The Beginning.

So....you're probably wondering why I named this blog as I did.
I don't really remember having a childhood. I kind of didn't. I mean, of course, I had one, if by childhood you mean the years of your life that number 1 through 10-or 12-or whenever it is you start to become a teenager. They start young nowadays-teenagers pregnant at 12? Jesus, help us.
Everyone has asked me to put this down on paper-so I'm doing one better. I putting out there-out wherever the web extends to-so if you're a French fan, Bonjour!
My biological mother was a prostitute-so I've been told. All I remember of her is seeing a very tall man we (by 'we', I mean the sister and brother I've got out there somewhere-what's up, guys!) had been calling 'Uncle' pick her up, turn her over, and throw her head first through our glass coffee table like a football. TOUCHDOWN, BOISE!
...You can laugh, really-it's funny.
So 'Uncle' Dan scores, picks up the little black briefcase by her, and storms out. I didn't know what was in that briefcase until I was in our fifth grade DARE class (remember those? HA!) and the guy showed me the array of drugs packed neatly inside. I often wonder what the police do with those after 'confiscating' them. But I digress.
My sister fed me, because my brother was shipped off to Juvi
for something or other. She would go across the street and work for this sweet old lady in exchange for a bananna and some hot dogs, which she'd bring home and split with me while mom was passed out on the floor, drooling through the stitches in her mouth. So, if you ever see this, thanks, Sis.
When I was three or four I went to stay with my 'grandma'-if you're still alive, I'm sorry I don't remember your name-my moms mom-for a few days. She made me dinner and introduced me to Indiana Jones. I remember being aroused for the first time at 5 and not knowing what it meant that I became heated watching an older man  with a bullwhip.
Then my 'dad'-or the john that happened to be on my birth certificate-got custody of me and I was being driven to Las Vegas by this weird man I'd never seen before. He was gruff and he wouldn't touch me-of course, a walking skeleton with half a head of hair infested with lice is hardly a welcome sight, so I get it.
His wife was an obese Canadian with sores all over her body-psoriasis, I learned it to be called. She had the face of a pig and cold eyes.
The bitch was crazy. I remember first learning what the expectation of beauty was when I was six. I wasn't allowed out of the house until I was nursed to normalcy, but when I was she'd tie my hair in perfect pigtails every morning. I wore a variation of the same thing to school every day-always pink, always tiny. I was constantly reminded not to eat too much, because 'I didn't want to be the fat girl at school.' I was never allowed out of my room unless it was school time, and 'groundation' meant her boarding up my windows and taping everything shut. I was to lay in bed, in the dark, for a month and contemplate what I had done.
But I didn't. I snuck books into my room. I made picnic tables out of rubber bands. I made up my own languages and writing systems. I colored on toilet paper. Dude, necessity is the mother of invention.
Things eventually escalated. When I was 7, the crazy, spotty Canadian went gambling every night, and 'dad' would come into my room, I'm guessing because he was too much of a coward to go elsewhere. To this day I keep a knife under my pillow.
This went on for about three years, when I eventually realized how fucked up it all was-duh, right? But then I realized something better-I could fight back. All those years laying in the dark had made me real creative. But it wasn't until I took to playing with explosives in the house that my 'parents' eventually put their feet down.
My dad put me in an institution to shut me up-I mean, who's gonna listen to a girl that lights fireworks by hand in the house? I made myself pretty comfortable there. No school, I was the smartest one there (totally unfair, I know, but it was true) nothing to do except eat and play cards with the dude that talked to his feet. He was awesome by the way. I've got some awesome stories about that place, so any subscribers, if you wanna hear em, just ask!
Unfortunately, the staff eventually discharged me back to my father. They literally said 'There's just nothing wrong with her.'
Well I was not having that. I ran away. He dragged me home. I hit him. He couldn't hit me back. Pussy. So I scared the shit out of him, and my 'mom'. I began walking around the house, hitting myself in the head lightly and talking about 'the voices'. Oh, man! You should have seen their faces, that shit was great!
