Speak to That Pain

It is the middle of the night, and I am listening to Northern Soul, and trying to ignore trauma.

I could say I feel low, depressed, restless, unable to sleep – but that is just the surface.

No, trauma is a rat gnawing at my will to go forward.

Trauma is the laying in bed and sleeping, only to wake physically wrecked.

Trauma is running on a hamster wheel on and on and on.

I thought maybe writing may help.

May help my body to know satisfying rest.

May make the rat saying I just a failed experiment, what is the point of my work, my wanting to have a future, my reaching for some friends or community.

I thought if I wrote, with Northern Soul hitting my heart, I would speak to this pain and not run away.

So, this post is an experiment, a flow of consciousness.

A reaching into what trauma means to me as an exited woman.

I write to that pain, to get you readers to know why you must keep fighting to free the prostituted.

Know a small part of our pain, and that may armed you for the long fight for abolition.

I write to my trauma, for I want my readers to know why there can be no half-measures about our freedom.

Harm reduction is not good enough – for that is just to patch up the prostituted then send them back to torture.

Reform is only worth if it, if the long-term goal is full abolition of the sex trade.

Each and every moment, the prostituted class are being murdered, being raped on an industrial scale, being torture in all known methods – so it is too late for half-measure.

I speak from a place of multiple rapes, gang-rapes, mental/physical/sexual torture, and knowing it is to be made nothing.

That is the place of trauma that I have to hold each and every day.

I have learned to close all visual memory – the sights I have known and lived through, I have no interest in replaying as pictures again.

But I may see nothing – but every cell in my body carries the sickness and hate that put into by punters.

I had no ownership of my body.

How can I own the holes in my body as fists, penises, objects rammed each and every one?

How can I own my own voice when it stuffed with penises till it lost all hope?

How do I own my own sexuality when so hate, so much pain and so much death was associated with forced orgasms?

Trauma for the prostituted is full of gaps and silences.

The gaps of stolen memory, lost time, lack of hold of what happened.

How can I remember how many punters raped me – when numbers only become a blur?

I know I counted to 300, but that was a very small number of what destroyed me. I know I can never how many men raped me, only that rape was so normal that I could know it was rape.

How can I record the locations I was tortured in?

Only know many rooms become the same, that being fucked against walls and in subways was not strange, that I still do not like posh hotel rooms.

I have learnt to accept that I will many holes in my memory – I can grieve that lost, feel fury at the hate and violence that made my mind erase so much of my life.

These holes are a major spur for me to be an abolitionist. For I no more of the prostituted to have to live with having to block out their realities.

This post is relatively short, but I hope it a rallying cry.

Remember to place the voices of the prostituted to the front – and hear their trauma, don’t run from it.

 

 

Wish I Did Not Know

Surviving prostitution is horrible.

I know we are strong, we have empathy, we can be the bravest people I know – but to all my fellow exited friends and colleagues, we live with knowing what we would rather not know.

We know and understand male sexual violence.

We know and understand what it is to be made sub-human.

We know and understand what torture is and how the human being somehow survives torture beyond knowledge.

We are carriers of deep knowledge – heck, we are a resource.

But I and most of my survivors friends would love to turn back time, and to be ignorant.

You live five minutes with even a small part of our knowledge, and tell me you would not turn back time.

I would imagine I never went down the path I did – I imagine the normal upper-middle class background I was born into.

I imagine a world where I had a mother who loved me, or at least put my safety and welfare as a major purpose.

Not the world of knowing I was nothing to my mum – knowing she saw me as an inconvenient, as born evil, as a blockade to her progress.

I imagine a world where my stepdad never meet my mother, a world where he was not even a thought in our family.

Not the world where his wants and needs were more important than my safety.

Not the world where he could randomly abuse me when his whim took him – and always my mother told me how I provoke him.

I had pushed him too far.

I would eat down my hate, my sense of no justice, my fury that wanted burn down my home.

I would imagine a world where I had no knowledge of prostitution, no idea that sex could be nothing, no connection of pain with that sex.

Not the world that I knew from too young.

