Butterflies & Warnings

The kids and I ended up moving into a three-bedroom in The Beaches, right on Kingston Rd and Lee Ave, back in 2003. It was the longest I’d ever stayed at one address in my life. We lived there for sixteen years. Before that, I’d never stayed anywhere longer than a year and a half since I’d left home—and that was in Vancouver.

After Trent hit 18 months, I got him into daycare—The Beaches Daycare, right around the corner. I was itching. Couldn’t wait to get back to doing something new. Not hustling—I’d put that down.

It was different with Kayla. She was a girl, and I was terrified. I didn’t want anyone looking at her, touching her. That was always in the back of my mind in those early years. She wasn’t going to daycare—no chance. Only two people outside of Earl’s family ever watched her—and they were both my people. Women I trusted. That was it.

By then, I had spent two years teaching myself the internet. My uncle gave me that old computer, and I dove in—hard. I was scared of that thing at first, used to dread it.

But next thing I knew, I was on ICQ, Yahoo, MSN—getting thirsty to know more. It was a different kind of learning for me. A different type of adaptation. As luck would have it—adaptability just happened to be one of my greatest strengths.

I took a few courses—basic Microsoft, then advanced and a how to get back into the work world course. Started from scratch one more time. Did that through March of Dimes. That’s where I met all those PSW wannabes.

I was also working weekend late shifts doing customer service at Pizza Pizza. If I was going to go anywhere, I had to start somewhere. I needed something on my resume—and Pizza Pizza was a stepping stone for me, towards a hustle-free life. Honest work ain’t easy when you been hustling your whole life.

One day, this dude Marvin—aka Mucky at work—called me over to his cubicle. “Come here,” he said. I walked over, and he pulled up this MSN group on the screen. Photos. I saw one dude and I was like—“Damn. Who the fuck is that?” He asked me, “You wanna meet him?”

I was like, “Ya, sure.” He pointed to a different dude and said, “You sure not him?” “Ya, I’m fucking sure!”

The other pic was of a dude with his face bent up. I knew what I saw.

I hadn’t had any action since the day I got pregnant with Trent. Crohn’s, the move, the fight to get a roof over our heads, getting pregnant, having a baby—dick was the last thing on my mind. Until I saw him.

The following weekend, I went to work and it was dead. They cut a couple of us loose—me and Mucky, specifically. It was like nine, maybe ten, and we were scheduled until three. He asked, “You wanna go meet that guy?” I was like, “Yup, sure, let’s go.”

We pulled up to this condo at King and Portland. I remember thinking, okay… hmmm. Nice condo. The second he opened the door, I took one look at his face and thought—oh fuck!

His name was Q. He was Chet and Boz in one. Light skin. Tall. Pretty face. Nice lips. Dreads—just starting out on the journey. Immediately, I felt the fire in the pit of my stomach.

I’d been around all kinds. I started sizing him and the condo up right away, trying to read the space. I realized I had just branched out into a whole other world of shit, hanging with those two.

First thought—This ain’t his condo. Well, not just his. Maybe it was his girl’s. Maybe he was one of those. Pretty sure I just asked him outright. Didn’t believe him—but turned out, it was his.

The three of us hung out. Q was polite, chill—welcoming. He even had a pan of chicken breasts cooking in the oven. I was like Damn! Sexy, got a condo, and can fucking cook? I was impressed.

But Q? When he looked at me, he saw white privilege. I’m sure he saw dollar signs too. Hahaha. He had no fucking idea who I was, what I’d lived through. He saw this unassuming chick, part-timer at Pizza Pizza.

We chilled for a few hours—smoking, talking, laughing.

I used to be a big smoker. Me and Molly—all day, every day, back in the day.

I found my first chunk of hash when I was eleven. Brought it to this girl Tammy from the building. She knew what to do. We took it to some older guy’s place—he rolled it, we smoked it.

I smoked on my own, smoked with Annissa, her and I were budja champions from day one—and when I lived out west—well, that shit just goes without saying.

