Pain in My Heart

I am writing listening to 5 CDs of the King of Soul – Otis Redding – and Pain in My Heart digs deep into me.

I have reaching into my heart, trying to see beyond its coldness, desire to be dead. I reach for my heart, and pain is always the cover I have to break down.

I play Otis as his voice breaks into joyful pain, and I learn what life can be.

He reaches beyond my solid wall of ice, and reaches to the many years his voice give me the freedom to cry, scream and kind of sing along with his simple words.

Soul music has given a reason to live – be it Northern Soul, Motown, Atlantic Soul, Stax Records, Gospel or just soul coming down the radio from somewhere I don’t know yet.

My heart is nourish by soul whether sung out of Georgia, Chicago, London, Tokyo, New Orleans, or so many places where music is the voice when all words are lost.

Soul music evolves but keep a solid centre.

Soul music belongs to all who seen, known and survive pain – soul is part of our skin.

Each day soul music reminds pain can be grieve over, each day soul music nourishes hope that pain cannot be forever – and each day soul music give us laughter, desire to dance and sense of freedom even as our oppressors think they have won.

The passion, the simple words, the reaching into all human emotions, the voices of many oppressed makes soul music unconquerable.

I learn in my moments of deepest pain and confusion, that soul music could reach me like no other music could – except Mozart.

Soul music was and is my desire for a future in freedom and justice, soul music was and is my route to know hope can be solid.

Soul music taught me I could still dance even as I thought my body and spirit had been destroyed by punters and the sex trade.

Soul music is the sound of defiance, of staring down those who oppressed us and saying there is deep part of my essence you can never owned or ripped apart.

Soul music was the gift of privacy when I had little or no space to call my own.

I had soul music before and after punters had though they had total control over me.

I scream to Wo-man with Etta, play Do-Right Woman with Aretha, had Dusty make cry with You Don’t Have To Say You Love Me.

It was my medicine, my therapy – it was my door to knowing a world beyond being raped, owned, tortured and being on the edge of death.

There was nothing simple in love of soul music – there is nothing simple in the oppressed discovering freedom.

It was music that connected to other music that had raw edges and give me another American culture to belong.

I grow to love country – especially honky-tonk, bluegrass, Cajun and outlaw country.

I grow to love city Blues.

I grow to love jazz, especially be-bop, swing, jazz/blues singers, New Orleans sound.

I grow to rock ‘n’ roll, especially rockabilly.

I grow to love disco.

Music became my saviour, and music was making my oppression more painful for I became aware that wasnot what I wanted.

I was becoming aware of every rape, aware of all words that made me into dirt, aware that I was nothing.

I begun to sing along with the music played as punters owned me – singing without paying attention, singing to disappear, singing to find a part of me had some defiance.

I placed myself in grave danger by singing or even mouthing the words.

Punters hated that I was human enough to sing, human enough to do two things at once.

I know my singing was my way to say – you don’t own my heart.

You will and can rape close to death; you can and will torture me with words, torture me with ripping at my sexual being, torture me by pretending to kill.

You will and can force me to stay awake, deprived me of food. You can and will smash my body into pieces while you are laughing.

But you – the punter, the sex trade profiteer, the justifier of the continance of the sex trade, the academics who say only Happy Hookers exist, the by-standers who ignore the pain of all the prostituted – you can never take away my music.

And I know you must hate that.

I know that the prostituted were never meant to be human enough to have a space to have the true freedom to love music.

I know that the prostituted were invented to be sub-human sexual goods that have only one purpose – to be living porn-dolls for punters to mastubate into.

We are not meant to hear music, to read books, to even be in shops.

We have no life or purpose beyond being holes and a comforter so punters are never violent to real women and children.

We have no past, no existence outside those punters and the sex trade.

To show even a hint that we are human, is for any prostitute to place herself in deep danger.

Much of the violence done to the prostituted is done when the punter see the prostitute is a person.

I was beaten up for reading, I was raped sadistically when I laugh at the TV, and singing to music was a route to hell.

For the prostituted are meant have no voice, no sense that they could matter, no real intelligence – the prostituted cannot be human.

No, the prostituted are meant to be whatever the sex trade and punters say they are.