So, back I went. I remember one of the nurses saying: "Not you again! What are you doing here, there's nothing wrong with you!" I just smiled at her and shrugged. We had a lot of great talks, she and I. I got the feeling she didn't have anyone at home. Must be hard to find someone when you work with crazies all day. I hope she found her Charming.
ANYway....They eventually moved me again, when they couldn't diagnose me with anything, and that started a long-ass schlep around Las Vegas, from home to home to St. Jude's ranch for children-where I had my first encounter with Catholics, EEEEEK!-and eventually I landed a foster family. By age 15, I was a regular member of society, attending a high school in what was then an awful part of town.
That's where it really began-the Lolita thing. You see, in Vegas, we get our teachers right of college, because Vegas is d.e.s.p.e.r.a.t.e. for teachers. (Second worst education system in the country, woot woot!) And our school was a special case, because we had a shootout or some sort of bloody event in our parking lot every week.
That's where I met Mr. Donning, Mr. Greyson and Mr. Beygat.
Mr. Donning was twenty eight, fresh, pale skin, dark brown hair, icy green eyes. I would sit in his class and debate with him while he was teaching-drove him nuts. I kept hoping he'd give me detention, but no dice. I did, however, catch him staring at me several times as I was taking a test. I chewed my pencils back then, you see. So I'd look up and catch him sweating just a little bit in the sweltering classroom, lips slightly parted, watching me. I'd smile demurely and he'd blush scarlet.
Once I called him out in front of everyone-he had spelled Koran wrong, and I pointed it out to him. Fuming, he slammed Websters dictionary down in front of me and pointed to the English translation.
"If you're going to correct me, make sure you're right about it first!"
I looked up and raised my eyebrows, sneering openly. "My mother is Muslim. We have one at home. This is an English dictionary, sir."
His jaw clenched. He yanked the book off my desk and stormed over to his, throwing it down in a huff. That was the last time he ever argued with me.
Then there was the gorgeous Psychologist in my therapists office. Therapy was always a bit of a joke for me, but I liked my therapist well enough, she's an extremely empowered, successful woman and my pride was not wounded by spilling my guts about my mediocre teenage life to her. Besides, I got to attempt to flirt with the tall, morose Psychologist that neighbored her. He always had his head down, buried in a book, chewing his fingernails. He'd look up and catch me staring at him through his open door, watching him intently. He'd blink, shift a bit in his chair, clear his throat. Then he's ask me-"Can I help you?"
I'd respond the same way every time-a brisk "No"-and continue to watch him unblinkingly. He'd eventually get up and softly shut his door, avoiding eye contact. It was my little moment of power for the day. Petty? Yes. I was seventeen. So what.
I asked my foster mother about my teacher infatuation. She (bless her heart) said: "Is nothing wrong. David ten year older dan me."
(David is my foster father. For those of you that don't know me, my foster mother is a beautiful Turkish woman with a bad shopping addiction whose main purpose with me is to see me garbed in Gucci married to a wealthy, successful man. Such is the way to 'happiness'-I love her very much, and that doesn't mean we have to agree.) 
So after finishing school (OH, yes, you heard correctly) I began modeling to put myself through college. I was Miss Congeniality 2006 for Las Vegas Nevada, second runner up for Miss Spokesmodel, which gave way to an agency picking me up and taking me to New York for competitive modeling. I went with the hope that I could make enough money to cover my tuition that year (I was en route to being a Psychologist at this point) and I ended up being offered full ride to the an acclaimed acting conservatory  in New York.
Well, I could hardly refuse. Besides, the owner of the school gives a helluva pep talk. I remember to this day: "You're good honey, you're real good. But you gotta be better. I'm a tough broad, and I get what I want. I want to get my hands on you in New York."
So up I came. Of all the amazing people I met, there was a man.
