Letting My Mind Flow

This post is very hard to write – for it written from a change of direction. All I can do is let my mind flow, and see where it goes.

I want to write from inside the middle of my multiple and fragmented truths of the middle of being in indoors prostitution and being made to be girlfriend material. I write of the years when I was 17 to 27.

The years that others framed as adult prostitution – in that framing it all become my own good or bad choices, it is framed that an adult prostitute must want it if she does not walk out, and of course it always framed that all prostitutes are just dirty whores who are addicted to nasty sex.

In that frame – all violence is made into glamour, all degradation is chosen, and all fear is said to be fake.

In that frame, truth is abandoned in case it drives the prostitutes into self-harm or suicide.

I want to attempt to reach into the middle of that time – as it was, not how others wanted it be, not with my own safe hindsight – but inside that middle.

My middle like the millions of the tortured was mainly full of deep boredom, endless repetitive ways of being sexually tortured, and long times of forcing my mind to block my reality.

My middle is full of short moments of finding I has some humanity left – moments connecting to as song in the background, moments walking back at night and enjoying the silence of a city, moments when my mind was saying “enough already” but still my body was being tortured.

They were the moments that were the force that made the person who now writes this blog. I could do nothing to save my young adult – but now in this writing all I can do is repay her intense courage and strength of will by writing as close to her truths as I can.

I do not write just for my self and my past – I write for the millions of adult prostituted women who are abandoned because it is decided they must have chosen their lifestyle. I write for those abandoned prostituted women closed behind wall in indoors prostitution.

I write to make the invisible visible – and to say just stop turning your heads and consciences away from these women. As you decide they must be alright – they are being routinely raped, they are made into living hard-core porn, they are mentally abused till their sense of self is destroyed, and they murdered on a scale that you choose not to imagined.

It is a genocide – and you look the other way.

May I say from the voice of, the scream of my young adulthood – I don’t care about using pc-language, I don’t care hurting your precious feelings, and I certainly don’t care about your wanting to say all male violence is some continuum with prostitution made into an appendix.

I can’t care as you debate, you rest inside academic language, you compare our realities with your experiences – I have no space left to care about those distractions, as my prostituted sisters are being destroyed all over the world.

I have no time or space to fit into your language for our realities – when we are forming a new language for the prostituted which is not just from the safe space of the head and suitable language.

Our language must be about sex and sexual acts – we have to explain in clear and simple words what was done to us, then we can say why it was and is done.

Do not close words of sex just because they may offend you or may make you uncomfortable – your comfort is not a priority when we at war with the industrial sexual torturing of the prostituted class.

Do say we must put up “trigger warnings” in front of our writing. All our words must be connected and show the violence to  prostituted women – so our words must trigger memories of sexual torture, and being made sub-human.

All our words should disturb, should unsettled; should force you to confront your own prejudices; and will, can and should be such a triggers that it not just to do brain-work, but reaches into your guts.

We are fighting for the lives of the prostituted – your triggers should help you to connect on a deeper level, but also help you reach into an anger and rage that is a force to real change.

I write knowing that I will trigger others – but until the day when every single prostitute is free and completely safe – then my language must say the truths, not speak in the language of euphemisms or some invented words.

It must be the language of being inside routine violence, the language of the living dead, the language of being raped so often that language has been stolen.

It cannot be tidy, safe and calm language.

My language is planted by the brain – but is grown through speaking from the guts of deep truths.

It is a language of finding true life, language of knowing the deadness of sexual torturing, the language that demands a truth to put into words of pain, grief and confusion not to be folded up into linear academic words.

I write from the heart of an artist – seeking truths by knowing it will always be unreachable.

I wrote earlier in this post – that being into the middle of long-term indoors prostitution was full of boredom.

This is a truth that rarely shown to the public eye – maybe only caught in Toulouse-Lautrec’s paintings.

No, we cannot speak of the deadness of that long boredom that destroys our essences.

There was the boredom of waiting for some punter to pick you. That time where your brain is made dead.

That time where all thoughts of running must go, all thoughts of being more that the role of the whore must be destroyed.

That time where you must lose any individuality, that time you must know you are not human just parts of a body some man or mostly many men will buy.

The waiting is the time to destroy all concepts of hope or emotions of fear and dignity – the waiting time is enough time to make yourself a robot.

But there is a deeper boredom – a boredom that is terrifying to express into words, to show the outside world – the boredom that is created by the endless repetition of the same sexual torturing, the boredom of how predictable punters are in their hate and violence.

This boredom is a major factor in our blocked and fragmented memories – this boredom makes all the punters feel the same.

One bastard punter is the same as any other bastard punter.

Hell, those so-called men made us sub-humans, made us into pieces of a body that they fucked, made us into goods they could throw away – is so wrong for us to not give a shit about their humanity.

When you are gang-raped as a routine – even what to others would consider the most shocking, the most stealing of woman’s dignity – it becomes boring, it becomes the role you have to be.

There may be a small part left in your mind thinking I hope I don’t die, a small part knowing there should be terror or even a rage – but when gang-rape is routine that small part is buried.

When anal rape is your norm, when it always done to make you bleed and preferably lose consciousness – then even that hell becomes boring.

To deal you teach yourself to ignore as pain as possible, you can make yourself believe that you fainted coz you don’t eat or sleep – and you must believe that you deserved anal rape for are such a nasty person.

That of course is the tip of the iceberg of the multiple ways punters sexually torture the adult prostituted women behind closed doors.

We are strangled on a regular basic, we are fucked till our cunts feel like falling out, we kicked in the stomach and heads whenever the power is feeling we show too much that we may a human.

Our tortures are made so normal and are so common that it is framed as work, as entertainment or our lifestyle – then it not torture, just the occasion accident or bad punter.

No wonder, the only way to survive that hell is to make it into boredom.

Inside boredom nothing can matter – if nothing can matter, then you can imagine you feel no pain, that you don’t get terrified, and that your dignity is of no importance.

If the prostituted woman can make herself bored enough – the sex trade has won by making her sub-human.

Exiting prostitution is wonderful – but it is the breaking down of that boredom, and reaching into the pain, terror and confusion that was forced into you by the sex trade.

Coming back into life after being prostituted is terrible – but it so much better that being made sub-human and living with a killing boredom.

9 responses to “Letting My Mind Flow

  1. Pingback: Survivors Connect Network

  2. Pingback: Rebecca Mott on the Terrifying Mundane « My Body the City: The Secret Life of a Callgirl

  3. Thank you for sharing from your heart, I can’t even imagine that kind of abuse – I’m crying as I read this. I was abused by my father, and that tore me to the quick, but what you experienced is beyond anything I can imagine. I want to just hold you and comfort that pain. I pray a peace and healing for you. I am honored that you share your pain and hurt. I only hope it opens up the eyes of others to what is going on in this area, and that the abuse stops.


  4. Thank you Rebecca, the courage in this post is extraordinary. Thank you for exposing truths and thank you for your voice; truth may hurt but lies bury alive. Bless you and loads of love xoxox


  5. Pingback: רואות עולם « האחות הגדולה

  6. Wow, this was a really good post. Being a survivor of sexual slavery, I found I could relate to a lot of what you’ve said. I would also love to share my story with you, if you want. My story is posted on the following link.


    I also have added new memories to the comments section on that page.

    Your blog has also inspired me to find my own voice, and I thank you so much for that.


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