By Daisy White
When forced to testify in court about my life as a prostitute I understood that despite my shame I needed to share all the secrets of my past. Sugar is the culmination of this realization.
***
Paris, France-Concierge apartment, January 15th 1972, 3:50 PM. Daisy; aged 7
In France, on Wednesdays, in the afternoons, there is no school. Instead, Pepe and me, we have our snack gouter together, just the two of us. Pepe is not my real grandpa. Anyway, I sit on top of his big green Pepe fauteuil, the one he always sits in to watch T.V. He sits in his chair and I slide down onto his neck so we can “go to the hairdresser” together. I’m the hairdresser, so my job is to sweeten up his hair with special hair tonic, combs and barrettes. His hair smells very bad like an ouvrier. An ouvrier works in buildings, building things on ‘construction’ sites. The tonic smells very strong, like alcohol, because it has alcohol in it. I put it on Pepe’s head, ask him to hold it, and then... he drinks it a little bit. When Meme’s not home, he drinks it a lot a bit. Once his hair smells nice, we go and stand in the kitchen to have our gouter together, just the two of us—chocolat chaut and café.
“Pepe, can I make a canard in your coffee with the sugar?”
In France we all dunk square sugar cubes into the coffee, and then we eat it whole—Faire un Canard, to make a duck, not a dunk, a duck. You dip your sugar in the café till it’s all wet, and then, you eat it whole. I stand over Pepe’s black steamy café in the little cuisine holding sugar cubes in my fingers. “Pepe, Pepe, can I make another canard in your coffee with the sugar?”
“Oui, cherie, come and get some sugar.” I love to eat Canard from Pepe’s café.
“Pepe, what, what are you doing?” Pepe loves me and I love him.
“Just rubbing an itch, don’t move, stay here, this is the best ‘sugar’.”
Pepe likes to rub his pants on me when he gives me sugar. “Oui, cherie—so good, sh... sh—SUGAR!”
Beverly Hills Hotel January 15th 1998, 3:50 PM. Daisy; Aged 33
“Sure, you can call me sugar if you’d like... I’d love to see you again; you’re such a nice man. Just let Natasha know—that that’s what you’d like to call me—from now on... She’ll understand. I’d love it if you’d call again, anytime...”