Bad Language

I do not know how I write my experiences without using “bad language”, when it is often the language of my truth.

I choose to use the words that were used as weapons against me. Use words that I made myself into.

I was a poet before I wrote prose, so when I write any word I chose it with great care. No word is there by accident.

I thought I would select a few words, and say their meaning for me.


I was never a sex worker, I was a prostitute.

It was not work, though it was very hard, though it was sometimes paid.

It was named work by others to fool me to think it was normal.

It was not sex, not in the sense that sex is about being connected, if sex has mutual respect, if sex is about no being heard.

It was not sex, it was torture, it was intimidation, it was fear, it was pain.

It was not sex, but others claimed it was.

I was prostituted, in that being prostituted is to a sex object for men to fuck, to own.

I was prostituted, in that my no never existed.

I was prostituted, in that however much money, how many drinks were brought, however I got bed away from going home, however posh the hotel was – I was always under the will of the john, damned close to enslavement.

I was prostituted, in that I was punished by gang rapes and or extreme anal sex.

Prostitution is not a job like any other.

What cleaner is punished by her head shoved down the toilet and anally raped. If you work at McDonald, are you rape in the back alley as “just part of the job”.

That is prostitution for millions of women and girls in the world.


That word was a weapon in every inch of me.

Whore was the word that I made myself – coz it stopped me knowing my reality.

Whore was me.

I was dirty, I fucked any man, I fucked them anyway that they wanted.

Whore was me.

I give it out for money, I give it out to not go back to my stepdad, I give it out coz I was too drunk to care, I give it out coz I saw it as suicide.

I lived to fuck myself to death.

Whore was me.

As I lay as in the porn shoots that poisoned my brain.

I was nothing but a whore.

As men spit on me, as men fuck in every hole, as men hit me into walls, as men hit back from unconsciousness to carry on carrying on.

I was nothing but a whore.

So I forgot I could even dream of hope.


It was never sex, I was fucked almost to death.

Sex reminds there can be affection, there can be tenderness. Sex is real.

I was fucked.

Fucked so pain was all I knew. Fucked so I could not have hope. Fucked so I knew how inferior I was.

I was fucked.

Fucked was the language of pure hate.

But the sex trade pretend it just sex.

All I was being fucked as a prostitute has nothing to do with sex.

Unless fucking a corpse is your ambition.


I cannot use the word vagina when speaking of my prostituted years. Vagina has no connection with my reality.

I was called cunt by johns and managers.

I was their cunt, cunt was screamed at me as I was raped, they always forced cunt down my throat.

I grow to hate the word. I was terrified of it.

I heard cunt and became obedient. Cunt made me a robot.

Now, I choose with a passion to reclaim cunt for myself.

Never again will it used as a weapon to silence me.

When I feel what happen to my vagina, how it was destroyed, how much hate was poured into it, how it was owned, how it too many penises, teeth, tongues, objects, hands force into it, how it choose to die in life.

I cannot named that vagina – it was a cunt.

I want now to bring love into my cunt, give it safety, show it tenderness.

I want my cunt to know it can be proud that it survived and now is making a real life.


I think it is a privilege to complain about bad language, for it sometimes comes from a place where language has not been as a weapon against you.

I, like others who are oppressed, know that words are used as vicious weapons, especially when you know the words will become violent action.

I believe that any group or individual who turns words of hate into words that they take ownership of, are an amazing creative and courageous act.

It does help to bring power back.

Look at why you find bad language uncomfortable, before criticising.

2 responses to “Bad Language

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