A prostitute can be allowed to read or talk clever – as long she knows never to speak as she is raped, and never think her words matter.

The reality of prostitution is that it is assumed that most of the prostituted will be voiceless and nameless.

It is a world where the punters and sex trade profiteers see all the prostituted as interchangeable – as sexual that will be used over and over and over, and then thrown away.

The prostituted are never meant to discover that they are human, and to regain the fight to live, to exit and with great fortune to speak out for abolition.

We are meant to be dead or too damaged to become fully human.

I discover soul music was route to knowing there more to life than the sex trade.





Me and the BBC

I am going to be on Radio 4 on the 7th of May.


I am more than excited, I feel it is very surreal and somewhere deep inside I am very proud.

Radio 4 is a huge part of my strength and ability to survive, especially when most of my access to hope was being torn from me.

Radio 4 was stable, Radio 4 was a sister/friend/mother in my heart, Radio 4 give a reason to live if only to hear “The Archers”.

So for me to have the fortune to be on Radio 4 is a dream come true.

I cannot express how much TV and radio is a life-saver for me, and how I will always back the BBC.

To wander round World Service, and see all the countries that tune in, heard the range of language – and I was walking with my heart brimming.

If all the BBC does is the World Service, then I know my licence is being well used.

As I walk round the BBC, seeing Dajaks, the news getting made, seeing all the work on radio shows, seeing the orchestra space and the so many studios – I knew I was happy.

Happy is not an emotion I am used to – it feels surreal and that any second something will happen.

I am learning to be happy, and not to expect disaster round the corner.

I was asked to write a talk about my work. I was asked to make the speech personal and about abolishment of prostitution.

I will put up the talk after it is aired on the radio, but I want to write about how positive the BBC were.

I want to write that my experience was and is a powerful moment for me, and may be part of change that is much larger than me and my words.

I was told my talk was groundbreaking, that it was speaking to and with the voices of the silenced.

I had some degree of apology that the BBC is so influenced by the sex trade lobby, and acknowledge of their ignorance and lazy journalism.

Although some of my more graphic language was cut – there was no hiding that prostitution involves torture and must be framed as a human rights issue.

The BBC were brave enough to let my talk be about questioning of attitudes to the prostituted, be about what it is to be inside the body of the prostituted.

It was a talk that was heard in respectful silence, and received without dismissal or hate.

I spoke my talk with a calmness that was almost out of my body.

I spoke to my words with clarity and deep ownership.

When questions were asked, they were all tainted by the propaganda of the sex trade.

I answered with directness, with a quiet rage, I spoke to confront the myths inside the questions.

I am proud – but the recording was strange, for I could believe I could so calm.

I performed well.

I will spread the word when it goes out – hope you all can listen. It will be on a podcast, so no excuses.

A Warm Christmas to My Readers

I want to thank each and every one of my readers, especially the most loyal ones – and most special of all those who have survived the sex trade.

Without you support and love, I may have given up to my pain and grief a long time ago.

I am amazed at how open so many of you are with, how many of you make the choice to be vulnerable.

I am deeply honoured at you ability at your trust and faith in me. Please know in the New Year I will more effort to be privately in touch with exited women who want me to.

I do so now, but because of my own trauma is has slowed down to an almost stop – please know I would never abandoned any who is strong enough and so brave to be open with me, especially in public comments.

Know your honestly, your ability to want to see the prostituted beyond pre-conceived stereotypes is teaching me and making my blog stronger.

I do have major issues with some readers.

I know that many of pro-sex trade lobby read me in order to find ways to destroy my views.

I know the pro-sex trade have and will mis-quote me to make appear a victim, to make it seemed I have brainwashed by radical feminists, will use my words to say I may be highly damaged but most of the prostituted are happy.

I feel their poison, I do print their hate and propaganda – I will not those who think and act like pimps to control me or any other exited woman again.

I know many so-called allies do and will steal my words and concepts with the common decency to credit me or even acknowledge my existence.

I sick and tired of giving them power by ignoring their actions, and smiling as they send back into being made sub-human.

I would ignore if was just to me as an individual – but I know and see it is done all the powerful exited women who are now abolitionists.

