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.

Be In My Skin

I am overwhelmed by grief and full of body memories.

Sometimes, being an exited woman is so hard, so terrifying and so exhausting. It is living inside memories of multiple sexual, mental and physical violence.

To say memories is so calm, so detached and so easy to write. It nothing like my reality.

My skin is screaming to its truths – screaming to release small portions of its sickness.

Only always remember my personal is not therapy – it does not work that way.

My personal is highly political, for every torture placed into me was common in the sex trade – it is knowing that makes me go forward with my work.

My skin screams with knowing what mental violence is done to the prostituted.

The mental violence of daily being made invisible – prostitutes are everywhere, but most people refused to see them.

The mental violence of constantly being told is just work, maybe nasty work, but work so why complained. It never an issue of human rights, that is just being ridiculous.

The mental violence of be made always sub-human – so sub-human a prostitute has no emotions, has no pain, and is just a machine for men to use and throw away.

The mental violence of being force to smile, made to be always happy – no matter what hell is put into your body and mind, you must be the happy hooker.

Be in my skin – and know the mental violence is rotting me away.

Be in my skin – as body memories bring back the physical violence that was my norm inside prostitution.

Know physical violence is in every aspect of the sex trade – it is used to control, it is part of most porn forced into the prostituted’s bodies, it is made into a joke, it just always there as background noise.

My skin is poisoned by all this physical violence – it is in every cell of my body.

Physical violence used to control as my managers/pimps used beatings real or threatened to keep me sub-human.

Control as I was put in with sadistic punters, if it was felt I was becoming a human or having some dignity.

I was strangled so much – it was my norm.

I was bashed all over my body, bashed into walls, bashed to lose consciousness, bashed because I showed I had a brain – bash for making punter see I was an individual.

Physical violence made me lose hope, made me forget about dignity, made me try to be nothing.

And the worse, was it a joke to most profiteers and punters.

You be in my skin, as physical violence is so normal and so sadistic, and done not by one or three men, but by so many men, you will lose count – be in that skin, and tell me you would keep your dignity and believing in hope.

Be in my skin, and know what it is to live inside knowing sexual torture and/or rape will at any time – know that it is non-violence that is rare in prostitution.

Know that to be raped just by penis in vagina is rare in prostitution – most punters are full of porn.

Porn tells them that penis in vagina is boring, it may be how you rape “good” women, but with whores there are multiple ways to rape and torture.

Only of course, porn teaches men it is impossible to rape or even sexually abuse the prostituted – so once you have pay money or some form of exchange – there will no holds barred.

Think of all the worse you know inside porn – and know it being put into the prostituted all the time everywhere.

Know that your worse imagination is usually just the tip of the iceberg of the hate and violence that these porn-fuelled punters put into the prostituted’s bodies.

I lived when “Deep Throat” was everywhere.

My skin is choking still from all the penises forced deep down my throat, my skin still remembers going unconscious, my skin is still puking up that porn forced into my body.

When I was prostituted – it was fun for punters to play at killing the whore – seeing porn so fulled of cutting up whores, porn of gang-raping whores and then disappearing their bodies.

These punters would nearly kill me, then laugh. My nightmares are drowning in their laughter. My nightmares are full of their constant re-telling of sadistic porn films or books.

My skin cannot forget – however much I write, I speak out and go forward.

It is inside me – and it forces me to be political.

My 2011

2011 has been a year where I have discovered how to have emotions, this is terrifying, but it is a wonderful start to finding how to be a true and full human.

One big event this year was the Slutwalks that spread like a virus for a few months, then quieted down when the weather got cold.

I hope beyond hope it was just a craze, but that type of fun-feminism was everywhere in 2011, especially when trying to have serious debates about porn and prostitution.

Fun-feminism is the handmaiden of the profiteers of the sex trade – for their message is that being inside the sex trade is just work, it will be empowering for women, that porn is an issue of freedom of speech for the users and producers of porn, that prostitution is ok if it is put indoors and made legitimate – that the only reason problem is that others shame women inside the sex trade.

There is no talk of human rights, no talk of male violence to the women inside the sex trade, no talk of how most prostituted women started before they were 15, no talk of being made sub-humans, no talk of any previous violence done to women inside the sex trade – there is no talk that it is all about profit and making women into disposable goods.

This is the background to Slutwalks, this is why there is no placed for the prostituted or exited women on these marches.

