Deep Sadness Strangled My Heart

On the last day of the year, I am suffocating in horrific memories.

I so want to celebrate – I should be celebrating that I not only survived, but for the most part I making a bloody good job of re-inventing my life.

But I will cry, I will rage, I will sometimes want to give up – that I should have know such hell, that the only left was re-invention.

New Year is a shit time to be a prostitute – especially if your role is to be girlfriend material.

It was those times that give me nightmares last night, those times that made thoughts of suicide my only moments of privacy.

I hated being girlfriend material at the bests of times – but New Year was torture without hope.

The men that have the prop of a girlfriend who is a whore are not sad-does – that is a myth that the sex trade and the johns wants you to believe.

They are not men who can’t get a real girlfriend, they are not men who are lonely – even if they are, is that really a good enough excuse to own another human as a sex slave.

For that is the point of buying a whore to pretend to be your girlfriend – it is to own her utterly, especially to mentally own her.

It is the ultimate power trip over the prostitute.

The men that owned me did not just sexually torture me, did not just rape me – they played endless games with my brain, they locked in their flats, they made lose the ability to remember what reality and what was just some trick.

They thought it was funny to make out I was their fiancée – then introduced to close friends or family, so I look an idiot coz I knew so little about lives.

They thought it was funny to take me to expensive restaurants, only to make eating nearly impossible by finger-fucking me.

They thought it was funny it to dance with me in some posh do – whilst whispering what they do me later.

They thought it to follow me to the toilets or take me outside – and fuck me violently – then go back and expect me to act normal.

I was dragged out in public – and used like a clockwork toy. I would perform talking travail, perform being the caring girlfriend, perform always not drinking very much, trying not to smoke.

I performed as rage sunk into me.

Being girlfriend material is hell.

But most of the men that owned me, were relatively alright as long as we were in the public arena. What I dreaded was knowing the party would end.

It was when we were alone that I knew to forget about hope.

The men that owned me were buying goods that they be as sadistic as they like to  – and were rich enough to keep me as long they wanted.

They would release when they were bored or wanted to make out that I never existed.

Whores are always disposable.

This meant that being locked in was common. This meant they like me to do housework, as a laugh of course. That I had to be very interested in everything they said or did – coz they were my master after all.

But mostly it meant that whenever they wanted sex – or more likely the power-trip of sexual torture – I must do it exactly as their porn-brain had picture it.

This meant not sleeping, not letting myself lose alertness, not settling into any comfort-zone – for at any time I must be their fuck-toy.

This is the hell that was mine for too many New Years.

It is why I find it hard to go to New Year parties without being triggered.

It is why I feel depressed.

God rot the sex trade for wrecking New Year for me.

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