It done by those who should be allies – by the anti-trafficking lobby, by radical feminists, by academics who claim to be feminists or anti-sex trade etc.

We are made into house slaves, who should happy we on occasions seen enough to have our stolen, who should be grateful that we may saved – but never allow to be human enough to be speaking to our own freedom.

We have had enough of being patronised and only used to further your movements.

I cannot understand how so many groups that believe in separatism for the oppressed – will not allow the prostituted class to lead and have a separate voice in the abolition.

I do not understand how abolition can ever succeed if those who inside knowledge and experiences of the sex trade are kept silenced and controlled.

We are sick of only be used as the token exited woman – of too often it like you find about three separate voices of exited women, and then decide you understand know everything there is to know about the sex trade.

No – there are multiple and varied strong voices of exited women out there – and every day there are more speaking out.

Be more humble, be more inquisitive, and find that part of being an abolitionist is learning something new each day from exited women.

I know I never stop learning from my exited Sisters – whether in the present or the long history of our silenced voices, whether from my background or the multiple cultures/backgrounds my exited Sisters come from.

I will never stop wanting to be taught by my exited Sisters – why can you not open your hearts and minds to truly hear and know the depth of knowledge that exited women have.

It would a wonderful Christmas gift if you put aside your egos and let exited women have leadership in the abolition movement.

We are already doing so much with or without your permission.


Business as Usual

I have built myself a life where I have learnt to love Christmas.

But always I carry the knowledge that there is no Christmas for the prostituted class – unless it dressed-up Christmas porn or Christmas extras in indoors prostitution.

I used to be dead at Christmas – so now I let it in.

I let in joy.

I let in tears.

I let in my loved ones.

I let Christmas telly.

I let in eating and drinking.

I let my prostituted soul know that Christmas can be her’s.

It is my present to her for somehow staying alive.

Present to her or somehow keeping her sanity.

And my present to her for gradually learning she is safe, and be part of me.

I think Christmas has always been loved by me – even as punters did their damn-est to rip it away from me.

I always have had the child’s wonder at the simple beauty of the concept of Christmas.

I knew as I turning into ice – that there was hope.

I had no idea how to reach.

I came to assume I was too “bad”, too sub-human and too damaged to reach that hope – but Christmas each year planted a seed that maybe hope would find me.

I have never believe in god – always knew that the spirit that may called hope is inside each of us.

Only every rape, every words of hate, every beating up, every attempt to murder me, and every act of torture was making hope get more and more lost.

I could let in Christmas when I was in that world, Christmas meant too much to me for me to open up to it.

Though I did become a Quaker – I did cry at King’s College Choir – I did go on occasion find myself at Midnight Mass.

I never lost my need and want that I could belong inside Christmas.

I wanted the innocent that would love Christmas lights, innocent that is excited on December 24th, innocent that will watch same films again with tears in my eyes.

I wanted so semen on and in me, no money being used to make rape into consent, no being locked in room/s as a man/men sexually me, no being told it is a gift from Santa as pain and blood flows from me.

I wanted that sense of joy of presents given or received, sense of joy that I watch Dr Who again, sense of joy as I speak with loved relatives on the phone.

Not the grief of waking in a room with my aching and screaming with the same-old sadist violence, not the grief of knowing what it is to be brought and sold.

There was and is no day/night off for the prostituted class.

Rape carries on as normal, male violence is extreme as normal – only difference is it meant to be “special treat” for the punters.

So the prostitute must smile even harder, must boost the punter’s ego for longer, must ignore the pain or near-death experience – for Christmas she must provide him with his extra-special present.

No matter she is sick to her stomach, no that she may not be able to breathe, no matter if she is bleeding, no matter that she is made to hate herself.

If the punter is happy, he may over-pay her, and then the sex trade profiteer will be happy.

So Christmas is spread out as she is dying.

Somehow, for unknown reason – I still wanted to believe in Christmas.

Now, as I have learnt to re-build my own Christmas, I am learning I was right to never lose my simple wanting to have such innocence, such joy and such belief in hope.

I can now can eat and drink knowing it will be used to manipulate me.

I can now watch Christmas TV with no punter determining my attention, and punishing me if I dare not make the centre of universe.