I traded buying a pack of smokes for an eighth of weed. Wasn’t a huge transition. I wasn’t big on cigarettes anyway. Eight dubes for $35 when a pack of smokes was $20? The switch was a no-brainer.

Q thought I was new. I wasn’t new. 

It got late—time to go. I was high, feeling good, had a solid hang with those two. Even if they couldn’t see me—I could see them.

Mucky wasn’t a roughneck, per se—he was more of a follower. A not-so-attractive tagalong that moved... mucky.

I hadn’t had a chill night like that in a minute—three years, easy.  It was familiar. I was comfortable. I liked it.

Q walked me out. I was still high, riding that calm. Got to the other side of the door, turned around, and kissed him. Couldn’t resist. But he did. He felt my lips—then backed up.

Q was six months younger than me. I’d never been with anyone my age or younger before—always older. Much older.

Except Trent’s dad. He was maybe three or four years younger. We had three wild nights. That was it. No relationship, no friendship. Not even a proper fucking conversation. How bad is that!

I’d been around—and been with—some serious motherfuckers, seven to ten years older than me, since I was fourteen.

We were both 32. Q had game. He was no joke—not at all.  But I was ahead of my time, from time. I had been exposed to a lot of shit from a very early age.

The next day at work, Mucky was sitting across from me. My phone started beeping or buzzing—making a noise inside my bag. A sound I never heard before. I was ignoring it. Mucky’s like, “Grab your phone.” I was like, Huh?”

I dug it out—looked down. It was a text message—”Miss me yet?” It was Q.

This was 2003–2004. I didn’t know fuck all about text messages. But from that day on—it was the way.

I’d had a taste of his lips, and a tease when he pulled away—like he was saying, Yeah, I might like you… but you can’t have that. That kiss.

Younger men—especially in the early 2000s—there was this stupid-ass thug rule—no kissing on the lips.

It was a pimp’s way of setting a boundary. It was foolishness in my eyes—some childish shit I wasn’t down with.

I wasn’t even sure Q liked me until I got that text, but once I saw that text message and the butterflies came into effect—I knew it was fucking on and it was gonna be lit! Even if it was just one time—bring it—I was all in!

It'd been three years or more since I’d felt that fire—I was long overdue. And he was fine as fuck!

We’d been texting back and forth since that night. Every time my phone went off I got butterflies in my stomach .

We set up another time to link. I met up with Mucky first—he took me to a different place. Q’s other place.

I walked in. It was dark. Grungy. Dog cage in the corner. Mattress on the floor. The living room was basic as fuck—just a couch, a table, and a TV. I said to myself—oh fuck... this is the spot. My whole perception flipped.

It immediately reminded me of Boz’s spot in B.C. I knew exactly where I was and what the fuck goes down at the spot.

Mucky dipped. Telling me—the square, white privileged girl “You're on your own now,” as if to say—Whatever happens next? Not on me.

A warning so to speak. In my head I was like yup I hear ya buddy loud and clear—no problem bye bye—see ya! Get the fuck out.

It was just Q. I knew he wanted to fuck. So did I. It wasn’t giving set-up vibes—not at all. I didn’t feel like ten guys were about to jump out of the closet and rape me.

Q wasn’t sloppy like that or stupid. He was too calculated. I just looked at Mucky and said, “Yup, OK cool—later.”

Q didn’t see me. Mucky didn’t see me. Nobody for the next several years ever really saw me and I just rolled with that.

Q was in the shower when I arrived—how fucking appropriate. Peeking out with his sexy ass, water glistening on his muscular shoulders all foamed up. Oh, I knew we were gonna fuck. And I knew it was gonna be good. By far Q was the sexiest man I’ve ever laid down with.

He got out of the shower all slow and shit—drying himself off, acting like his body was a masterpiece and he didn’t care if I watched or not. Plleeeasse. That was the whole idea. That was his schtick. He knew he was sexy. He knew he had game—game for days. I was entertained to say the least.

