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External Reviews. Metacritic Reviews. Photo Gallery. Trailers and Videos. Crazy Credits. Alternate Versions. Rate This. A father has one mission: Save the life of his little girl.

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Edit Cast Credited cast: Tim Lovelace The Cowboy Daz Crawford Joachim Joe Estevez Father Glaslow David E. Detective Baker Katrina Lim Stephanie Oliver Theess Man with the Shotgun in Alley Greg Dow Andy Kiai Kim Kimberly's Mother Daron McFarland Young Guns Nick Tereschenko He said "You can always leave if that happens, and if they don't want to pay for the time, just let me know and I'll take care of it.

I wanted the money, but I also felt like I deserved the hard time. My fear and better judgment battled for another month before things spiraled out of control.

Usually, karaoke rooms are thick with the scent of cigarettes, sweat, and spilled alcohol, but one night I found myself in one that was oddly sterile.

MDMA makes you forget you were ever having a bad time, and that's exactly what I wanted. I sat close to him and downed the capsule with straight vodka.

We chatted for a bit, and another couple arrived to drink and take some MDMA before leaving for their own room.

There was no singing. An hour later, I felt the air explode out of my chest like I had fallen out of a tree and landed on my back. The pill was way too strong, and probably laced with something speedy.

I wanted to puke, cry, and lick something at the same time. When he leaned in to kiss me, I was grateful. His fat, fishy lips were a reprieve from the compulsive grinding of my jaw.

He pushed me against a wall and his hands began to wander. Then I felt him touch me there. For a moment, I saw how this could go. This would be my story to tell or keep.

A story like so many others I had collected over the preceding months. But some women don't have a choice when they enter into sex work, and some women do and take pleasure in it.

I was neither of those things. Money I wasn't spending wisely or saving? A false sense of security and self-esteem? I put The Flaming Lips on the stereo and hugged myself in the middle of the empty room while he sat bored in the corner with his phone.

When I got home, the drugs kept me up for nine hours grinding my teeth and shaking in my bathtub, too afraid to sleep.

I called my mom the next day and told her everything. She's not the type to smother me in sympathy, and this time was no different. I cried as she said my name over and over, like she was trying to remember the person attached to it.

She thanked me for telling her, and said she loved me and forgave me for hurting her baby. She called me her baby.

I felt her words like a comforting hand stroking my hair. Then she kindly suggested that I get my shit together. I wish I could say everything changed immediately, but it took another month before I quit being a doumi.

The handful of times I went out after that night weren't very lucrative. I played the part to get picked, but I was bitter and aloof and often got traded for another girl before my time was up.

By summer's end, my temp agency found a placement for me as an office assistant for a small consulting company. When they decided to keep me full-time, I cried with relief and told Jerry I was done.

He wished me luck and that was the end of it. Easy in, easy out I had escaped eviction and hunger, but selling myself for money did more damage than a few months of Top Ramen would have.

I had tested my limits, which is part of growing up, but they had extended so far outside of what I believed about myself that I felt lost.

For a long time afterward I was scared of myself, and of the mental billy club I'd crafted to police myself from the terrible decisions I now knew I was capable of making.

I'm glad to say I've moved past that phase of regret as well, and have allowed myself the many other mistakes I am sure to make while I walk this earth.

If I've learned anything from this experience, it's how to move on and forgive, but I'll never let myself forget.

I threw away all of the dresses I wore as a doumi, except the red one I wore that fateful night. I keep it as a souvenir of a place I never wanted to go back to, and of how far I have come.

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A doumi sometimes spelled domi , in Seoul and Hong Kong, is a karaoke hostess, a woman hired by clubs to cavort and sing kitschy tunes with overworked and often repressed businessmen.

The men use the karaoke rooms to let loose or impress potential investors, the way Americans would use a steakhouse with a craft beer bar.

This tradition is alive in the heart of Los Angeles , though a touch shadier. Late at night in LA's Koreatown, girls file into karaoke rooms rented by men who request female company.

The men, usually middle-aged Korean businessmen with lots of money but little swagger, observe the line-up, maybe ask a question or two, and either wave the girls away to see the next round, or pick their favorites to sit next to them.

If a girl doesn't get picked, she moves on to the next room, or back in the car to the next club until she gets a seat. I was a doumi for my first summer in Los Angeles.

It was good money, and the men were usually pretty generous, but it depended on how generous I was with what they wanted, and that's where the trouble began.

I was 26 years old and my degree in journalism was proving useless. I was certain that my six-month internship at a local newspaper was all I would need to break into publishing.

I struggled between waitressing and office temping to pay for a shoebox apartment in Koreatown. The cost of living was three times as high as I was used to back in my hometown of Las Vegas, and my student loan grace period was over.

Asking for money from my family was not an option I tried. Finally, in what seemed like an intervention from above, a coworker told me about her night job as a doumi, a gig she got through a Craigslist ad.

I joined her "company" and started working the next night. My first time out, I was elated at the ease of it all. Hungry for money and literally hungry, I looked every bit for sale in a short red dress and six inch heels.

Jerry gave me the rules: no drugs, no sex, don't date the customers, you can leave whenever you want. The girls warned me about the dangers of the job: watch your drink, don't get drunk, beware of undercover cops.