I can never or forgive that it was stated “Being a Slut is whether it is for pleasure or for work”

“For work” is their weak way of including women inside the sex trade. It is ok coz it is just work, so we mustn’t worry too much about any violence too much, for it can solved by putting in unions and having safer working conditions.

That is so naive, or just a conscious choice not to care.

Violence is endemic in all aspects of the sex trade, degradation is the norm for the vast majority of women and girls in all aspects of the sex trade.

That is not work – that is a form of slavery.

We should be marching to end this slavery – not to put in alarms, not to put it behind closed doors – we don’t need to tidy it up, we need to fight to abolish every aspect of the sex trade.

A major concern of mine in 2011 has been how language is used to silenced exited women who fight for abolition.

Sex work is used everywhere to make it sounds as if prostitution and other aspects of the sex trade are relatively non-violent and a good career for women.

Sex work is used by the general media instead of prostituted women – coz then the listener or reader will think it might be a little bad, but more than likely it a woman’s free choice and in the long run (very long run) it could be empowering to her, or at the very least solve her immediate problems.

This use of language is crafted by the profiteers of the sex trade for it keeps the focus on the prostituted and away from the male violence from consumers and profiteers of the sex trade.

2011 as I said is the beginning of finding that I have emotions.

I have very sick this year, have felt I was losing it when in reality I coming back into being fully human.

This year I have felt a deeper grief than I could imagine.

I am grieving all that was stolen from me, grieving having to live as the living dead in order to survive, grieving that I was so lost for so long.

My grief is huge, it has only just begun.

I have touch a fury that fuels all my work.

With fury, I find it easy to ignore and never publish those who try to normalise the sex trade, and to make out it just something that has always been with us, so will always be there.

With fury, I can look with a forensic eye at how and why it was and is acceptable to torture women and girls inside the sex trade – and this is made invisible, it also made into a non-event.

With fury, I see a multi-billions dollars sex trade business is seen as just entertainment and a bit of fun – as every moment of every day is committing genocide against the prostituted class.

And I am letting the terror that was buried in order to escape the sex trade.

Now, all the tortures put into my body and mind come out through body memories – it is agonising but it is also a gift to know my own truth.

That is a very shortened version of my 2011.

I will only go forward – thanks everyone who have supported me.

The Personal Is Political

I use this blog to write what appears personal – but everything that I do for the public gaze is political.

I craft my personal history, I only say the parts that happening to thousands of prostituted women and girls. My history is unique and sadly extremely common.

That is why I must write for my history is for too many prostituted women and girls their present.

I do not write to heal – I have others ways to do that.

And also I not that convince that you can heal from many years of extreme torture. I believe you can mend, I believe you can build a brilliant future – but there is always deep holes and scars from the past.

For me, writing is not about healing  – it is about digging deep for the truths, it about changing minds to get true justice for the prostituted through building a path to abolition, it about facing emotions that I thought had been murdered – it is not healing, but may be a way to find how to be fully human.

I write what I would witness writing. This means knowing I cannot changed my past, I cannot give back what was stolen – but as a witness who somehow came out alive, I have the skill to write towards the truth.

This is very hard, very exhausting – but it is also the most wonderful thing I have ever done.

I view my past with a cold forensic eye – when writing I cannot pity, I cannot allow my personal feelings in. It is too important for me to not write with a clear eye.

It is too important to lay bare the common brutality that is and was indoors.

Every torture that went through my body is going through prostituted women and girls in every continent, every city, inside flats and hotels on your doorstep.

That is why I write.

I find it patronising that when exited speak out in highly political voices – when they are clearly using the personal to make a huge connection with all trapped inside prostitution – always it put down by “well that’s sad, but it is just their personal story”.

For it is decided that exited woman can never see beyond her own history – it is decided she too damaged to see the bigger picture.

Well, the exited women I read, listen to and have friendship with not only know the bigger picture – they have vast panorama of how the sex trade is destroying all women and girls right to be fully human.

We know we are never unique to the men that were using – we knew to every punter that went through us, one whore is the same as another.

Each prostitute has a unique history, has individual loves and passions, has her own private dreams – but none of that matters to the sex trade, to punters or to any societies that condone prostitution.

To be considered to be a whore – means having no individuality, no voice, no rights and no hope.

To labelled as the prostitute – means knowing you a fuck-object, that you will thrown away when men are bored of you.

To be a prostitute is to have no existence outside the male gaze and command.

That is why my writing even as it appear personal is always political.

It is the politics of saying – we were never and are not nothing – no we have an immense power.

For if and when we speak our truths, we begin to rip apart male command over women and girls.

