Growing up in Barbados was a rebellious time for me. I lived in a modest but comfortable home in a small village with my father, mother, and two sisters. We had a very large extended family, all living in houses dotted around the village, within walking distance of each other.

As a child, I had a very dysfunctional relationship with my parents—especially my mother. In fact, the entire family was dysfunctional. My parents constantly argued, and at times their fights turned physical. The arguments were mostly about a woman my father had been involved with during his school days. She had lived in America for many years, but every time she came home on holiday, my mother believed my father was still seeing her. And she was right.

Often, my mother physically attacked my father. A few times, she picked up a knife or scissors in a fit of rage, and there would be blood all over the floor. It’s a miracle neither of them was killed. I remember my sister and I sitting “ringside” on the sofa, witnessing it all firsthand—getting our early, warped education on what marriage really looked like.

My mother had a split personality. At times, she was a mean, tough brawler no one dared mess with. At other times, she was perfectly normal. She was also spiteful and, too often, an excessive disciplinarian who never spared the rod. She beat me with anything she could get her hands on—whips, sticks, belts—until bruises and welts were clearly visible on my body. Her favorite weapon, though, was her shoe. She could snatch it off mid-step and hit me directly in the head from across the room with bull’s-eye precision. Somehow, it would end up back on her foot like a boomerang before I even knew what hit me.

Pulling my ears was another of her torture techniques. I hated going anywhere in public with her. She expected me to know, telepathically, which direction she was about to turn. If I didn’t, she’d yank my ear so hard to “correct” my sense of direction. She didn’t even need to look at me—she knew exactly where my ear was at all times. Honestly, working at Guantanamo prison might have been a fitting career choice for her.

I wasn’t an easy child. I was mischievous, rebellious, and strong-willed—very much my mother’s son. But the violent punishments often far outweighed the misdeeds.

Back then, child abuse laws were either nonexistent or simply not enforced in Barbados. We were also flogged at school by our teachers. I wouldn’t even think of telling my parents—because I’d be beaten again for whatever had happened at school.

I ran away from home many times to escape my mother’s wrath. I’d hide out at my grandmother’s, aunt’s, or uncle’s homes. I was always happier elsewhere. Eventually, I’d sneak back home once I thought she had calmed down. Where else could I go? I was still just a child.

This relationship with my mother made me rebellious to the point of being self-destructive—socially, academically, emotionally, and psychologically. Later in life, I found myself subconsciously sabotaging many meaningful opportunities. It kept me from ever reaching my full potential.

I also realized this damaged my relationship with women. For many years, I had a love-hate relationship with them. Some of my more intellectual friends said that the lack of affection from my mother made me crave affection from many other women. That may well have led me to become the hopeless playboy and heartbreaker I eventually became. I mastered the art of seduction.

From an early age, I was exposed to infidelity and promiscuity all around me—in my family, among friends, and throughout the neighborhood. Most of the girls I had sex with as a boy already had boyfriends. It felt like everyone was sleeping with everyone. I was raised in a society that felt like one big rabbit farm.

As a young man, I was handsome and had a toned, muscular body. I had the gift of gab, natural charm, and the energy to have sex all night long—so long as the woman wasn’t ugly. Despite the many lovers, I never fell in love. I was afraid of emotional closeness. I’d run from a relationship the moment it got serious, always creating an argument as my excuse to escape commitment.

Whenever I met someone I could fall in love with, I ended it as fast as possible. I left behind a long trail of broken hearts around the world. Contrary to popular belief, my heart was broken a few times too.

I started primary school at age five. I was the cutest little boy in class, dressed in khaki short pants, a button-up shirt, socks, and black shoes. At least, that’s how I left home in the mornings. I hated shoes—and by the time I got to school, I was barefoot. That’s one of the freedoms of growing up in the hot Caribbean climate.

At just six years old, I cheated death for the first time when I survived a battle with spinal meningitis. At first, the doctors misdiagnosed me with pneumonia and gave me the wrong treatment. I grew weaker and lifeless. I spent six months in the hospital and was eventually told I might never walk again. I was paralyzed and confined to a wheelchair. But something in me wouldn’t give up. I defied the odds.

Maybe, on some level, I already knew my destiny—to fulfill the decadent, immoral, and sinful fantasies of ladies, bitches, whores, and the dirty bastards who called themselves clients. I couldn't do that from a wheelchair. And besides, how else would I get so much material for my book?

As I said in the introduction to this book, something happened that triggered a chain of events shaping my radical views on women, relationships, and life—and ultimately led me into the sex industry.

Throughout my early childhood, there were whispers of a scandal involving my mother and my younger sister. Every time I got close to someone gossiping, they’d abruptly fall silent or change the subject.

I begged my aunts, uncles, and grandmothers to tell me the truth. All I gathered from eavesdropping was that it involved my mother and my little sister.

When I was 13, my grandmother finally sat me down and said, “It’s time for you to know the truth about your mother and your little sister.” She then told me everything.

During my illness with meningitis, the treatment was long and very expensive. There was no way my father could afford the medical bills. One day, the doctor told him, “Don’t worry. The bills will get paid somehow.” What my father didn’t know was that this doctor was sexually attracted to his wife—my mother—and fully intended to take advantage of her desperation.

My mother was young and afraid. Her only son was dying, and she couldn’t afford the medical care I needed. She was the perfect victim. Soon, she and the doctor began having an affair. She got pregnant.

No one knew until the baby was born. Naturally, my father was overjoyed to have a third child. He even handed out cigars to celebrate. But later, my mother broke down—perhaps unable to bear the guilt—and confessed everything in front of several people. That moment shattered our family and left scars that never fully healed.

Her guilt manifested in emotional, psychological, and physical abuse toward me after I returned from the hospital. Subconsciously, she blamed me. If I hadn’t gotten sick, it wouldn’t have happened. And I didn’t help matters by being rebellious.

The beatings stopped suddenly when I was 16. I had had enough. One day, while she was beating me, I picked up a knife. I was in a blind rage. As she raised her hand again, I locked eyes with her and screamed, “If you hit me again, I will fucking kill you today.” The devil himself was in me. She knew I meant it. She never hit me again. The years of abuse ended in that moment—so did a piece of my sanity.

That scene haunted me for a long time. How could a relationship between mother and son come to this?

As an adult, I can now see how my mother was taken advantage of by the doctor. I no longer carry the hatred and disgust I convinced myself I felt for her. I’ve since forgiven her, just as I hope she has forgiven me for the choices I made in my life. Who am I to judge—especially my own mother?

It took more than 30 years for us to find that forgiveness. Eventually, we developed a much better relationship. Our communication improved, and the emotional tension faded. But we never spoke about what happened. The elephant in the room was always present. And without that conversation, full closure never came. I knew it never would.

On 22 June 2017, my mother died. She left this world with many of her secrets unspoken, and much of the past still locked away. But before she passed, we had found peace with one another. We had reached a place of mutual respect, and in our own quiet way, we forgave each other.

Some of the damage that was done can never be repaired. But we were both content with the progress we made.

Sometimes, it’s best to simply close and lock the door—once the demons are gone.

Chapter 2