The world of my six-year-old who run away from school into King’s Cross and Soho, surrounded by noises of women and girl’s desperation, by noises of men wanting to buy me – the child is cheap and ignorant.

The child can be molded into being a sub-human, and it will be no big deal.

The world of my seven-year-old – where she is stood still in Soho, acting tough, acting beyond her age.

She is street-wise, but knows nothing.

She is walking prey.

The world of my nine-year-old – who begun to make death her best friend, and knew suicide was some answer.

I don’t want to know how much my childhood was stolen even before I was 14 and enter the sex trade.

Now, I see the age 14, and see how bloody young that is – but then I thought I was all grown, that I could be hurt or know pain more than I did then.

I like so many survivors of prostitution, was used to abuse but still a child who naive of what torture was and how bad it could get.

Thank god, we were naive for how would still be alive if we had known what we were entering.

For we were entering hell, but like all hells on earth, it was hidden in plain sight.

I cannot write to prostitution without stating that all that I speak to is just common practice in all aspects of prostitution.

I must state that the vast majority of violence done to the prostituted is done in legal, semi-legal setting.

There is no such thing as underground prostitution, for all prostitution is easy for punters to find and consume.

Prostitution is never about sex and relationship – it always about money, power and male entitlement.

So it never hidden to men – those who do not see the violence and hate that is prostitution, have made a conscious decision to turn away

I will see my prostitution, knowing I connect to all the prostituted class. Now I can rise up and find I was never alone, only completely isolated.

So I speak to my prostituted self – speak words of comfort, words of revolution, words letting her know at last she is someone who can be respected.

Speaking to my prostituted self – I hope is part of building a world where all prostitution has vanished.

A world where all the prostituted class can stand tall.

But to build a future, we must grieve and know our pasts.

I will speak to the heart of my prostituted self – to my silent screaming, to that place where body memories come from,

I try by writing over and over and over, to ease my prostituted self – but without full justice, and a sense that the prostituted are respected – her pain seems endless.

I write to my reality of indoors prostitution, a world with no Julia Roberts, no Richard Geres – just desperation, pain and wanting to forget.

I write to each room with a bed where I was raped, tortured and put myself on the ceiling.

I write to not knowing pain – but seeing blood, seeing bruises, and being unable to walk or eat.

I write to not knowing the men – not looking at their faces, not hearing when they spoke, not breathing in their clothes or alcohol breathe.

I write to being in the of being gang-raped – with that sense of having skin, of my guts being pulled out, of hounds of men panting all over me – but finding not only was I still alive, but being gang-raped was quite common.

No wonder I don’t want to know my own truths.

But to understand and to end prostitution, we must know what is done to the prostituted, and name it as torture, as a human rights emergency.

We must allow all those exited folks strong enough to speak to that reality to be published, to be leaders at all speaking events about abolition, and to listen to your exited friends without asking them to censor their truths.

Abolition is a revolution – so don’t dilute it by censoring the truths of survivors of the sex trade.

 

Fractured Memory

I have many gaps in my memory.

This hurts and wounds me in many ways – I feel I am missing too much of my life. I have lost the years between 6 to 27.

It is not fully lost, just in so many fragments I cannot find how to fit them together.

I am a neglected jigsaw with pieces gone.

I want to cry, but I have forgotten how.

I want to scream – but that voice is lost in a past that is shattered.

I want to know my truths – but only touch small edges.

I understand with logic, why my memory is so damaged.

I understand the mind can only take in so much reality of torture, then it cannot hold any more.

I understand that most of prostitution is repeated violence – repeated ways of raping, repeated ways of mentally/physically/sexually torturing, repeated ways of breaking down the prostitute.

I understand that repetition cannot be remembered fully – only remembered until it is discovered that all the prostituted are not to blame, and the violence done to them was pre-planned.

I understand that to survive the hell that is prostitution, it is vital to close it down or to replace the violence with inventions of empowerment and having a good time.

All this and more, I understand with a clear logical mind – but it does nothing to end the grief of lost memory.