He was everything they tell you about in stories. Tall,strong, handsome, debonair, well spoken. He rode horses. He was a champion ballroom dancer. He played Dracula Off Broadway. Trained under the great Uta Hagen. He made you feel like you could be anything you wanted to be, and all you wanted to be was in him.
(Of course, this is my perception. My room mate would like it quoted that she thinks him an untalented hack with air worse than Donald Trump. Different strokes for different folks. She's a buxom red head with a thing for potty-mouths.)
I hated him at first, because he seemed like every spoiled wealthy man I had met at my mother's country club. And believe it or no, he was never my teacher. I watched him teach, but never studied under him. Instead, I studied him.
The more I studied him, the more I came to realize how much more there was. I worked with him and watched the layers fall away. I found a beautiful, fragile man under the complex, slippery exterior. I fell in love from afar.
MAJOR tactical error.
He was the first person I had ever felt was my equal. He was a worthy opponent. I wanted him. Soon want became need, and need became obsession. I'd never been obsessed over anything or anyone, and it severely wounded my pride.
So I went a little nuts. Like, wrote an smut story and dropped it off with the receptionist for him.
OH, yes. Oh dear God, yes.
Our friendship probably could have been salvaged had I just apologized and admitted to being a crazy bitch. But oh, no-the more my pride felt a blow, the more stubborn I became. I began to taunt him openly in front of his students, and he would just look  at me. Never accusatory, never angry or resentful. No. Just that neutral look that spoke volumes of how well he knew me. And I hated him more for that. I had never opened up to anyone.
With the steady decline I began to doubt myself for the first time in my life-which sounds arrogant, but it's not. All I mean is it had never occurred to me to doubt. I had always trusted in Faith, having found and held to Jesus in the institution, I had never looked back. Now I did.
Working in seedy bars was a wake up call as well. Eventually there was no more Miss Congeniality, no more sunshine and daisies. 
In one such seedy bar I met a beautiful older man with a stiletto fetish. He told me about his storage unit with thousands of priceless stilettos that he reserved for the women he made love to. This prompted one of my earliest erotic fantasies about a woman in nothing but stilettos being taken against the glass window of a park avenue penthouse. One day he nicknamed me his 'lolita'. It stuck.
The next year I met a Producer for a SAG Independent film. Same deal-40 years old. He cast me as the lead in his film and I was soon working as an executive producer-I cast all the male roles, dealt with the SAG reps for the project-everything was ready to go. Unfortunately, his obsession with me had grown into a full time thing that caused him to continue pushing the project further and further away. When I notified him that I had at last obtained professional representation, he dropped the project.
So I began to see the dangers of older men as well. Unfortunately, I've never connected to anyone my age. Most of my friends-men and women-are at least eight to ten years my senior.
I was told once-"You have the face of a child, but the body of a whore."
Now, I could take that as an insult. But I'm quite fond of that quote.
Many would say I have a daddy complex. I can honestly say that's just not right. I simply desire more than most men my age can supply me with.
Last year I played a woman with two children that lost it when her husband up and left them for a Princess and a Kingdom. I played Medea.
And I received rave reviews for being a crazy bitch.
I hope that after all of this none of you are sitting there feeling sorry for me. Because if you are you may not like this next bit.
I can assure you that every person out there that's dealt with any type of abuse like this would agree-you shouldn't pity us. You should fear us. Because we're faster, stronger, smarter-we just are. What doesn't kill you makes you a hell of a person. It's a blessing to be who I am, and I wouldn't be able to contribute any of what I have-or will-had I not had my face rubbed in shit first. I've accumulated years of experience that has enabled me to evolve into a 60 year old at 23. Always remember-when you've hit the very bottom, there's only one way to go.
So there it is my friends (new and old) as brief a history as I could give you, as honestly and freely as I could. No bitter resentment, no pain, just blood on paper. Or in code, rather, considering the source.
I look forward to your questions, suggestions, criticisms, collaboration, love, anger, curiosity, etc., etc.

Thanks for listening.

Respectfully yours.