Going Home

Next week I am going to a short conference to the town where I was born, the town where I was abused by the my mum and stepdad – and the town where the vast of my violent experiences of prostitution occurred.

I am going back to that town that is full of ghosts and body memories.

I thought if I wrote a post it would make some of those ghosts pipe down.

I am going to a radical feminist day conference in memory of Andrea Dworkin.

Maybe being with women who did not know those ghosts, did not see my past self at its worse places/emotions/times – then maybe with luck and determination, I will get sick when I go home.

I thought if I wrote to those streets, buildings and rooms – maybe then the ghosts will calm down and leave me aloud.

I could speak of nearly being gang-raped in a crowded as tourists and locals walked past doing nothing.

I could speak of many flats in residential area where sadist punters torture, gang-rape and serially raped under-aged prostitutes.

I could speak of Irish pubs where I was paid to be fucked up against a wall or in a toilet.

I could speak to student’s flats where was brought in like smuggled goods, used up, and thrown onto the streets.

I could speak to top rooms of pubs where old punters danced and finger-fucked young prostituted girls.

That I could speak to – only it is a tourist town, a town of the middle-class status, a town where all prostitution is made to disappear.

But when I return, all I see/hear/smell is the shadows of prostitution.

It is on every street, in every college, part of the pub culture, part of being near airbases, part of the silence of small town life.

I see a town, like so many other towns all over the world – where the prostituted are more than made invisible, they are told it cannot happen in this town.

It becomes that prostitution is just a London’s problem, small towns have no real prostitution.

This strangled any voice/s that the prostituted may have.

This denial gives too much power to sex trade profiteers and punters.

It said nothing is happening to nothing – so why make a fuss.

Well, Cambridge – I remember the poison you wanted me to forget, I remember each and every form of torture I was not meant to survive, I remember the hate that allows men to make me into their living porn doll.

So Cambridge, I see your beauty, I am proud of being third generation in your city, I will cheer on your rugby team – but I never forget why so many ghosts haunt me.

I cannot think of an area of Cambridge not poisoned by the violence of prostitution.

I tried to walk away from it, only to bang into yet more men wanting to pay me to hurt me all over again.

I meet men who know all about condoms, and would treat their women with respect – who brought the prostituted for the fun of unsafe sex, to beat and mentally torture the prostitute if she dare show she was still human.

I meet men who know it was rape, but did not care for it was decided it is impossible to rape a whore.

I meet men who loved taking me to the brink of death, only to laugh and say it was only a game.

I meet men who spoke of burying me alive, spoke of chopping me up, spoke with a calm directness of how easy it would to murder a prostitution – coz after all that real humans, so nothing criminal had happened.

These men were African, European, American, Latin American, Arabic – it was a United Nations of sadists.

These men were working-class, middle-class and upper-class.

These men were from their early 20’s to late 80’s.

They were rapists one by one, rapists who thought they were doing non-violent sex, rapists who enjoy torture, rapists who did it in gangs, rapists who watch, rapists who talked.

For every punter is paying to rape without consequences.

Nothing is happening to nothing.

That is what I remember when I think of home – so I learnt too young never to get attached to any place.

So I am going home next week – god-damned I have the spirit of Andrea Dworkin spitting at those ghosts.

Maybe that will help.

2 responses to “Going Home

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