We hung out on the couch. He grabbed a bottle of tequila and a pink grapefruit. A few shots in—we started getting close.

I leaned in, tried to kiss him again. He pulled away. What?! I was thinking to myself stop this foolishness. I looked him dead in the face and said: “Oh, you gon’ kiss me—I’m telling ya right fuckin’ now.” Hahaha.

Ya–no fucking way I’m fucking a dude who won’t kiss. I ain’t no hoe. That whole “no kissing” thing his age group was on—that was some code shit. Either they saw you as a hoe, or they weren’t trying to catch feelings. Or both. A way of setting a boundary. I wasn’t the one.

I never fucked with younger dudes. I was old school. He wasn’t slapping that boundary on me.

He grabbed a piece of grapefruit, used it to chase a shot—then leaned in to kiss me, grapefruit still in his mouth. I grabbed it with my teeth and spit that shit out.

We were kissing from that day forward.

That moment—it was kinda… profound. The chemistry between us was undeniably magnetic. You could just see it whenever we were together. We looked like we belonged together.

We hooked up again and I went back to that spot, again—and thought, Ahh… yup the condo’s for show. Fuck.

I knew all about the spot. I didn’t want that life. I wanted the condo life. Being at the spot felt like I was going backwards—to a life I had already walked away from.

The kids and I headed to Cayo Coco a few days later. I left that night. I told Q we were going to Cuba—and said goodbye. I walked out that night still caught up in the trance he had me in.

We were together twice, just days apart—three times actually including the introduction, and I knew—that motherfucker was no good for me. Not at all. I could feel the live vibes.

I said to myself when I walked out that night—That was the last time that’s gonna fuckin’ happen.

I came back from Cuba and I carried on with my life not thinking about Q. I had a week to think about him under the sun—and I did.

He was fucking trouble. Great sex, fun as hell—leave it at that.

As the days went by, I thought to myself—phew, I dodged a fuckin’ bullet!

I had him out of my system. Or so I thought.

I was walking down Kingston Rd maybe a week later…when I heard it—that sound. Text message. “U back yet?”

I fuckin’ knew it was him. Those three words still haunt me to this day.

Texting wasn’t big back then, not across the board—it could only be him.

It was an oh fuck and an oh boy moment. My heart sank and instantly, I had butterflies in my stomach. I smiled.

I left it there.

He texted again: “I see you smiling.” And I was.

Q was composed of every evil and every great piece of every man I had ever fucked with—and then some.

I texted him back—“You’re no good for me, and I know fucking better. We had fun, it was great—best we just leave it there.”

He reluctantly, sort of agreed—that manipulative shit.

Next thing I knew, I was right back in his arms. And I got real comfortable being in his arms.

I don’t think Q even knew where this was going—or what his intentions with me were, at that time—if any.

He didn’t know what it was with me, but he wasn’t letting me go. And I really didn’t wanna go. I know I should have. But that ain’t the same.

I knew what he did for a living. I knew what he was about. I didn’t care. This was just a hot-ass, best-sex-ever, fired-up fling. Well… that’s what I kept telling myself.

In the back of my mind I always knew—thought to myself, because of the way that I was that only a G could handle me—Preferably, an OG.

The kids were usually in bed. Q would pick a meet-up place to grab food, a few drinks. Then we’d head back to the condo or the spot. I only went back to that grungy spot once or twice after Cuba—he had another spot nearby.

That was the closest I ever came to dating in my life. I’d get all cleaned up, dressed up for a night with Q once or twice a week.

We’d go all night. I was straight-up having a good ol’ time!

Up until then, my life was just school, work, and kids. My vitality had been resurrected.

It was supposed to be just sex—but like with Chet—you can’t fuck someone on the regular, six to eight months, with that fire, that intensity—and not catch feelings.

You’d have to be a robot.

Q liked to show off. “Get whatever you want… anything you want,” he’d say, tossing the menu like it meant nothing. He was Aries—full control. He needed it. Had to have it.

