right to say no. Survival mostly steals that right.
I have the privilege to say no.
I reach the car.
He rolls down the window, leans over. “Hi.”
The only response I can think of? The getaway line Ron coached me to say if I feel in danger. “Too many cops out here tonight. I’ll meet you in the back alley behind the hotel across the street.”
My mistake registers. Now, the john must decide – drive around the corner and wait or find another girl.
“Okay.”
Damn. My first trick, and I’ve blown it. Once he’s gone, I’ll have to get back into Ron’s car.
I step back from the curb.
He starts to pull away. Stops. Beeps his horn. Once. Motions for me to approach.
Oh God. What now? This wasn’t in my script.
I step back towards his car, lean down, look in through the open window.
“So… maybe save you a walk for no reason, can I see what you got under your coat?”
Seriously?
I open my coat. Show him my wares.
“See you in the alley,” he says, driving away.
I don’t know whether to scream. Laugh. Or say, “Thank you.”
I watch his taillights disappear around the corner. I can’t get into Ron’s car fast enough.
Ron is laughing.
“I wondered how long before you’d have to open your coat.” He checks the street. “Give it ten. He’ll be back.”
A few minutes later, he reappears. Circles a few times and takes off.
Ten minutes later, Ron tells me I can go back.
Within minutes, the same john is back.
He pulls around the corner, parks, and gets out.
What the f**k? He’s walking towards me. He’s tall. Athletic. Blonde. Good looking. What do I do?
“I don’t understand,” he says as he gets closer.
I want to yell, “You don’t understand? I don’t understand? Why are you here?”
Instead, I remember what the girls told me about younger johns. Too often, they don’t pay up. “My man says you’re too young.” The pimps don’t like their girls not getting paid. How will they survive?
“I’m twenty-six.”
“My man don’t care.”
His shrug sends shivers down my spine as he eyes me up and down, “Plenty where you came from.”
He returns to his car and joins the stream circling the block, again and again, looking for just the right nothing to meet his needs.
***
Hours later, too tired to be scared, I call it quits. I’ve had too many conversations I never wanted to have. Too many eyes viewing my wares I never wanted to show. I’m done.
Ron drives me back to my car, where it’s parked by police headquarters. The lights feel too bright. The noise too loud.
Silently, I leave the street behind, tears streaming down my face.
Safe at home, I enter my daughters’ bedroom. I watch them in their sleep. Snuggled into the cocoon of their blankets, their faces soft and downy. I pray their dreams are filled with fairytale princesses and happily-ever-after.
Exhausted, I climb into bed. I can’t stop the tears. Why won’t they stop?
***
Somewhere out there in the dark of the city, a child stands. She waits. Her Prince Charming arrives. Not on a white stallion but driving a blue four-door sedan, baby seat in the back. His license plate reads, “BEST DAD.”
She leans over, exposes her breasts. His hands grip the steering wheel.
He tells her what he wants.
She names the price.
“Get in,” he says.
She opens the door. Momentarily, she stops and stares at the moon.
There are no fairytale endings on the street. Only survival.
- Why Won’t They Stop? - January 8, 2026
