Inside Out


One way to explain that porn had on me is to see it from the inside out.

That is to explain what being “living porn” really meant to me.

To write I may have to very hard-hitting, but if you choose to read this, then remember whatever words are written here is of nothing compare the hell I was forced to live in.

I want there to be some shock, coz I so bloody sick of of the complacency round porn. It makes porn cozy and safe. It has nothing to do with my reality.


I first knew the coldness and hate of porn when I was too young to know what sex was.

It was my introduction to being a sex-object.

Porn was forced into my mind when I should of been a child.

Porn taught me to shut down. Shut down tenderness. Shut down imagination. Shut down playing. Shut down dreams. Shut down idea of hope.

In it’s place, I slowly built my a heart of stone. I turn myself into living death.

Christ, I was a child and already I learnt that to survive I had to kill myself. That is one of the many reason I hate porn.

What I saw I try to make it what it wasn’t.

I was shown cartoons, I had always loved cartoons. I had read Marvel, I loved Top Cat, I collected Beano. Cartoons were a joy.

Not these cartoons. Cartoons of young girls chased by men with penises hanging out. Cartoons of women gang-banged on beds. Cartoons of girls hiding from what I want to know.

Always there was violence, always it was connected to sex.

Always in the cartoons the women and were girls were hurt, made to look stupid, dressed as whores, draw just after violent rape, shown as “the boss” who is raped into her place, girls dressed as schoolgirls or brownies – or whatever stereotype that give men permission to batter, rape and mentally abused any women or girl that they like.

I saw all that and it taught my place was to be fucked. That when I getting fucked that I would have to get used to pain and terror, coz that was all I was worth.

And there was the photos, pictures of real women and girls being tortured.

Pictures that made me dead inside. Pictures that made hope impossible.

I try desperately to shut them out – but they were imprinted on my brain.

Pictures of women being raped in every hole that men could find. Women tied in way where I could not make the true shape of their bodies. Where objects too big, too sharp, to bloody dangerous are forced into those women.

Objects that have an ordinary existence outside of porn, become instruments of torture – just for profit, and for bastards to wank.

And then the images of girls.

Here I chose to abandon all hope – coz I knew hope was just pointless.

I saw pictures of raped girls being made to smile, with make-up to show that they were whores really. I saw girls in gang-rapes. I saw girls’ vaginas in close-up to show the broken hymen.

It still makes me sick, I cannot write the hate I saw.

What I saw more than anything was that was my future.


So I leap forward in time, to the time I was made into living porn, or in other words when I was prostituted.

I want to write as clearly and without censorship from my own terror who and what I had to be to be john’s fantasies. I write because their fantasies brought so close to death – and I got through it all by being the living dead.

Johns don’t want prostitutes to be real, they want them to step out of porn videos, magazines, films or books. They want to stop wanking alone and wank into a living woman or girl.

To make their wanking complete, to make it real porn, they must know they can be as violent as they wish, and choose “gentleness” as another way to control.

For that, there need a class of women and girls whose roles is to be fucked by any man at any time. That is why men invented prostitution. It was great to invent a class of women and girls who can sexually tortured and then thrown away.

Even better to framed it as the fault of those women and girls for allowing themselves to raped and mentally abused – for they chose the role of the prostitution.

So, go back to me, back to when I was in the middle of being living porn. Back to a time when I knew no exit, no alternative – only I knew I was a fuck-toy to suit what sick porn fantasy johns had.

And Christ, they had an endless sickness.

Porn has always pushed violence to the extreme, there was never a past where porn was nice and did not create maximum damage to the woman or girl on the receiving end.

I know that, coz much of what shocks women now about porn, goes through my body from 20 or 30 years ago.

I had double-penetration in my vagina, sometimes I had more than double. I had two fists forced up my vagina.

My cunt weeps with the agony of knowing their hate.

I had sperm rubbed all over my skin, into my hair and squirted into my eyes.

I was tied up and beaten, with photos being taken.

I can’t bear camera even now.

I had penises pushed into my ear for a laugh.

I am still slightly deaf in my left ear.

I was gang-raped, made air-tight.

I was strangled as I had a fist in my cunt and penis in my mouth.

I stopped breathing then, but was hit back to life with –

“Don’t you fucking die on me, whore – don’t fucking die.”

Hell, I didn’t die. I was not allowed that escape.

I was made to deep-throat till I was unconscious or sick.

My throat may never recover from that. I still choked when stressed or tired. I still find swallowing very hard. I don’t like breathing deeply coz I so scared of my throat.

I was anally raped so many times, that I learnt to somehow blank the agony.

Till now, it comes back with a vengeance. My anus is so vulnerable these day, it is in fear of yet another attack. Now it has made safe, it has the space to be terrified.

I am terrified of the toilet.

I was filmed to make cheap porn, for prostitutes may not be paid.

Who care about money when being raped close to death, when men are lining up to beat you up , to have anal sex, to do gang-rapes, to force their penises into my throat.

I may of seen the camera – but I could not imagine that I had any rights.

No rights for pay as the lead “actor”. No rights to say don’t film this.

No, they filmed me in hell, and I just had to take it.


I know I may be repeating myself a lot in these posts about porn. But it is my living hell, so I need to express it over and over until I feel I have some degree of control back.

I hope that is ok.

5 responses to “Inside Out

  1. Dear Rebecca:

    It only needs to be okay for you.

    As you wrote in “Bad Language,” not living the words is a privilege; it is a privilege to turn away and tune out, to have refuge. Reading and seeing while in a comfort zone are easier than being the target of the hatred.

    You write beautifully.


  2. Thinking of you.

    Of course it is ok to repeat yourself. You write what is repeated for you. The repetition itself speaks of what you live with on the inside. Much love to you. x


  3. The ones who do not want ‘repeats’ are those who promote pornography and prostitution as jobs which all women should actively work in.

    Claims that women who have exited prostitution and/or the pornographic industry should ‘remain silent because they are supposedly victim feminists’ is a very old patriarchal ploy. Our society does not want to hear or read about the realities of men’s sexual violence against women and children – far better to sweep it all under the carpet or blindly continue believing the lie that prostitution and/or pornography is liberating and empowering to women!!

    Carry on Rebecca and ignore those who refuse to listen or respect your experiences. Such individuals are collaborators and/or supporters of mens’ pseudo male sex right to all women.

    It is very painful reading about women’s experiences of men’s sexualised violence against them but it is essential if we are to understand and comprehend how denial and minimalisation operates. Equally importantly – this is your blog and you alone decide what you will write and publish. I believe it is called freedom of speech but that is apparently only alloted to pornographers, Johns, pimps and their apologists.


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