Listening to Blondie

Blondie, my lust object, my dreams that crashes through many years of nightmares.

I would imagine Debbie Harry smashing down punters, blowing up the flats where torture was my norm, killing those who made money out of my hell.

I imagine hard in order not to see/know/feel my reality.

I needed Debbie Harry to rescue me.

Instead I carry her fierceness inside, hidden from punters, hidden from sex trade profiteers.

I played Blondie loudly as I was raped, played Blondie over crashed over words of hate, words making me dead.

I played Blondie loudly as I was moved from flat to sex club to hotel rooms to toilets to back-alley to my own room to under a subway.

I played Blondie loudly as students, politicians, artists, businessmen raped me.

I played Blondie as a United Nations of men raped and tortured.

I played Blondie as I was gang-raped, as I was almost drown, as I was being strangled, as all my skin was polluted.

Only I played in silence, for there no way I would let punters have that much of myself.

Blondie was my privacy, Blondie was my small moments of happiness – Blondie was the warrior no punter could destroy.

Blondie stood for a sexuality that could be free, could be joyful.

A sexuality with laughter, with exchange of power with a good heart – a sexuality that was a gift to others, but also wild enough to be liberated.

For my prostituted Self, Blondie was my dream of sex with freedom, sex without fear, control and pain.

I held Debbie Harry in my heart as an example of a world outside the sex trade.

I had to hold on tight to her to believe I was more than a whore, more than holes for endless men to fuck, more than a sex doll.

I put up posters of Blondie above my bed, making a small space private.

In times when I could rest enough to have peace – I prayed to Debbie Harry to rescue me, I prayed for her strength.

I was more than in lust with Debbie Harry, I put all I had left of knowing love into her.

I knew there was no god/goddesses/spiritual beings to save me – so I put all my desperation into Debbie Harry.

But in reality, it was never Debbie Harry I was praying to – it was always just speaking to myself, reminding my Self of my own inner strength, pushing myself to know there was a world outside of prostitution.

I will always celebrate my love of Blondie – for it give me the will never to be made sub-human.

5 responses to “Listening to Blondie

  1. This post of yours touched me deeply. Your strength in the face of adversity inspires me. Thank you for your work, and thank you for sharing.


  2. I don’t know how to thank you. All of your blogs are a miracle for me and for everyone. I will make a memorial for prostituted people in my city and I will give more donations for survivor groups and prevention efforts. None of us are things to be used and hurt. I am so tired sometimes, just as an average person and not a prostituted person, still you make such a difference for me, too, in my life and I am very grateful. Thank You. The rape culture marginalizes most men, too, I think. These awful sorts of systems treat us all poorly. I don’t know what to say, you reached me and your voice is very helpful. I hold you in the light and relief for all of your hurts . I want to be more tough and assertive to always treat myself right and know my humanity. I work as an abolitionist more in order to help make a difference.


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