I can now eat chocs without pimps or punters saying I am fat too gross to be fucked.

I can now look at Christmas lights without the dread of what the night will be, or the male whispers asking me how much.

Now I am alive enough to love Christmas.

Christmas is now inside my heart.

Pain in My Heart

I have always loved Otis Redding, the soul of his voice reaches deep inside my heart.

Otis could drag out my heart when I was convince I had none.

His anthem “Pain in My Heart” has follow me through good and bad times.

I write this post to that song – and the many other Soul, Gospel, Country and Blues songs that have help me survive prostitution.

I believe my love of American music save my life – at the least it give some will to keep going, coz there always a song I have heard.

I was born into a family that loved most music.

My maternal grandmother run a ballet school – with Classical music, with Duke Ellington, with Benjamin Brittain coursing through her house.

My maternal grandfather loved Mozart and Baroque music.

My mother loved Rolling Stones, 60’s Soul, Classical Ballet music.

My father loved Beach Boys, Be-Bop, Beatles, Outlaw Country, Bach, Gospel and so much more.

My sister loved David Cassidy, Wham, George Michael, soft Pop.

One brother loved Modern Jazz, and the other brother loved Pet Shop Boys, Club music and  Jazz.

That was my background – in which I came to adore Soul, which lead to Blues, which lead to Country, which lead to Cajun, which lead to so-called World Music.

That was my background – I came to want Be-Bop all round me, which lead to going deeper into all Jazz, which lead to seeing links to Gospel, which always lead back to the Blues.

That was my background – learning to hear Classical music as radical when it was first heard, hearing how music breaks rules and patterns, leading to hearing Punk, Mods, Rap as the rule-breakers of our own classic music.

I learnt that all music is interlinked, and most music that will listen to for many years does not fit into simple category.

Most music that is loved is mixing many genres, mixes many cultures and viewpoints, mixes the past with the present making a future music.

Music is an echoing chamber for human emotions said and unsaid.

Great music just is – that is all that matters.

All I know, all that I hold deep inside my heart – is through I try to cut music out my life when I was prostituted – I never lost my passion for music.

I wanted so much to not hear music.

I could not bear that life-force – could not the pain and hurt laying so bare, could hear anthems and songs of a joy that was out of my reach, could not allow music into my bones.

But music was always round.

It was inside pubs as I went dead doing the Girlfriend Experience – the songs I knew and loved, that without thinking I sung in my head.

I could dare to sing even under my breath, for if a punter thought or imagine I was not paying him 100% of attention, I knew he would punish with fists or more likely sadist sex.

I wanted to not know I still needed pop, still needed simple love songs, still needed to be part of a culture that excluded prostituted women and girls.

Heck, I wanted not to know I could not be free enough to just enjoy putting a record on a jukebox.

Music was often in the background as punters fucked me into being nobody.

Music felt like it was laughing at my destruction, music seemed to scorn my right to be human.

I wanted to smash the music up, smash it into the punter’s head, use the shards left to kill myself.

Music became my death.

There was certain music even now I linked to that control and violence, music that I closed out of my life as much as possible.

There is Reggae, Lover’s Rock, the Barry White style of Soul, Progressive Rock, Folk music from late 60’s and 70’s.

All this type of music was used to make it was normal to be raping and torturing a prostitute – music made it just entertainment or some kind of a relationship.

I was trapped in that music – so now I turn away from it.

Music in the background of the endless rapes and torturing could on occasions be a good distraction.

It was in that haze, I came to love Prince, came to want Soul music to be there, came to love the anger of Punk and early Rap.

Music was slowly reminding I was worth something – worth more that pain and hate.

Alone, in the moments I had enough space and energy to grow into music that would mine – I would sing along, I would kind of dance, but mostly music became all the emotions I thought were gone.

I would play angry music to rage – play the Buzzcocks and the Clash, play Rites of Spring, play fierce Blues and aggressive Jazz.

I would reach deep into my sorrow through music – reaching for the deep sorrow of Gospel, the sadness inside Soul, the aching sadness of Mozart.