In this post, I will try an explore memory – maybe speaking to moments/hours/weeks/years.

May I say that I was prostituted between 14 to 27, and previously sexually and mentally abused at home from aged 6.

Those years are just moments to me – for my fractured memory has made the good times disappear as well as the abuse and violence.

I remember standout moments – but with the years of prostitution I cannot see my age, cannot see the exact location, and usually cannot fully the men abusing me.

I remember through pain throughout my body, I remember through sudden terror, I remember and try not to doubt myself.

I remember as I choking without cause, I remember as I try to sleep but feel bodies raping me again, I remember when I try to love my partner and my mind wants violence.

I know memory is trapped inside my body, it trying with desperation to connect to the mind.

My instinct is to disconnect from my body as much as possible – I fall into music, reading, eating, TV and so forth to be away from my body.

Heck, now I have Twitter and Facebook, I can run away even more.

But my body pushing memory into me, even as I choose to run away.

The more I run, the worse the pain and grief gets – so I know I must turn round and confront a past that refuses to be silent.

It is a past made up of rooms.

Rooms in hotels, rooms in flats, rooms above clubs, rooms behind pubs.

Rooms where all I remember seemed the same, though it was different times and many locations.

Rooms where all I saw was the bed, maybe a place for money, maybe see a way to a bathroom.

I cannot remember how many rooms, only know I was a robot just seeing any bed – I knew what I was, and could not imagine a world where I was not a whore.

It was a past made up of punters.

A past where I did not know sex could be done with care, done with love, done without pain.

A past where men enter every part of my body – wearing down all memory that I had ever been human.

A past where consent meant nothing – as I was brought and sold, where could my no have any meaning.

A past where one could keep me as his sexual slave for weeks, a past where gang-rape was normal, a past where torture was rehearsed on my body.

For torture is always rehearsed on the prostituted – we are just living porn to punters.

So it is impossible to fully remember the past.

But I remember enough to know I did nothing to be in the line of such hate and violence.

I remember enough to know all punters will torture the prostituted – even if just mentally or by refusing to see the prostituted as fully human.

I remember enough to know violence is the norm of all aspects of the sex trade.

I remember to know I am only alive by luck.

I remember to be an abolitionist.

Another Christmas, Another Year Gone

I have taught myself to love Christmas – it has been a long journey but the older I get the more I understand Christmas.

Christmas means nothing to my prostituted soul.

Christmas was stolen from my abused childhood.

Now, I hold Christmas to my heart, holding not any religion, holding no desire for commercial goods – but holding out for deeper meaning of what love can be.

Love was a concept I was taught to mistrust.

Love was always a silk glove with a dagger in it.

I wanted and needed love as much as any other human being – so I learnt to block out that longing by freezing out all signs and symbols of human love.

Christmas was love, so I taught myself to hate everything that touch my heart associated with that season.

I hardened my heart, I acted the cynic, I pretended it was just another rotten day – whilst all time an inner crying was reaching for joy and peace.

But how can Christmas matter to an abused child? How can the prostituted know that season?

Tell me would care enough to reach into their hearts – in doing so then maybe truly understand the meaning of Christmas.

For Christmas is not about competing for the most showy present, or who can eat the most.

No, Christmas is a reminder that humans can reach out and care for others.

A reminder that we can know joy in small and big events, and knew joy helps build us up in feeling empathy and knowing we do not need to hardened our hearts just to survive.

A reminder that peace is the long-term achievement that all humans should strive.

Not just the ending of political and international wars – but the deeper peace of reaching out to those we think we do not understand or want as our neighbours with love and empathy.

Christmas is never one day or even 12 – the spirit of Christmas is striving of all that is good in humans for all time, it is nothing to do with religion, it about each human soul finding it is connected to all other humans.

I have no belief in god, religion or any supernatural ways of thinking.

I do not have belief in organised religions, in goddesses, in paganism, in witches, in fundamentalism, etc etc – no I believe in the inner strength and a kind of spirituality in all humans.

I believe we are more capable of love than we know, I believe the human heart is built to connect with all other human hearts.