And after being in control of every single fucking move I’d ever made in my life? I liked it—Carry on, Big Daddy. Hahaha.

I was enjoying it—whatever it was.

I ultimately became infatuated with Q—the intimacy we shared.

Even though it was dysfunctional—dysfunction is what I was used to.

I craved the connection that formed.

We were going at it for months. The sex—the fire between us—was insane. I was never one to cuddle or be held—but I did that with him.

I stopped ducking out in the wee hours. Staying over. We were doing brunch, then going back to the spot or the condo to cuddle, smoke, and fuck some more. We grew close.

The way he handled me physically—it was like he could read my mind. He knew exactly what I needed. Chemistry at its best. I never had the feeling I had with him, with anyone. Ever.

This went on from late winter into early Spring.

One day, we were chilling at the spot. Above the doughnut shop. It wasn’t as grimy as the first—but it still had that feeling. It was still a spot. Like it could get popped at any minute.

If only the walls could talk? Shhhh. And I think—that was part of the excitement for me. I’d lived 15 years before I met Q with that kind of intensity.

Not in that exact way—getting popped—but I had been popped and I’d been interrogated before. I did a lot of risky shit. There’s a feeling that comes with that—a rush.

I was mentally prepared—”We was just fucking officer—his name? Oh that’s Patrick, we just met like an hour ago on at the bar, I don’t know a fuckin’ thing.” That would be my line. Peace out.

Whatever I did know, I still didn’t know.

A guy in his line of work though should’ve been more concerned— wondering if I’d talk. He used to say from that very first day, “Lemme run a report card—I gotta check you out, ‘cause you just never know.”

In my head, I was like—Ya man, do that—please!

A couple days later? Oh, my report card checked out. (If he even did check…He maybe went back three years—if at all.)

Q couldn’t see me, at all. He’d say things like—“I gotta keep you protected,” while squeezing me—“I don’t know what I’d do if they ever grabbed ya and threw ya in the truck…” He wasn’t talking about the police.

Going on from time to time like he had some serious business to handle that I couldn’t be around for. And I’m sure sometimes, that definitely was the case—but I wasn’t fucking stupid.

Those comments were cute, his way of showing me he cared or how scary shit could be. But really? It was control.

That sweet manipulation. Keeping my ass at home while he entertained others. One person in particular.

The only thing I needed protection from—was my damn self.

Check it. When I was pregnant with Kayla, living with her godmother up at Oakwood and Vaughan—surrounded by all those Scotians—Q had a spot around the corner. We knew the same people. But we didn’t know each other.

Q was many things. At one time in his life—he was a hardcore pimp, on top of his usual every day dangerous hustle. Every hard-core pimp I ever knew—they had a scary, dark side—their souls were black. The evil could be sweet, fine as hell—but when that darkness came out—Fuckin’ run.

While I was moving back from B.C., getting myself situated, Q was wrapping up a two-year bid. By the time we met, he’d been out about a year. I knew he came from that hood, we spoke about it but never a timeline.

Not in a million years did I think we would ever cross paths with mutuals. Scotians I used to run hard with in the late ’80s.

One night we’re leaving a club, in some laneway—and there they were—Tracy and Cleave.

Two dudes I used to hustle with back in the day, well mostly Tracy—I couldn’t fuckin’ stand Cleave.

They saw Q first—nodded, saluted him like he was a fucking sergeant. Then spotted me, did a double take—“Jeannette!?”

I was like, “Sup,” kept walking. Arm in arm with Q. Hahaha.

I looked at Q—“Wait—you know those guys?” He goes, “Yeah, those soft muthafuckers—they ain’t shit.” Hahaha.

I laughed so hard inside at his response. ‘Cause they really weren’t shit.

That led me to believe—he probably knew the hustle, but they ain’t had shit on Q. Q was a straight-up gangster. Real gangsters—they’re quiet, they don’t make a lot of noise. They move in silence. I made moves with gangsters before—but I was never with one. Not until Q.