I would back to the child I thought I had lost – listening to Phil Spector Christmas songs, listening to Beach Boys, hearing Lieutenant Kiev and Peter and the Wolf.

Music was working its magic on me.

But then music had never really left, just vanished to be strong enough to help me get the courage to truly exit prostitution.

Now, I am free enough to be a music geek – it is bloody wonderful.


Some Moments

This is one of my stream of consciousness posts. It a post looking at small meaningful moments of my life.

Each moment changed me, each moment was part of losing hope but staying, each moment poured deadness into my heart.

This post is a brief of one of the many ways you can kill the soul of a female until she becomes the role of the Whore.

I write this on Easter Sunday, for those I am an atheist – the story of deep pain and grief having hope and real change is meaningful to me.

I see inside each and every exited woman in every country that resurrection.

In the post, I write to what made me into the Whore – in this post I write to show how I fought to stay alive enough to exit.

I suppose the first moments of any consequence were the moments of my mother’s neglect made it clear I could not be loved.

Moments when I cry out for her love – only for to send me into silence, to turn out all lights and shout at me to shut up.

I do not know when I learnt there was no point in crying – only that I was too young to know that knowledge.

There was the moment, when I was four or five, and a stone went into my knee.

I did not cry, I acted like nothing had happened.

I said nothing as the pain grow, I said as the wound went green – I said nothing as I wanted to faint.

So small, I had learnt the bitter lesson never to show pain in case it made you too vulnerable, I had learnt never to cry it give too much away.

I was in training to be a Whore.

A very important moment in this training was how I reacted, or learnt not to react to being shown hard-core porn by my stepdad and mum.

I was shown Hustler, shown Penthouse, shown images from rape/murder police photos, shown porn named as art – when I was so young.

I think I was six or seven.

Young enough to have nowhere in my mind to compute what I was seeing, no words to describe my sickness or disgust.

I was just frozen staring into hell – staring down my future.

What language can fit that memory? Only I seek words for it all the time.

I know as a child I saw into those images that looking for hope was pointless, that I had no protest left.

How can you hope when staring into the eyes of the living dead?

How do you protest when your voice is stolen?

In that porn I saw my future.

I saw to survive by having no pain, by learning to smile all the time, by being silent, by being whatever men wanted me to be.

I the child learnt to have a Whore’s heart, thinking that may keep me safe or at least alive.

If you have pity for that child, put it away – pity helps no-one.

Have anger, cry out for justice, join collective action to stop any child seeing or knowing what she know.

Do action – but never waste energy on pity.

It is Easter, and Easter is always about rabbits.

As a child, I grow to hate rabbits.

I hated that they were so passive – that when you pointed a gun at them they froze and stared into the barrel.

I saw my vulnerability, my lack of any escape, my own terror in those rabbits – so I hated them with a passion.

I placed all my fear, my hate to my stepdad, my self-hate into killing rabbits.

I still don’t like rabbits, but now I have learnt to make it into a joke – never to say the terror inside my child’s heart.

There are moments of my teenage years with my stepdad building up sexual abuse – training my mind and body to accept the unacceptable, training me into the deadness that made me a perfect Whore.

From 12 to 19, my stepdad would abuse me often, his abuse was slow and patient, but always building up how much he invaded me.

By the time I was 17, he had reach his goal – every part of my skin belonged to him.

There were moments where he would lay me into his bed, and with unbearable slowness touch me all over.

He would force me to feel, force me to cum, force me to betray myself.

I wanted to be dead, I wanted that I give him nothing, I wanted just a small piece of pride.

That was torture, that was throwing into thinking I was nothing but a whore.

I hate my stepdad for training me up for prostitution.

He may of well been my pimp.

I write these small moments as examples of how to make a Whore.

There is nothing unique about what I went through, maybe bits and pieces may be.

But neglect, self-hate, knowing porn too young, incest are common with far too may women and girls inside the sex trade.

I am exhausted, and need chocolate.

My Christmas Wishes

I dream of a world without the buying and selling of the prostituted.

I dream this dream and always tears go from my heart and sent choking into my throat.

It is a dream that feels so near, yet is always forced out of reach,

I try to see the dream smaller, try to imagine my dream will arrived step by step.

I see the Nordic Approach and see my dream is raising up.