We closed down our own ability to be good and built a better future, for we are afraid.

Instead, humans find it easier to be cut off from love and built a world that is cold and full of pain.

Each and every moment – humans are destroying hope, destroying our link to understanding others, destroying all that give meaning to being alive.

It is human that destroy the spirit of Christmas – and always we blame everything but our own actions.

So I believe it an act of revolution to stand up for the meaning of Christmas.

A spirit that will rise up all those abused children and all the prostituted living inside terror.

Let me look back to my abused self, and see my desire for that Christmas spirit never truly disappear. I will give a few small examples of my resistance to my abusers murdering the spirit of Christmas.

I was taught there was no Father Christmas in the harsher way possible.

I learnt as I thought Father Christmas was reaching into my cunt and feeling me up.

I open my eyes seeing it was my stepdad – and his French kissing suffocated me as he left the stocking at the end of the bed.

I wanted to believe in Father Christmas so much, I wanted there to be magic, I wanted one night without being a sex object.

As an adult, I hold on to laying out stockings for all – adult or child – that moment of joy is a gift I refuse to rob from me.

At aged 17, I reached the end of hope, of wanting Christmas to be part of me.

That Christmas, I dreamt and attempted suicide – but somehow life refuse to let me go.

I remember that hell as I cut myself, took pills, and attempted to walk into the sea.

I remember my mother laughing at for being too stupid to even able to kill myself.

I remember all the time my stepdad eyeing me up and down.

I remember his hands in me as I try to eat Christmas meal.

I remember running from that home into punter’s flats or into sex clubs.

I remember being gang-raped over some winter period.

I remember a New Year of rape and abortion.

Happy Christmas and New Year was meaningless for my 17 years self.

But even – there was an inner voice saying you deserve so much more than this shit – something, some spirit forcing me to stay alive.

I wanted to live coz there must be more to live than pain, fear and hate – something that may called love.

My memories of prostitution at Christmas are confused, and full of grief and trying escape the pain.

All I know, that when I was escorting, being girlfriend material – the Christmas period was busy and often well paid.

This was because the punters were greedy and wanting do more sadist sex – they would pay more for that entitlement.

To be brought round the Christmas period, is to be enslaved – it is expected that many punters will own the prostitute for long periods and make her his living porn-doll.

I hated Christmas as a prostitute – even though I got many gifts or trips, and could spend money like water.

I associated Christmas with pain in every cell of my body, it was a time where I touch death too often.

Christmas was a time of torture, a time to forget about hope – a time that would not end.

Only even my prostituted soul held on to Christmas – a reminder of having innocence, a reminder that not all human want or cause pain and hate.

I held on to Christmas as I listen each year to carols, often it was surreal, but it give me some sense of peace.

I held on to Christmas by playing Phil Spector, jazz Christmas classics and Wham – songs reaching to hidden space that wanted joy.

And I held on to Christmas, as I saw children with looks of wonder at Christmas lights – holding to that part of me that just wanted a simple routine life.

So I have written this post, to say however cruel human choose to be – they will never truly destroy the spirit of Christmas.

They may make it hide for a while – but in the long run the courage and determination of those who are oppressed will force joy, peace and innocence back into the world.

Merry Xmas everyone.

 

I Would Be Ok with Sticks and Stones

I have been away, away for words used in a casual manner are eating me into wanting to die.

Sticks and stones may hurt you, but words do no harm.

That is just bullshit, and much of the language I will describe is invented or used by the sex trade to control and silence the prostituted, whether exited or still inside the sex trade.

The language that sends daggers into my soul – I will named it as Pimp Language which is used by punters, sex trade profiteers, academics, the mainstream media and liberal feminists – as well men on the Left, men on the Right and Liberal men.

It is a language invented over centuries – though words may change, the meaning of control and silencing has always been the same.

For instance the idea of the sex worker is just an re-invention of the courtesan which is just a re-invention of temple whore.

All those concepts are invented to hide male violence and the prostituted are made into throwaway sub-human goods.

