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Girls sell sex in Hong Kong to earn shopping money
Story Highlights "Compensated dating" growing among Hong Kong teen girls, social workers say Practice is a form of prostitution, Hong Kong legal experts say Caseload of girls engaging in practice has doubled in two years, social worker says Girls engaging in practice cut across socioeconomic levels, social worker says

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© 2022 Cable News Network. A Warner Media Company. All Rights Reserved. CNN Sans ™ & © 2016 Cable News Network.
This story contains graphic depictions that may be disturbing to some readers.
Most girls who engage in compensated dating don't view themselves as prostitutes, a social worker says.
HONG KONG, China (CNN) -- She doesn't want to be identified, except by her nickname "Sze," and she has a secret past. Her father doesn't know what she did as a 16-year-old, and she hopes he never finds out. But Sze, now 19, wants young girls to hear her story so they never make the same mistake.
"My first customer was an ordinary man in his 40s. We skipped the dinner part and went straight to the guest house for sex," Sze recalled. "Actually, I was a bit scared, but I knew this was the only way I could get money. This customer wasn't bad, though. We just had sex, he paid, and then he left. I thought this was easy money, and that's why I continued doing this kind of thing."
For a year and a half, Sze was part of a growing social phenomenon among teens in Hong Kong called "compensated dating," a practice in which a young woman agrees to go on a date with a man for a fee. More often than not, the date involves sex.
Sze said she started compensated dating because many of her classmates at an all-girls school were doing it. She says she became jealous when she saw the designer clothes, bags and cosmetics they bought with the money they earned through compensated dating. Sze wanted the same for herself, so her classmates introduced her to Internet chat forums where she met male customers. Watch young women describe why they do it »
The practice can have deadly consequences. Last year, a 16-year-old Hong Kong girl was killed in a gruesome murder after she went to a 24-year-old man's apartment for a compensated date. The man, Ting Kai-Tai, killed the teenager, dismembered her body and flushed the remains down the toilet. A jury convicted him of murder and sentenced him to life in prison.
Sze told CNN she knew a compensated date could go horribly wrong. She would set ground rules with clients on the phone first. She charged them $350 for a date and clarified how many times she would have sex with them.
She said sometimes the customers would stray from the rules, asking for more sex or refusing to wear a condom.
"Sometimes, I did feel shame. I kept asking myself why I had to do this kind of thing to make money. But the feeling didn't stay long. I would relax when I wanted to buy something. I just thought I could always quit after a short time or whenever I wanted," Sze said.
Most girls who engage in compensated dating don't view themselves as prostitutes, said social worker Chiu Tak-Choi.
"For the girls, they don't think so because they think they can quit anytime. The girls -- even though they post their details on the Internet -- they think they can quit. Even if they encounter the guys, if he is not good-looking, she can quit and say 'I don't do it.' They think they have a lot of power to control whether they do it or not, so they think of it very differently from prostitution."
Chiu, the social worker, is currently working with about 20 girls who are trying to leave the world of compensated dating. It is hard to quantify how big the problem is in Hong Kong because the business is conducted under the radar, he said.
Chiu believes the problem is getting worse because his caseload has doubled in the past two years.
Prostitution is illegal in Hong Kong, and legal experts say that compensated dating is a form of prostitution. "The law prohibits soliciting for immoral purpose," said Stephen Hung, a criminal litigator with Pang, Wan & Choi. "When a court looks at sentencing, the greater the age difference, the more serious it (the sentence) is."
Why do young girls get involved in compensated dating? The reasons vary from an unstable home life to a desire for material goods, Chiu said.
One 14-year-old girl told him she started compensated dating when she lost her cell phone. She said her parents wouldn't buy her a new one, so she thought she could earn some fast money with paid sex. She had her eye on an expensive cell phone. When the money from the first compensated date didn't cover the cost for the new phone, she went on a second paid date.
Girls involved in compensated dating don't necessarily come from poor families, Chiu said. They are from all levels of socioeconomic classes, he said. Improved family communication is one solution to preventing girls from becoming involved in compensated dating, Chiu said.
"The family has to do its part. I think caring for children is very important. Whenever they have problems, they can ask someone for help."
Sze said she was saved by a social worker who stepped in on her behalf. After a pregnancy scare and a number of unpredictable customers, Sze said her self-esteem plummeted. The social worker helped her get back on track.
"She helped me understand that making money respectably is actually not that hard in Hong Kong. I finally realized that it was wrong to make money by selling my body. It just wasn't worth it."
Sze now works at a hair salon to earn a living. She has tried to talk her old friends out of compensated dating, but they are not listening, she said.
"They felt annoyed when I talked to them about this. I'm now reluctant to get in touch with them. They just tell me they're different. Maybe they have more serious family problems or some other burdens. I know I can't control their thinking, so I just stopped trying to help them."

