THE OLDEST STORY IN THE WORLD

According to Crazy Mary, she lost her virginity to one of her mother's many boyfriends when she was eleven years old. She was high at the time, she excuses, and claims it was her first act of prostitution. The boyfriend sold pot and, when she was ten, she began trading him opportunities to put his hands in her underwear for joints.

"Things just kinda' went from there," she recalls. She remembers being allowed to smoke pot for the first time when she was six or seven. It was given to her as a reward for good behavior and, later on, for sex.

She enjoyed the permissive, free-wheeling lifestyle her mother allowed her to live. She reveled in the power it gave her in her public school where she was considered the one who "knew things." Her precocious knowledge of sex made her a sought out source of taboo information. Having a reliable supply of marijuana and being able to get her friends high whenever she wanted, made her "famous."

As proof that she was once somebody, she proudly displays photographs of a pretty young girl with too much makeup and a style of dressing much older than her years.

Now things have changed.

Crazy Mary didn't graduate from pot to heroin, she began using heroin because she and her mother associated with people who used heroin and peer pressure worked its magic. She was fifteen when she discovered she was addicted. At the same time, she realized she had become too old and a bit too used to be of interest to the dope dealers who had previously traded her heroin for sexual favors. The day of that discovery and sick from withdrawals, she turned her first trick. And she suffered another terrible awakening.

She could no longer use modesty or reluctance to restrict the sex acts she joined in. Up until then, she related, she let men "take advantage" of her then "buy presents" for her. If she allowed them to feel her, they felt her. If she allowed them to have oral sex with her, they had oral sex. But she made the choice, not them. Her tender age made her exotic forbidden fruit and any time she wanted "taking advantage" of her to stop, all she had to say was "Stop!"

Now her body had become a commodity and she had lost the regulation of its use.

Today was cold and Mary was sick again. On top of that, she was scheduled for a visit with her parole officer and needed a BB of black tar so she could fix and regain command of her nerves.

But she didn't have any money.

She had spent what little she had for last night's room. Still, she knew what she had to do and in an effort to make herself tempting, she began the day by hand washing her dress and underwear, shaving her legs and cleaning up as best she could. She hoped the connection wouldn't notice that the dress hadn't quite dried when check out time came.

She took a deep breath and knocked on his door.

"Who is it?" a voice complained from the other side.

"It's me, Crazy Mary," Mary answered. She hated calling herself that but it was the name she was known by.

"What do you want?" the voice questioned harshly.

"You know," Mary responded. She hoped she hadn't gotten here at a bad time.

The door opened a crack. A single eye looked back and forth.

"Anybody with you?" the eye asked.

"Just little old me," Mary replied.

The door opened a crack and a dirty hand reached out and felt Mary's crotch.

"What's up?" the connection greeted as he opened the door the rest of the way. As he pulled his fingers back and smelled them, he added, "Wha'd ya' do, piss in your pants?

In her soul, Mary was revolted. She wanted to tell this pimple-faced, skinny, stick-of-a-man to keep his hands to himself but she couldn't. Her monkey wouldn't let her.

"Whadda' ya' want?" the stick asked.

"You know," Mary said a second time as she sidestepped another feel.

"You don't have any money, do you?" the stick complained.

"No," Mary implored, her voice no louder than a whisper. It's tone said she would do anything for a fix.

"You know where the bedroom is?" the stick asked.

Mary nodded.

"Well, get in there and take off your clothes. I'll be back in a minute."

As she passed into the living room, the stick's dirty hands felt her breasts then lifted the back of her dress and pulled her underwear up into her buttocks.

"You girls love that, don't you?"

Mary didn't want to but she reached out took her tormentor's hand, put it in he front of her underwear and cooed, "This is what you really want, isn't it?"

The stick grinned as his finger probed what had been offered.

Mary feigned enjoyment, then when the inspection was over, went to the bedroom, took off her clothes, carefully folded everything like her mother had taught, straightened up the bed and climbed in. She would wait there thirty minutes on exhibition while the stick marched through a procession of junkies, sold each of them heroin and let them fix. When she didn't think she could stand it any longer, she heard the lock turn on the front door and knew it was her turn.

The stick strutted into the bedroom and pulled a big expensive floor-length mirror out of the closet.

Mary thought she knew what was next.

The stick yanked the bed covers from her and commanded "Get up? Get your tired ass over here and take a look at yourself."

Mary did as she was told even though her insides screamed she didn't want to.

The thirty-year-old reflection looked forty. The tired, hollowed eyes wondered where the pretty young girl had gone The belt marks from a tragic opera a nameless John had paid for still showed on bone thin legs. The slack yellow skin disclosed years of bad dope, recurring hepatitis and disturbing anxiety.

"Take a good long look, tramp," the stick interrupted. "You gotta' be outta' your mind to think a guy like me would trade good heroin for a piece of that." His dirty finger pointed at the image in the mirror.

Mary wanted to cover herself but her clothes were in the neat pile she had made on the other side of the room.

The stick followed her eyes and sensed her discomfort.

"Please," Mary pleaded and bowed her head.

The stick picked up the pile of clothing and threw it in her face. "Here it is again, tramp. Take a good long look in the mirror."

Tears filled Mary's eyes as she clumsily sorted through the ball of clothing.

The stick saw he was having the effect he wanted and continued. "I've seen punks in prison that look better than you," he ridiculed." "If you think I'd trade good heroin for anything you got, you got another thought comin'. Now get your shit and get outta' here."

Reilly Johnson is a 57 year old man serving a life sentence for first degree murder. In May, 1998, he began his sixteenth year in prison for a crime he claims he didn't commit. He receives correspondence at Post Office Drawer 250, Grants, New Mexico 87020-0250.

Reilly Johnson will be a regular contributor to the Crime & Punishment Forum, which features essays by individuals involved in the criminal justice system.