The sex worker/courtesan/temple whore are terms that pretend there can a semblance of choice and empowerment for the prostituted.

This lie is spread into all media, all gossip, all means of communication until it is made impossible that any “real” violence can put into the prostituted.

The temple whore is painted as a goddess, or at the least supernatural.

This is held by the means that is norm of the sex trade in all times, all cultures and is the founding stones that makes the sex trade not crumble.

To call a temple whore supernatural is too convenient – as it always means she feels no human pain, has no desire to leave and can an endless for thousands of men to masturbate into.

She becomes the courtesan, who is allow small amounts of power intelligence as long she always available as a fuck-doll that will be thrown away when she is old or just boring for men.

She becomes the sex worker, who is told she is free and empowered – only to find men will and can be violent her whenever he want, for she is always the whore so owned by men.

It is a system that I named the Alice Through the Looking-Glass Approach – that is a constant brainwashing that bad is good, and bad is the only way to live – a world where sadism is call fun, and all escape is blocked.

To keep the prostituted under the control of sex trade profiteers, it is vital to make all the outside world seemed to there to destroy, or at the minimum unattainable.

Over 4000 years the sex trade profiteers have perfected ways of brainwashing, lying and keeping hidden all outside knowledge from the prostituted class.

This includes giving the prostituted no language expect the language of their oppressors.

So, never say to those of us who somehow manage to survive and exit the sex trade – that it is only words, words don’t.

No if you call yourself an ally for abolition, then learn to shut up and listen hard as we speak to what language and individual word mean to us.

Let me choose some words, some expressions that should either used with great care, or never used when speaking about the conditions of the sex trade.

I choose to start with that word that can bring bile to my throat – “choice” which is often placed like sisters with “empowerment”.

How can the Left and Liberals be so naive or determined not to want to know, that those words were stolen by the sex trade profiteers, and used to manipulate that prostitution is somehow Leftist, is about giving freedom and strength to the prostituted – heck it just a job ain’t it.

Choice is a lovely concept, and for many things it can be wonderful – you choose what music you love, you can choose your friends, you can choose where to have a holiday.

Choice is also a terrible delusion, the language of choice is used to keep the oppressed trapped and silences all questioning of why they are being oppressed.

This is a classic tool of all forms of long-term oppression – and has part of the structure of the sex trade.

To make the prostituted think and believe that it was her free choice to be in the sex trade – is a powerful tool to silence and keep her as a sub-human.

The vast majority if not all of the prostituted are in conditions where her individual choices have no relevance.

Whether the prostitute enter freely or by force, is of little relevance to the punters or sex trade profiteers.

Once you become classed as a prostitute, your individual choices are tossed away – it is impossible to have access to choice, if you are made sub-human sexual goods.

The prostituted are made sub-human – so there is no real violence done to them, no violence for it is decided that the prostituted have no human emotions like hurt, fear or deep grief.

How dare that be named as empowerment.

What is so empowering about being fuck-holes for any and all men?

What is so empowering about being moved from street to street, from street prostitution into a brothel, from city to city, from escorting to inside porn, from country to country, from being a victim prostitute when 14 to an empowered whore at aged 17?

I am so hurting  – pain is a bit much.

Bloody think before you speak – I am so sick of your language.

A Change is Coming

Last night, Canada become another country that is making hard for men to buy the prostituted. Slowly, there is a change coming.

A change away the so-called norm of men being entitled to buy and sell the prostituted for sexual greed.

A change that it can seen as normal to say prostitution is just a nasty job, but someone has to do it.

A change that makes some women and girls, and some males so sub-human that can be sexually tortured, raped and murdered – and it framed as adult leisure.

I am thrilled that slowly, and on occasions a sudden rush – that prostitution is being seen for what it is.

Seen as a human rights emergency.

Seen as mental, physical and sexual torture.

Seen as the oldest and largest genocide this world has ever know.

I know this is a dangerous time, especially for those of us who are abolitionists and have exited the sex trade.

We are always under attack from the sex trade lobby, that is so normal to us, that we rarely make it public.