But, in a fog I wonder how many punters have truly been punished for owning a slave to have their precious orgasm.

In that fog, I wonder if profiteers are truly scared or just move into other countries and carry on as normal.

And through that fog of grief – I need to know if the prostituted are given long-term and specialist exiting programmes, or just short-term and then forgotten.

I want my dream to be made solid, not just sound nice in conferences, look good in academic writings, or to be a neat soundbite without real and practical action to build the road to abolition.

This Christmas, I dream with hope but always knowing the bitter taste of grief and betrayal.

My hope is bursting as I see, I hear, I read and I know the power and mission of exited women to make real change in the hearts and minds of others.

I am always amazed and humbled by their truth-telling, as they live in the shadow of extreme trauma.

I know I am standing in the shadows of giants, from my present and from the centuries that the prostituted class have scream out their pain and grief in their demand for an end of the sex trade.

My heart is with all my prostituted Sisters – whether named as “untouchables”, whether indigenous women poisoned by Colonists, whether women force from East Europe to West Europe, whether made into entertainment for sex tourists, whether sitting in windows, whether at end of a phone or the net, whether freezing on the streets, whether named as high-class escorts, whether dying to make porn – and so many more Sisters being destroyed in the name of prostitution.

My heart is bursting with sorrow for each and every one of them – they are my heartbeat and my reason to fight to the death for abolition.

I know my love reaching out to every women and girl trapped inside prostitution, even she has to hate me to survive.

Only I taste betrayal, betrayal from those who say they are the allies of the prostituted.

A betrayal that pollutes my dreaming.

The betrayal is heard every time we are told we must not say prostituted – we must speak the language of sex work, and told that is our road to freedom.

We know we were locked inside a world of slavery, a world that took joy at ripping away our human rights – and your betrayal is re-brand that world as empowering, as liberating, as sexual freedom and the only real feminism.

Your betrayal is name it as work to make women into sexual goods.

Your betrayal is name it as sex and so make all male violence disappear.

You think your double-speak will weaken our will to fight for abolition – you have no understanding of our inner strength.

How can you when you view us as sub-humans?

I know abolition will be made real – and I can dream of other things.

Father’s Day

To my father – RIP.

I did not truly know my dad until I was an adult.

He was a good man – being a good man, he give me the gift to see that violent men make a choice to destroy lives. He gave me the gift not to hate all men – just to be wise enough to be wary of them.

I know on the few occasion as a child and young adult, I would let myself love and trust my dad.

But how could not be that vulnerable and reach out to him – when all I knew was when I let go and show I was human to men, I throw into a trash-heap.

I had learnt from very young that men saw me an object to fuck, that men would be nice and then smash me down – all I knew of men was they were playing with as a cat plays with a mouse.

I was had learnt through bitter experience to not trust men.

To trust my father could not happened when I living with my mother, or when I was inside the sex trade.

It was too much for me to bear. I was too fragile – so had to survive to be hard and cruel to my dad.

Only, I could never stopped loving him – and more important, he never stopped loving me. My dad was confused and full of grief at my behaviour – but he never give up on me.

My dad was a rock I refused to know.

Only as a child, I wanted him to read to me, I wanted to ride on his shoulders, I wanted to watch football with him, I would dance to Louis Armstrong and the Beach Boys with him.

Inside my fear and hurt – my love for dad was always there.

Only I could not understand why he left me, and sent me back to my mum and stepdad – back to sexual violence, back to neglect, back to knowing porn. Why did he always abandoned me?

As an adult, I can see he had no real concept of how much abuse I was living was.

He was a man who wanted to believe in the best in others – he hated that even one child was abused, he would cry at the news, would pray and raise money to stop such violence.

In his compassion, he did not want to believe his daughter was living in hell.

I know when as an adult, I told about some of the violence done to me –  he went into deep shock, he was furious with my stepdad, and it made him very ill.

It was then it was clear to me he had never abandoned me – just did not know or understand that humans could abuse me so much.

In that moment, I learnt to forgive my dad, and in forgiving my dad I was at the beginning of the road of forgiving myself.