Some of them wore Kate Middleton-esque nude pantyhose, which they called "Vagina Protectors," so they could show some leg while also warding off unwelcome stray hands.

This should have sent me running, but I felt my hard partying years on the Vegas strip had prepared me well for all of this.

I was used to long nights in high heels and schmoozing men for drinks and a place to sit down, and figured this would be no different.

I was not ready, however, for the hit my self-esteem would take. Driving around to different clubs, getting in and out of the car and walking through karaoke rooms tarted up only to be passed over and made to do it all again was humiliating.

My first night was surprisingly comfortable, and I was lucky that I often got picked, but I did my best to have the men extend my time so I wouldn't have to circulate again.

I could work longer or more nights if I wanted, but I put limits on myself to avoid getting hooked on the easy money.

Even though it was a little sleazy, I told myself I would only doumi for a couple of months to stabilize my income until I found a better job.

One girl came back to the car in tears because a guy called her fat and threw a dollar at her to make her go away. There were many things about this job, besides the money, that made it easy to justify.

I seemed to attract the inexperienced, nervous men, which made the whole thing more palatable. They were happy to sit with a pretty girl and hold a conversation, and were usually so embarrassed by the process that they over-tipped.

I liked that I never had a problem getting picked for a room, unlike some of the other girls I worked with. Many of the girls were in their early twenties and high school educated aspiring models taking the Lindsay Lohan route through life.

There were a lot of drugs and a lot of water bottles spiked with Ecstasy in the bathrooms. I tried to distance myself from the hard partying and embrace what little professionalism there was as a doumi.

The men who chose me reaffirmed my snobbery, telling me that I wasn't like the other girls. I held on to this like a life raft; I was in this world but it was obvious, not just to me, that I didn't belong here.

Two months in, getting out was proving harder than I'd anticipated. Making more money hadn't changed the fact that I was still bad at managing it.

Even though I was making a good amount of cash, I never seemed able to get ahead of my bills. I started shopping for outfits to wear at night for more variety, and I ate out a lot because I was too tired to cook.

I also started to get greedy, staying longer hours at tables late at night and taking on extra evenings. It was getting harder to separate my independent, feminist self from the girl with a drunk guy's face in her lap, waiting for the clock to run out.

As I got more familiar on the weekend circuit, the clientele became more sinister and cheap. Desperation blurred my boundaries and I found myself letting little kisses or a hand on my bare thigh go by without protest in the hopes of getting a higher tip.

One night, a very drunk man picked me and proceeded to grope my breasts and thighs no matter how often I pushed him off. For two hours I fought back tears and beer breath as another girl from my company looked on with sympathy but said nothing.

At the end of my time, the guy gave me no tip and called me a bitch. Jerry could tell I was upset when I got in the car and asked to go straight home.

He said "You can always leave if that happens, and if they don't want to pay for the time, just let me know and I'll take care of it. I wanted the money, but I also felt like I deserved the hard time.

My fear and better judgment battled for another month before things spiraled out of control. Usually, karaoke rooms are thick with the scent of cigarettes, sweat, and spilled alcohol, but one night I found myself in one that was oddly sterile.

When the pimply manager of the karaoke bar into which those young woman had been disappearing emerges from a doorway, Vincent grabs him by his wiry upper arm and pulls him aside.

Get those girls out of there. The manager, with a helmet of hair that seems inspired by Peppermint Patty in the Peanuts comic, scratches his head like a teenage boy in trouble.

Within minutes, a crowd of pouty young women stream out the bar. Vincent was right. The four young women she pointed out and a couple of others jump into waiting sedans, including a shiny white Lexus, and disappear into the night.

Just how big the shadowy doumi business is in Los Angeles is difficult to know. But in a federal case filed against a Virginia man who ran a doumi business, the man told agents that about eight to nine companies each employ about eight to nine women in Annandale, Va.

My phone rings within minutes. Singing and drinking are definitely on the menu at the karaoke bar my ride-along crew hits next. Minivans are often used to shuttle doumi girls from one karaoke to the next, and we followed one into a parking lot in Pico Union, just outside Koreatown.

But the host seems to think our odd grouping is there to belt out tunes over overpriced bottle service and shows us into a spacious room.

Vincent marches past our greeter, into another closed room by the bar where the singing is in full swing. A half-dozen middle-aged men are in a tangle with a woman half their age.

At the head of the table, a man smokes with his arm around a woman wearing a shimmery bikini top and a black miniskirt.

Salao walks the hallways with the owner and points out that every window is either frosted or covered with a shoddily taped sheet of paper.

The bar, Salao tells the owner, is in violation of pretty much all but two of the conditions listed on its liquor license.

Later, parked along a grassy median near a Chuck-E-Cheese, we watch minivan after minivan pull into a parking lot, each dropping off two to four young women teetering in sky-high heels.

One young woman in a red dress and another in black emerge from the back of a sedan and walk into the karaoke. The sedan lingers.

Soon, the woman in the black dress returns. Hundreds bid goodbye at funeral for slain Downey police officer. Wheelchair stolen from girl without legs is returned to family.

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