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Little women
Mums say they boost self-esteem. Critics say they sexualise kids. We visit the bling-filled frontline of children's beauty pageants.

WORDS Melissa Fyfe
PHOTOS Tim Bauer
VIDEO Tim Young
DESIGN Mark Stehle
DEVELOPMENT Nathanael Scott
MULTIMEDIA EDITOR Felicity Lewis

T hey meet in secret to avoid the protesters, the people they call “the haters”. The haters accuse them of child abuse and want their activities banned. So this event, run on a recent Saturday at Melbourne’s Best Western Airport Motel & Convention Centre, is not advertised to the public. You can’t buy a ticket or find details on the internet. And by 9.10am, the day is well underway in Room 25.

Room 25 Indianna with her mother, Melita Swift, and Melita's fiance, Guy Crane.

Inside this room is a beautiful, freckle-nosed five-year-old named Indianna Swift. Indianna, relaxed and smiling, is still in her nightwear – a pink onesie – but her hair looks ready for the red carpet. “That’s a wiglet,” says her mother Melita Swift, 25, pointing to the cascading brown curls pinned to her daughter’s head. Swift, a childcare group leader from Queensland, knows all about wiglets, and many other things besides, since joining the world of child beauty pageants in January. Earlier, a woman came by to do Indianna’s face. It’s airbrush make-up, which has pleased Swift, because you can still see Indianna’s freckles. The make-up at the last pageant, she says, was ridiculous. “It looked like she was ready to go on a drag queen show.”
Travelling to Melbourne for a national child beauty pageant is not something that the stage-averse Swift thought she would ever do. And she certainly never imagined forking out $2500 on airfares, hotels, make-up and cupcake dresses for this one contest.
“I was one of those judgmental parents,” says Swift, who has her fiancé, an aspiring policeman called Guy Crane, 25, and her mother Raelene Berich, 48, by her side. “I was one of the worst.”

Just so Grandmother Raelene Berich and mother Melita Swift tweak Indianna's costume.

But things changed when Indianna began to walk. All she wanted to do was perform, but she was pigeon-toed and told she could never dance. Searching for something her daughter could physically cope with, Swift found the Follow Your Dreams competitions, one of the nation’s two big pageant systems. She believes practising the simple pageant poses has helped to almost cure Indianna’s pigeon-toed stance.
Like most parents in the growing Australian child beauty pageant industry, Swift believes she is unfairly stigmatised because of the reality-TV series Toddlers & Tiaras (screened here on Foxtel). The show is about the $US5 billion ($7.1 billion) US child pageant industry at its most exploitative, with “momsters” telling their daughters to “smile until it hurts!” and feeding them Pixy Stix candy (otherwise known as “pageant crack”).
Of course, before Toddlers & Tiaras, there was the strange and unsolved 1996 murder in Colorado of six-year-old beauty queen JonBenét Ramsey, who looked like a doll. And after Toddlers & Tiaras came the spin-off Here Comes Honey Boo Boo , a popular show until it was axed when June Shannon, the mother of Honey Boo Boo (real name Alana Thompson), reunited with a child sex offender who had allegedly abused another daughter. Tawdry doesn’t even begin to describe this stuff.

Pout Indianna practises her moves.