I could not know my dad when I was embedded in the sex trade – I could not know myself, I could not see there was a tiny minority of good men, I could not give or receive non-sexual communication.

I saw my dad and his family – but I was distanced, I would start fights for no reason, I was violent, I locked myself away, I was as cruel as could be to his wife and son.

I was self-destructive – so I had to hate all those shown me a glimpse of real love and wanted to care for me. I had to hate – for to have love would make too vulnerable and may kill me.

Only my dad never give up on me – in many my anger and hate made him love me with more passion and care for me with his own fierceness.

He had no idea what was wrong with me – a teenager going off the rails, maybe coz I had dyslexia, he know I was anti-social – it was beyond his imagination that his daughter could be a prostitute.

But then again, I was in deep denial of that myself – I made it that I screwed by many violent men, I never saw their faces, or had a name for what had happened.

I could not say anything to my  dad – when I had no language for my own experiences myself.

Also he was a man – and at that time I knew every man saw me as a fuck-object – so to speak of that would make him use me.

I was full of self-hate – I knew I was dirt, I decided I deserved all the violence done to me, I knew not to build a relationship with my dad for I would be dead soon.

Only for unknown reasons, I never died – and somehow I exited prostitution, and built a secure and safe life with a real future.

It was then, I was able to grow a father-daughter relationship.

We reach to each other through our love of history, our love of London, our love of Hollywood, our love of  books, our love of football, our love of travel.

We got to know each other as we read bits of the papers over breakfast, as we listen to 60’s music and jazz, as we went to the theatre and art galleries, as we walked in Cornwall.

We had peace with each other as he bear-hugged me, as we watched Poirot on TV, as we laugh over supper, as I spoke to him on his past.

As an adult, I was proud to finally know my dad.

He died too soon – but he is deep in my heart.

Out of the Box

I have been writing this blog for several years – and sometimes it would nice to know if some of my more loyal readers are doing practical things to further the fight for abolition.

It would help with my despair, may ease some of my trauma to know I making a change.

I feel close to rock bottom – so maybe to get me out of my box of depression, knowing others are fighting to make a real change – doing more than writing and speaking to friends who already agree.

I do not want to sound as if I don’t know of the wonderful work being done for abolition – but what shocks and sometimes saddened me is that mainly done by exited women.

These are women who working despite their trauma, despite their grief, despite living with injuries from their pasts, despite having shock coming over and through them as they speak out.

Exited women are leading the understanding and ways to bring about abolition – often in the face of deep ignorance and of dismissal of their truths.

Each and every exited who speaks her truth, is a beacon to giving the prostituted class a real future and true dignity.

But the amazing determination and courage of exited women is often isolated – they are made to feel they are screaming into a hurricane.

This is because so many who claimed to be our allies and say they want abolition of the sex trade, can be totally dismissive of exited women.

They put us in a box – a box which only opened to give an example to prove a point, a box that only allows out one exited woman at time for our multiple voices may have too much power, a box that is labelled as “fiction” for to call it “fact” would mean seeing exited women as full humans and not statistics.

Exited women have been kept inside that box for many centuries – in the box our voices have been silenced and mis-recorded, in the box we are given labels that rip away that we are humans and make just the role of whatever token whore is needed, in the our so-called allies destroyed our humility and reminds us of what to be prostituted really means.

I believe it is vital for exited women to lead the movement towards abolition – for it is the slaves who know and have lived the reasons to free all the prostituted class.

We can say it from the inside-out – but more we can make the connection to how men hate females, how that is often pre-planned and organised, we know that all violence done to females is for control and done from a place of fear.

Our words can be the key to seeing male violence with a clear eye – I suppose that is why it is vital to dismiss us just sad cases or deluded.

We will speak our truths – but it so hard, so full of pain, there is so much grief. It would good to know that those who choose to hear and not to run away from our words, were able to reach out and assist us to spread our truths.

It would be good if it was regular when exited women are asked to speak at meetings or conferences, that it is known that there is often after-effects from speaking.

This is because what is said is the tip of an iceberg of what they have live through. Speaking for many exited women is to go into performance role – a role that is the norm for many inside the sex trade.