Most abolitionists survivors try to ignore the hate and terror sent to us almost every day, hoping they will slowly get bored.

We usually do not publish or acknowledge their constant war on us, we will not give them free publicity or advertisement for their profits on the bodies of the prostituted still trapped in the sex trade.

But I feel on occasions it is vital to speak out against this war on our minds and ability to keep going forward.

First I want everyone on the Left and in feminism, to start taking seriously what is happening to survivors who are now abolitionists – take serious how powerful the sex trade lobby is, and recognised the extreme hate throw at us.

Andrea Dworkin know this hate, and where and why it is targeted at exited women who dare to speak out in particular – she preach that the sex trade are furious that their goods are rebelling, for we should be dead or too damaged to speak out.

The sex trade lobby has total contempt for all the prostituted class, especially those of us who dare to be alive and to be had the strength to say where we came from.

They want us wipe from the face of the earth – preferably without getting their hands dirty by forcing us into suicide.

This is done in multiple ways, but the main weapon is that their attacks are relentless, or it never done by a single “troll” but a highly organised criminal organisations.

This means the sex trade has access to huge amounts of money and people to keep a non-stop low of hate and lies.

They invade Twitter, Facebook, our blogs, our emails, attempt to find our private addresses.

They threaten our mental and physical welfare, threaten our families, and say enough lies that our friends are made to doubt us.

They use our trauma as a weapon to destroy us – saying we were too weak to deal with the “job”, using that we have fragmented memories to “prove” we are liars.

They pretend to be caring – only to say it just a story, and most of prostitution is empowering to women.

They send us invitations to work for them in their lovely brothels – then we can see it not so violent, coz of course they are the friendly caring pimps.

They get punters to write to us to explain how ignorant we are – for we just need to meet the “good punter” to see how wrong we are.

They explain to us how men must have access to the prostituted, coz they are lonely, disabled, unattractive etc. Making out we are evil to deny men that entitlement.

Sometimes, they just lose it saying we too ugly to be a real prostitute, too weak to know our own truths, too sub-human to even be polite to and have a reasonable debate with.

It is their common weapon to tell us that we were never “real” prostitutes – so our tales should be dismissed or shown to be lies.

They say we are paid bags of money to lie about the sex trade.

It goes on an on and on – it is soul-destroying.

Of course, there are highly personal attacks as well as those politics attacks.

We are attacked for being too damaged to know the truth – never that the damage was forced into us by the constant hate and violence that is prostitution.

We are told we are murdering the prostituted by wanting abolition or the Nordic Approach.

It is a slow torture.

I want this to taken seriously, for as the progress to abolition is slowly taking hold – the sex trade lobby will get more aggressive and even less rational.

The attacks on abolitionists who are survivors will get worse – and we need support and your strength.

Thanks.

Contradiction in Terms

This post is written for feminists – to say it is a contradiction in terms to call being inside the sex trade sex work.

This post is a rallying call to stop saying is a labour issue.

This post is saying to all feminists to go deeper into the emotional deadness that is the backbone of all aspects of existing inside the sex trade.

I am and always will be a feminist, a feminist of old-fashioned Dworkinist kind, feminist that believes in learning by listening hard, a feminist who find too much feminism is too timid.

We are too timid to take the measure of the sex trade and to confront by any means.

There is no more direct action against porn and sex trade – just endless conferences, blogs that tend to be read by those who agree with us, and the inaction of Twitter and Facebook “debates”

We are too timid to say and speak the conditions for the prostituted class – especially timid to speak to their common torturing, timid to stare down into their emotional void.

It has become like Andrea Dworkin and her like never existed.

Could it be that the “discovery” that Andrea Dworkin was prostituted, was able to speak to the unique deadness of being inside that world – meant her words were and can be dismissed.

For the history of rebellion against the sex trade has always been about never allowing the voices of those who know the inside of existing that world being made to disappear.

There has always been women and men who have exited the sex trade who have spoken out against it.

Always our voices are silenced, are taken over to fit other’s agendas, has been dismissed as individual stories or signs that all the prostituted are mentally damaged.