When we speak of the cold hate of punters – how they rape, batter and murder the prostituted not from passion, some sexual sadism, but the cold hate of knowing she is under their control, she has no rights and so he do as he wills. She is nothing – so all violence put into her means nothing.

We speak and say in clear stubborn voices that we were always something, we were always unique – so each piece of violence put into us is now remembered, and now we have the to say what was done to force real change and give justice to all the prostituted.

We cannot stop what happened to us, we may never repair all the mental, physical and sexual harms done to us – but we can be part of a movement that give hope to the prostituted.

That is why I write.

It so big the personal – it is never a narrow “story”.

It is always political.

Ghosts of Christmases Past

I now love Christmas – but for much of my life I was terrified of this time of year. It was like seeing hell stretching before me.

I started to re-invent Christmas since I knew I was safe enough, since my thirties.

But in this post, I will explore the ghosts that prostitution put into me.

I only write because it should be knowed that Christmas is made hell for the prostituted, especially inside the so-called high-class end.

I cannot be clear, I am writing through the fog of grief, fog of seeing terror I wish I did not know, fog of the confusion of time and place when everything was so repetitive –  the thick fog of extreme trauma.

I will write as it comes, I may write in a poem – I will write to enter my truths, even as they rip my stomach in half.

I remember from that fog, I did girlfriend experiences during the holiday season.

I hate that expression “girlfriend experience” – it sounds so tame, so civilised, so kind and even sound sophisticated. It is none of that – it is imprisonment, it is sordid, it is fake, and it is usually posh slavery.

Punters who want the girlfriend experience want at Christmas/New Year does, to give the illusion they possess a real girlfriend – only out sight to make her into dirt, and always reminds her that she is just a whore.

He wants to dress her up, wants her to be polite to his family and friends, want to act and look intelligent for that small amount of time.

But, never too intelligent, never do anything to show him up.

She must be pampered and beautiful – his possession to say look I get the girl that everyone else fancies, see I am not nothing.

She is there for his promotion, there coz he is really gay, there to show he is no loner, there to say I am the nice guy.

She is nothing expect what he makes her.

I would dance, I would talk, I would be careful not to drink too much – but I was empty.

Only memory makes clear that emptiness was never empty, only I had no words that I could speak, and no way I would be seen.

Inside, I was on constant alert. Alert to spend as little time alone with the punter, alert to never get drunk in case I say too much or be too vulnerable, alert that no-one in the room knew from other parts of my life.

Inside, I was full of fury. Fury that I was invisible as I was being brought and sold, fury that he was assumed to be a decent bloke, and the fury that I was not screaming and exposing the hypocrisy of it all.

But mostly I was silent, coz I knew I would always have to be alone with the punter.

Then I knew more than likely, than I would know real hell.

The men that make the choice to buy girlfriend experience, want to own her not just for sex, they want her mind, they want to break her time to find all she has to keep private to stay sane.

I was kept by some of these punters for many hours, for days and in the worse cases for months.

I was broken down, and made to be every porn-dream they had that their woman should be.

I was used to sadistic sex – my mind and body had been trained to accept the unacceptable from a very young age. But nothing prepared me for the girlfriend experience.

I was used to being sexually tortured, but usually it was just sexual violence – no words, no communication, no recognition that I was human. All I was a living thing for punters to fuck.

But girlfriend experience was a level of hell I could never imagine.

It was that I made to imagine there was some normality, as we eat meals, chatted like friends, and even watch TV.

I would slip into stupidity – and imagine I was seen, imagine I could be liked, imagined I was more than a fuck-object.

I fall into remembering that I was human – I became vulnerable, forgot to be tough and hard.

It was then I was always pushed back into who I had been made – a dirty little whore who deserve to be hurt.

And so when I sexually tortured for hours on end, as I was not allowed to sleep, as doors were locked on me, as my body was bashed round the room – I could never forgive myself for imaging that they could have been decent blokes, never forgive myself for imaging I was ever more that a whore.

Now, I see that time, and grief clamps down on my heart.

I love the spirit in me then, that so wanted to believe in hope, see the good in others, and wanted simple pleasures – it was always even as so many were smashing it out of me.

I see me then, and know I remain a good person, even as I thought I was worth nothing – I was always able to keep going forward, when I thought I was dying.

I was in hell – and I am very proud that when I somehow left that world – I became someone who knows joy, a person who still good in others, a person who believe in seeing the present to build a future, a person not afraid to confront my past.

I am proud of who I am – for I always know where I come from.