I enjoyed speaking at large meetings, I enjoyed being able to manipulate an audience, I enjoyed having respect and some power – I enjoyed it because I am playing a role, inside that role for a short period, I am in control.

But being a role is also poisonous for many exited women – to be a role is to be detached, to be a role has roles that are scary is they go out of control, and most important being a role for many exited women is a remainder how it was inside the sex trade and to be the role of a robot.

Those who truly care for exited should be with them after these speeches.

Know it normal to go into being tough after speaking, but it may also be normal to be paranoid and feel utterly vulnerable. Know it may the exited woman may talk about everything but the sex trade and her speech – or she may want to rehash her speech and ask direct questions of you. Know she may try to run away and fall back into self-harm, or she may appear so scarily happy that you may want to run away.

All this is common after-effects when exited women speak out in public.

We need to know that solid allies and friends can be with us – not as carers, not to make themselves feel better, not from duty – but with us as equals and viewing us as full humans.

For it is terrifying to hear the power and truth of our words – we can lead, but only if we are also known to be vulnerable and in great pain.

It is the same when we write – writing is the most isolating job I know of, and to write into the depths of hell is to be alone.

Writers need their readers – we need your feedback, we need to know we have made some connections. Exited women who write need to see their words make others have a change of heart, that we can make others do practical moves to build the road to abolition.

Your comments matter so much. Knowing you sign petitions matters. Knowing you work with the prostituted matters. Knowing you speak in the language of torture and human rights matters.

Exited women love to know their words and thoughts have some impact. That they are not pissing into the wind.

Reasons I Cannot Celebrate Yet

Today is International Women’s Day, and as an exited prostituted woman I find I cannot celebrate yet – but I continue to fight in the hope that one day I can.

I cannot celebrate whilst in almost every country in the world, almost every city and small town, inside so many buildings you may walk pass – prostituted women and girls are in conditions of slavery.

I cannot celebrate while in my heart I know almost every long-term prostituted woman or girl is sexually tortured, is beaten up, and is raped beyond the language of rape.

I cannot celebrate when in every computer, anyone can access watching the torture and rape of the prostituted class in the name of adult entertainment.

I cannot celebrate when inside that same computer, any man at any time or place can order up a prostituted woman or girl to do whatever porn-fuelled fantasy he wants.

I cannot celebrate when all the time everywhere prostituted women and girls are getting murdered, and it is only noticed if it is the sensation of being a serial killing.

I cannot celebrate when men that consume the prostituted know they owned her completely – knowing that gives them full rights to any violence and hate to her body and mind with no consequences.

I cannot celebrate when so many so-called feminists say it is just “sex work”, it must be a free choice for any woman, heck being the prostituted class must be liberating for all woman.

I cannot celebrate as those same feminists say I would do it – but it must free for other women to choose that lifestyle.

I cannot celebrate as prostitution and violence inside porn becomes just an appendix to the feminist revolution – or our lives and truths are just viewed as a terrible example, but ignored for it too big to deal with.

I cannot celebrate when always voices of amazing exited women are side-lined in the campaign for abolition – our voices are made statistics, made part of some academic book, used as quotes – we are spoken over, spoken through, and spoken around.

I cannot celebrate until the abolitionist movement put the voices and writings of exited women in a leadership role – we are not your token prostitute, we will not be treated like pets.

I cannot celebrate as every day I feel in my gut what is happening in hotels, in flats, on the streets – that so many walk pass and say is normal.

I cannot celebrate as trauma is just what now the normal torture and hate being put to any woman or girl named as escort, named as girlfriend experience. I was and am never unique.

I cannot celebrate as other invent and find multiple excuses to normalise that torture and hate – that men have a “need” for sex, that some women are just made as “natural” prostitutes, that is a good thing for it stops “real” rape.

I cannot celebrate when all round I hear statements to remind that the prostitute will always be sub-human – maybe she was born sex-crazed, women like that don’t feel pain like real women, she loves being humiliated, or in reality she is using the men.

I cannot celebrate when all round images of the prostitutes are just the happy hooker or the dead victim – there is no reality to these images, and they drown out any truths spoken.

I will celebrate IWD – when all prostituted women and girls have complete freedom, are give a voice, and are made fully human.

I cannot celebrate until then.