Melbourne entrepreneur Kylie Drew, 44, who runs the Follow Your Dreams competitions, knows what Toddlers & Tiaras is like; she was once a guest judge on a pageant featured by the show. Drew, multitasker extraordinaire and self-confessed control freak, has travelled extensively across the US. Six years ago, she imported this particularly American subculture to Australia, setting up one of the country’s first child modelling pageants.
The Australian culture, she says, is different. Unlike the US, children are not judged on their facial beauty. And she says the parents are better behaved than those television “pageant moms”. As dance schools face growing criticism of their skimpy outfits and suggestive moves, Drew says she offers a safe place, and a friendly community, for stage-obsessed kids to strut their stuff and gain confidence.
Can this really be so harmless? “The haters”, as Drew calls them – such as those behind Collective Shout, the campaign against the objectification of women and the sexualisation of girls – certainly don’t think so. Collective Shout and psychologist Michael Carr-Gregg, among others, have called on politicians to ban child pageants, arguing they create “sexualised dolls”, leading to negative body image, eating disorders, depression and low self-esteem.
Yet sitting in Room 25, watching Indianna bouncing on the hotel bed, it is hard to see her as an exploited or troubled child. She’s one of the happiest, most delightful five-year-olds I’ve ever met. Later in the day I’ll find myself confused, even disturbed, by other parts of the pageant experience, but not now. This little girl is fine.
I t’s just after 10.30am and the action is starting in the hotel’s function room. Kaliese comes on stage in a coral cupcake dress. “Kaliese is outgoing,” says Drew, MC-ing from the side of the stage (she has a microphone in one hand, her smartphone in the other: she is simultaneously running a dance competition down the road). “Her favourite movie is Tinkerbell . Her hero is her daddy.”
As soon as Kaliese comes off stage, her mother, Sheridan Larkman – who also runs pageants – puts a dummy in her mouth. Kaliese is 16 months old and, for most of her performance, was in her mum’s arms. But she smiled and waved at the judges, the most you can expect from someone yet to master a fork. In this under-three category, she’s up against some tough competition: 14-month-old Marley, a little ratty after skipping a nap, and Kaliese’s sister Alaska, 2½, who later completely misses the talent section due to her afternoon sleep.
The first category, formal wear, is a crucial section, making up half the final score. Later comes casual wear, “outfit of choice” and an optional talent segment. In all categories, except talent, contestants assume poses and walks. “It’s like they are gliding on stage,” is how Swift describes it.
It’s about poise, elegance and a quality often mentioned in the pageant world called “sass”. Cheekiness, in other words.
The three most important people in the room are sitting in front of the stage: the judges. One is Jessica Martini, Miss Galaxy Australia 2014. Martini has long blonde locks that hit the top of her peplum skirt. She could be a real-life Barbie, except, of course, researchers once estimated the odds of finding a real woman with Barbie’s waist measurement was one in 2.4 billion. The judges enter each contestant’s score for technique, overall presentation and grooming into their laptops.

Judge Jessica Martini, Miss Galaxy Australia 2014.

Next on stage is Neveah (yes, that’s “heaven” spelt backwards) in a diamanté rhinestone cupcake dress. The three-year-old is tentative, a mouse in an open space, and skitters off the stage as soon as she can.
After her performance, four-year-old Tabitha (“Her ambition is to be a rock star, her favourite movie is Frozen ”) receives from her mother a pink toy camera in its packaging. Reward? Bribe? I don’t know.
Then there’s another Marley, who is three. Marley’s mother Raelene Eshun, 36, is in the audience, discreetly giving little cues to her daughter with her hands.
Eshun is an unlikely pageant mother. She has dreadlocks and works in child protection. Marley’s father Edward Eshun is from Ghana, and he and Raelene also care for his daughter Naa, 9, competing today. Edward, a drummer and dancer, sits quietly in the corner, offering advice when asked. Should Naa’s hair be up, down, or halfway up and down? Naa wants to model: “She’s a very humble young girl, but get her on the runway and she just turns into Naomi Campbell,” says Raelene Eshun. So Eshun found Drew’s competitions. And then Naa wanted her sister Marley to join her.
Like most mothers here, Eshun found a supportive, tight-knit community in the pageant world. And Eshun is particularly impressed that the Follow Your Dreams pageants do not score girls on facial beauty. “With the American TV shows, you think it is all about fake eyelashes and that sort of stuff. I put a little lip gloss on my girls. Yes, there are mums who may go a bit overboard, but that’s okay, that’s their choice. My girls do fine without all that extra stuff.”
P ageants are not cheap. This one costs $350 to enter. Dresses are about $150 second-hand or up to $2000 new, depending on how “blinged” they are, as one mother put it. One 12-year-old contestant has a $3000 dress (it’s about making sacrifices for your kids, her devoted dad says, so he buys his clothes from Kmart). So why do parents (mostly mothers) do this? Fame? Maybe. If they stick with the pageant system they might find fame as Jennifer Hawkins and Rachael Finch did after appearing in the Miss Universe competition.
But others, like Raelene Eshun, do it simply because their kids enjoy it. “I think they get confidence and friendships, the obvious stuff,” says Eshun, whose daughters sell their unwanted toys at garage sales to pay for their pageants. “Marley is a very creative, confident little girl. She was born that way and I think it is a fantastic outlet for her to be who she is.” (Marley now has an agent and has modelled for Aldi nappies.)