Then Q went on to say—he used to fuck Nancy. I was like, Whattt? Casey’s woman? Hahahah! One of the Scotian dude’s wifey I knew from back in the day. Back when I was living right around the corner from Q and didn’t know him.  I bet she took one look at Q and was like daaammmnnnn! Just like I was–fuck Casey.

He fucked with the same guys I ran with ten years ago—just in a different capacity.

Those two dudes, Tracy and Cleave—they knew Q was capable of eating them alive. I could smell their fear when they saw him.

Scotians and Jamaicans were both about getting money—but not the same way. Scotians moved subtle—in plain sight. Jamaicans—not so much.

My guess—the affiliation was business. Scotians were selling. Q and his boys were buying. Or vice versa.

Tracy and Cleave must’ve been thinking, Damn—Jeannette’s with Q now, eh? Straight-up hoe! Hahaha!

I hadn’t seen those guys in over a decade. And I didn’t fuck with any of those people anymore. None of them. But that moment? That was definitely some news for those gossipy fucks. And I didn’t give two shits.

Honestly—I kinda felt like I levelled up after I saw their pussy-ass reaction to Q and by that time, I was more than comfortable walking arm in arm with Q.

They knew exactly what Q was about. And so did I. I knew he was a big, mean-ass pimp at one-time. Before the two-year bid—no question. I could see the con on his face and I heard in his voice when he spoke—it was at times, daunting.

We never did discuss Tracy and Cleave. Even though he knew I knew them, there was never a discussion. They were beneath him—he didn’t care to know in what capacity I knew them. And I didn’t bother to tell. They were dismissed.

Q picked something up inside. Gained a little wisdom—maybe even strategy. A new hustle to go along with the old one. I truly believe that when he got out, he was trying to put the pimpin’ down.

I knew full well—that far in with Q, he was telling his boys he had “big plans for me.” Maybe he was putting the pimpin’ down—but he wasn’t ready to lose the image.

Yo—dinners, clubs, great sex—I was about it. I didn’t give two fucks what he told his brother or his boys. I was right there—big smile on my face.

I was there for a good time. He was an escape for me—one filled with ecstasy. And it was always a good time. A great time. Until it wasn’t.

Q couldn’t see me because, well… he couldn’t see anything or anybody beyond his huge, fat fucking ego!

After all that time—all of everything—he couldn’t fucking see me! The hangs, the sex, the laughs, the deep weed talks. The way we clicked! He never got no fucking report card!

And it all worked to my advantage—100%!

I was his little damsel in his eyes, and I just carried on like that with him. I was something he wanted to create.

He didn’t have to create shit—I was already made and right in front of his fucking face!

He just thought we got along good, that I was cool. 

No, motherfucker!

I’m one of the ones.

All he could see was this minimum-wage basic bitch. He had it locked in his head that I was from B.C.—soft, naïve. Like I was from fucking Peachland or Summerland in the Okanagan, working at Pizza Pizza.

He didn’t think I had a fucking clue. About him. About drugs. About hoes. About anything. He thought I was green—fresh off the sidewalk.

His ego wouldn’t let him see me. Not even a glint.

I’d been around hoes my whole life. Even took in a few strays myself, back in the day. I’d accompanied many a hoe along their journey—watched them cry, watched them hustle, watched them burn.

I loved the hoes!

Q wasn’t the first pimp I ever fucked with. Let’s not forget Chet in my 20s. Remember that piece of shit?

If I was gonna be turnt out, it would've been—long before I was fucking 30, shit, even 20!

That ship hadn’t just sailed—it had sunk to the bottom of the fucking ocean.

Hoeing was never in the cards for me. As for drugs…I’ve made a few moves—and then some. This fucker didn’t know me. Couldn’t see me at all.

All Q ever did was talk about himself and lie.

Lying next to me after sex, diving into some “deep shit,” and I’d be looking into his eyes like—really?  Tell me more.