The language of rebellion and striving for full human is part of all the prostituted – for we have known genocide, know extreme physical and mental torture, know nothing to us is personal is just commerce.

Our multiple voices can never fit your agendas, never be push back to just facts and statistics, never be truly heard until you can hold and truly heard our haunted emotions.

I write now to feminists, but of this about all our allies.

To hear and be a true ally to exited women is to learn to less timid about hearing dark emotions.

We are angry – but not the simple angry of now, it is an angry of nearly the whole of human history being built on the concept that having a prostituted class is reasonable.

It is an anger of knowing how huge that is – that we cannot just look to our time, place and culture and think solves prostitution and porn.

The sex trade has been embedded in most of this world for the minimum of 3000 years – it is not Western/Eastern thing, is it not a Christian/Muslim/Jewish/Buddhist/Sikh/Atheist thing, it not Fascist/Communist/Capitalist thing – it is part of all of them.

But it is about the male entitlement thing that all male-formed religious and political systems have.

That is why the sex trade can embed itself into the vast minority of cultures or ways that people are controlled by religion or politics. For it can fit in with most cultures which were formed for the benefit of powerful men.

The sex trade is a parasite who go under the skin of every culture and slowly sucks it dry.

In the end, since at the minimum of 3000 years it can be almost impossible to separate the wants and greed of the sex trade from what is considered any individual culture, individual religious/political ways of controlling, or even what make any country stand out.

The skill of the sex trade is to make itself acceptable and view as harm-free by adapting to the culture wherever they see a new market.

That is our anger – the anger of seeing what others make invisible or walk by.

We are grieving.

Our grief is partly the grief of never understanding why we survived, when it is just a fact that the vast majority of the prostituted disappear, lose their minds or are dead.

We have survivor guilt and grief – but we are given no space to speak to that.

I cannot understand a feminism that does allow the prostituted to grieve – to speak to that sense of chance that is surviving the sex trade.

I have seen the grief express round rape in feminism, seen the grief of domestic violence inside feminism, even the grief of childhood abuse laid bare in feminism.

But the grief of the prostituted is made to be small, made that it must stay controlled and always to be acceptable to others.

I am sorry to say this is keeping the prostituted as sub-humans who are not allowed to feel like other women.

Our grief is huge – but your fear of our expression of that grief does not make it smaller.

I want feminism to be less afraid of staring into the darkness of what it is and was to be prostituted.

I cannot understand any form of feminism that is not prepared to learn, and to be quiet enough to hear exited women.

After all, we are witnesses to what male violence and control is.

We are and were at the coal-face of patriarchy.

We know in our bodies, in the killing of our emotions, in becoming sub-human – what it is to owned and manipulated by pure male power and sense of entitlement.

We know without any doubt that all male sexual violence is never accidental, or an one-off, or some mental slip – it is planned and an act of power done by very ordinary men.

We have live being sub-human – being holes to masturbated into, being a mouth/anus to be penetrated, to being a piece of meat to fuck until dead or made nothing.

You cannot understand the reality of being prostituted until you know beyond facts what it is to be brought and sold, what it is to be sexual goods that are passed around.

You cannot understand our realities if you do factor in grooming, the skill of all punters/consumers and sex trade profiteers to mentally break down the prostituted.

You will never understand the sex trade if you do see how they can control their sexual goods – often till the point that it the oppressed who become recruiters.

I believe for feminism to move with exited women – it need more courage.

We need to give less space to trolls who are mostly sex trade profiteers or punters.

These trolls don’t listen to anything that feminists or abolitionists say – all they want is tangle us up in endless “debates” that go nowhere, hoping to grind us down or at the least prevent the practical work of forging abolition going forward.

Feminists need to stop speaking over or for the exited women, especially to stop using our ideas and words and saying you invented them.

Feminists should not treat resistance to the sex trade as something new – but know it built on a long and very noble legacy.

Feminists should be so scare of looking in the void of what it was and is to be in the prostituted class.

I want to get back the courage that I call the spirit of Dworkin, the spirit of every Whore who woke up and saw her reality.