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Then, we would come to a door that I had never seen before. She would open it and inside would be an empty classroom. With white walls a large desk in the front of the room, (which would have been a teacher's desk had the room been in use, which was obvious it wasn't) and a few crummy desks lined up in rows. She would lead me to the big desk and tell me to sit against it. She would do a slow, but seductive strip tease. By this point my dick would be pressing against my pants so hard it felt like my pants could no longer contain it. Once naked, she would drop to her knees and slowly unzip my pants. Her face would be so close to my, now super-hard, cock that I could feel her breath. She would begin teasing my dick as she slowly circled the tip of my head with her tongue. Then after a while of that she would begin to take in my dick, at first only teasing it by only taking in a small portion before retreating back to the head. Each time she would suck a little more, until she decided to. The man kept talking and I saw that Teddy was getting angry. They were speaking Spanish but with a different accent that I'd learned and I could only make our some of the words. "Trap" was definitely one of them and it scared me.After a long time, Teddy yelled "Fuck off! Shut the fuck up!" He picked the alarm clock up off the dresser and threw it across the room, then he stormed toward me. "Hold her," he growled and two of the men grabbed me underneath the arms and pulled me up until I was kneeling on the bed. He slapped me hard across the face, then back in the other direction. I tasted blood, he split my lip. He hit me again, then pulled back his fist and swung it hard toward my belly. The man holding my left shoulder jerked me away just before it landed and Teddy screamed at him. They argued while I looked up at the camera, pleading with my eyes for Sam to come and end this. But he didn't. Teddy slapped me back and forth across the face until I felt like my teeth were going to.
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I know mom wanted to be a jazz singer but had to work to put food on the table. That’s when she’d say, “I’d be a jazz singer if I didn’t have to put god damn food on the table.” Her saying that made me feel sad and awful like it was my fault she couldn’t be a singer. That’s probably why she drank so much and would fall asleep drinking and smoking in her chair listening to Billy or Sarah. I used to see her when I woke up in the morning, sound asleep in the chair with the needle from the record player clicking and clicking. I’d turn it off and put the record back in the album, then wake mom up and tell her it was time to get up and go work. And I had to get to school, something I hated, by the way. The drinking got worse and she didn’t sing like she used to. Her long brown hair was getting gray and she no longer wore colorful scarves around her neck or even seemed to care about her appearance. She’d come home from work and the first thing she’d do was pour a drink, take a gulp, let.

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