I could hear the bullshit swirling in between the truths. I knew the raw bits were real—I could easily identify the reals from the bullshit.

It wasn’t long before I could read Q. I knew what was up. The stories, the half-truths, the straight up lies.

Q needed constant validation. “Get over here, closer to me,” he’d say while we were dining. “You know I’m insecure.” Like it was cute.

It was one of his tells—that he was broken. Making a joke out of it. Insecure like no one else I’d ever met.

He told me he was raised in the South, and he had that American swag I couldn’t get enough of. The way he said, “Come here, love”—oof. That drawl. That charm.

Q was entertaining. Jacked. Hot. He had that—that je ne sais quoi thing going on. Mr. Fucking Popularity with all the right people—on the low. The underworld.

Men were intimidated, and every bitch looked at him like they wanted to fuck him—and he knew it.

He was good at keeping his eyes on me—always alert, like he had eyes in the back of his head. Thought he could distract me, like I wouldn’t notice. Like I wasn’t clocking the game he was running.

I was fucking paying attention—to all of it. Once I started paying attention—the more I watched, the more I knew—this was gonna hurt.

He had every bouncer in his pocket. We’d walk in like we owned the place—every place. That wasn’t new to me. But he’d always hit me with some slick shit like, “You don’t know about this—what you know 'bout that?” I’d bite my tongue, smirk on the inside—Ok, Daddy.

Meanwhile, swallowing every sharp word I wanted to throw back, choking on the silence, dimming my own shine—because that’s what he wanted. That’s how he kept control. And I let him.

No—I never called him Daddy. Not me. Not fucking me. As much as he would’ve liked that, I couldn’t do it. I wouldn’t do it. I never had a daddy, and even if I did, I sure as fuck wasn’t about to call my man that. That shit made my skin crawl.

I called him Babe and that’s what he called me.

Not fucking “Boo.”

One night, while I was at the spot, Q had to make a run. It was a Friday or Saturday night—Q stepped out.

He had a spot or two, and a few condos. He was always working.

“Gotta make a move, I’ll be back.” Cool. But he was taking a while that night, and I ended up passing out.

Then my phone rang. I picked it up, groggy, and this woman’s voice goes, ‘Hi, are you upstairs above the doughnut shop? Let me in.’ I was like—awww man. There it is. Here we fucking go. Bothered.

I mean—I wasn’t stupid. I knew I wasn’t the only one. I just didn’t think I’d have to deal with that.

After all that time with him, walking arm in arm, traipsing up and down King St. all those nights.

I assumed he had his shit under control. But nope. Up until then, I hadn’t heard a peep—and I respected that.

I wasn’t trying to hear nothing from nobody! I was having fun.

I wasn’t letting her in—or anybody else for that matter. My hands never touched the door. I was drunk, but still alert. Blew her off, then called him. “I’m just taking care of something. Gimme five minutes.” Cool.

He was hiding from her. She was in the fucking parking lot, behind the doughnut shop, for God knows how long waiting for him to come back—knowing I was up there.

I can’t remember how the rest of the night went. She was off my phone, he came back—when he finally did and I left in the morning.

Without saying much—we both knew shit just got fucked.

She was on some sleuth shit. Her name was Connie. I didn’t know about her—I didn’t care to know a damn thing. I never thought we were exclusive and I never asked questions.

Men like Q aren’t exclusive. They don’t know how to be. They need to spread their fire everywhere—show that shit off. It’s in them. It’s who they are.

I spent years with a motherfucker that had that exact same quality. Some men are just like that. Ain’t nothing anyone can do to change it.

Connie called me again the next day.

Asking me all kinds of shit—she was hurt.

I was rude.

She wasn’t like me—not at all. Not even close.

She was educated—master’s degree. Grew up sheltered in a proper house in the burbs, with proper parents.

The only thing we had in common was that we were both Virgos.

It was my take that she had no fucking clue who or what she was dealing with—because if she had—she wouldn’t have called me.