Double act Cruz Clarke with his mother, Karina, who also competes.

Karina Clarke, 39, has spent nearly $2000 on this pageant (“My husband would kick my butt if he knew,” she jokes). It’s particularly expensive this time because Clarke is also performing with her son Cruz, 4, the competition’s only boy. Clarke, a hairstylist, started Cruz in pageants because “he was pretty obsessed with the stage”. He often wins “Prince” or “King” of his category, but has never pulled off a “Supreme” title. It’s a tough ask to win against the “sparkly” girls, Clarke admits, so she adds “some bling” to his little suits.

Sharp Veteran "Prince" and "King" Cruz.

Quite how Cruz, or anyone else, knew he loved the stage before he got up on one in his first pageant is just one of the questions I find myself puzzling over during what turns out to be a long and bewildering day. But for many mothers – such as Clarke, Eshun and Swift – the pageant journey begins with the booming baby-show industry. That’s where their child first discovers the thrill of a stage. This was true for Sheridan Larkman, mother of Kaliese and Alaska. But why put your baby in a show?
“As a mum, it’s just something that you do,” says Larkman. “Every mum does it at one point or another.” Not this mum, I think. I would never put my 19-month- old in a baby show. But I do not say this out loud.
A lexis Turner is one of those How-does-she-do-it? mums. The 30-year-old from Brisbane is studying a double degree in interior and graphic design, runs her own business, and has a nine-year-old son, a six-year-old daughter and a five-month-old baby. Not only this, but she manages to have perfectly shiny, straight, black, shoulder-length hair and looks gorgeous in all black and jewelled sandals (she’s also wearing a diamanté badge that says “Pageant Mom”). Turner is not a baby-show sort of person, either, but she did watchToddlers & Tiaras. One day, her daughter Ayva – a pretty, olive-skinned little girl with long brown locks – came in while she was watching. “She was hooked,” says Turner.
Ayva was then about three, and Turner thought it was a phase. She took Ayva to dancing classes to see if that would dissuade her from pageants. It didn’t. So 18 months ago, they joined the pageant world. “I think at first she just loved the idea of dressing up and looking pretty and all that stuff,” says Turner. “She was actually quite shy and we didn’t know how she would go on stage. But since then she’s improved so much. Her public speaking is excellent now. She still likes the whole dressing-up thing, but the actual pageant day is the big thing for her.”
This pageant day is not going so well for Ayva. Or so Turner thinks. “The stage is different here, it’s thrown out Ayva’s steps,” she says, anxiously. It’s now time for outfit of choice and Ayva is up. Her song is Itsy Bitsy Teenie Weenie Yellow Polkadot Bikini .
The bikini, it turns out, is neither itsy bitsy nor teenie weenie; it’s actually a halter-neck one-piece with about 10 centimetres of flesh-coloured material in the middle and ruffles above her bottom. Towards the end, there’s a slightly disturbing “booty shake”, a shimmy of her bottom – not at the judges, away from them. But, on the whole, the performance is kind of cute.
“That made my skin crawl,” Fairfax video journalist Tim Young says at lunch. “It was bordering on pornographic.” Young is a father of a three-year-old daughter and, obviously, a man. Was he seeing things differently because of this? Or am I just a bad feminist for thinking it was odd but benign? I can’t work it out. It’s as if I saw a puppy and he
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