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.

You are Nothing

How do I explain what it is and was to be prostituted?

How do I explain, express and try to show what it is to be made nothing?

I have tried with my words on this blog, on Facebook, in speeches and informal discussions to speak to the centre of that black hole. Only to feel my words always just skim the surface.

How is it possible to speak to nothing?

Nothing will come from nothing is the saying that runs riot in my head – leading to a place where despair appears relaxing.

I need to see the ways I was made nothing.

I need to know that being nothing had some meaning.

I need to hold nothing that was my existence and learn to forgive enough to grieve

Then maybe something can be made of nothing.

I feel and deeply believe that push towards full abolition for all the prostituted, we must explore the emotional losses and psychological damage that is the legacy of being prostituted.

We need to think outside of facts, look in grief, stare at confusion and hold hands with terror.

We must learn to be at home with messy emotions, and to learn that some trauma cannot not be repaired only be a shadow.

I feel the abolition movement pushes away the multiple voices of survivors of the sex trade, coz they appeared too messy, too stringent, too full of pain/anger.

But the more you silenced our voices, the more we will appeared to be awkward, too demanding and like a constant scream that follows you around.

We are the ghosts at your celebration, we are the shadow that whispers there is so much more that must be done, we are the black cloud that causes you headaches.

For the constant dismissal of the multiple voices of survivors of the sex trade – except a tiny few who fit your preconceived image of what an exited woman is – is the larger barrier to having full freedom of the prostituted class.

I believed the refusal to listen and hear with any depth our voices comes from a refusal to know and hear negative emotions, or hears ours truths may not easy solutions or fit inside a neat feminist/Leftist box.

To refuse to hear and know the emotions of what it is and was to be prostituted, is to keep us as sub-human, maybe at the best as pets you only bring out on special occasions.

You are keeping us sub-human, as you only allow survivors to speak out under your agenda.

If we dare speak beyond a feminist or leftist agenda, we are put back into a box, and the lid is shut until it felt our language has become your language.

But our truths, our experiences and our pain is more than political debate, more than an example you can learn from, more than another horror story you can tick off.

We remembered the centre of what it is and was to be tortured, we remembered what patriarchy feels likes as it poisons every cell in our bodies.

We speak to emotions that had to be murdered in order that our bodies somehow survive whilst numb to all reality.

We know what evil is as we know how sex trade profiteers operate, and remember in our bodies that punters never accidentally destroy us.

Would you be able to truly hear, hear enough to quiet enough to learn, how we got through that hell – or would prefer we stay safe with “facts” and statistics?

Well, I for one want to go deeper than facts, I want to explore the heart of darkness that made me into nothing.

I want and need to know that part of my life for it made me for good or bad.

I live with trauma, I live with body memories, I live with fragmented memory – all this was forced into me by prostitution. So I want and need to know who I was then to maybe understand who I am now.

I do this for me – but more I hope I can make connections with others who have survived the sex trade, and have huge gaps of loss and memory.

Those survivors are my family, my purpose and my touchstone.

I want to be clear that all forms of prostitution should be classed as torture, that all forms of prostitution is the destruction of human rights and the human soul.

There can never be any reason or excuse for the existence of prostitution – all so-called reasons are just selfish, self-justifying and comes from the idea that all the prostituted are too sub-human to have access to human rights.

So each time you hear, you read or even if you think there is some kind of prostitution that can be made ok – then know you not silencing survivors of the sex trade. but forcing a dagger into our hearts

All forms of prostitution are made to look good by the sex trade – all forms of media will be used to spread the propaganda that we must never look too closely at the conditions that make prostitution.

We must look hard enough to see the dead eyes of the prostituted, we must pretend not to know it is impossible to equate exchange of money/gifts with full consent, we must turn away from ideas like rape industry or paid rape.

We need to refuse to know that if it done to us it would be painful, humiliating, a crime or even an outrage – for we must believed it fine to rape, abuse and tortured the prostituted for they are nothing.

Well, I for one, refuse to allow the easy road of turning away from the terror, pain and confusion that is in all the prostituted.

I for one, need you to see and know that we must know that hell for it man-made and done for pleasure and control.

To be made nothing – nothing but holes for punters to use as living porn-doll.

To be made nothing – nothing than a stereotype of whatever woman/girl/man/boy that the punter wants to use as a fuck-toy.

To be made nothing – nothing can feel no pain or grief as torture becomes the norm.

To be made nothing – nothing as sex trade profiteers pass you round all aspects of the sex trade, move you from street to street, city to city, country to country.

To be made nothing – nothing as lined up like meat for punters to pick.

To be made nothing – nothing as it becomes normal for the prostituted to be thrown away, or just disappear.

This is all planned and organised – but the trick of the sex trade is to make you believe any act of violence done to the prostituted is random, and can be dealt with.

I hope this post makes sense – please write to me what you think.

 

 

So If It Was Bad – How Come You’re Alive Then?

This is an unanswerable question which is always asked of those of us somehow survived the sex trade.

It is unanswerable for we do not know.

Do not know when so many strong and vibrant friends, and folks we did not know were destroyed by the sex trade.

Do not know how we survived many near-death experiences.

Do not know how we woke each morning after many hours of mental, sexual and physical torture.

Do not know how we survived our many suicide attempts.

All we know it against all that was thrown at us we lived.

That should be seen as heroic – there should parades, fireworks, a day of memorial and celebration for all the prostituted.

But our survival is greeted with silence, with embarrassment, with a conscious turning away from any message we bring with us.

For we should have never survived – never of lived, never of remember what it was to be prostituted, never been alive with a voice and the will to make others listen to learn.

The harsh fact of the silencing, ignorance and closing of those of us who have exited the sex trade is we cannot be allowed to be alive enough have a voice.

This is shown on so many levels – whether by the usual suspects of those who benefit in the continence of sex trade, but also by folks who say they are allies of us.

It is shown every time there are records of murders of females – where there is no mentions of the many murdered prostituted women and girls, no mention of those murdered in the porn industry.

These deaths are made invisible, made unimportant – if mentioned mostly as an afterthought to “normal” domestic violence murders.

But – the murders of the prostituted class is happening everywhere, every day, maybe every half hour of every day.

It is considered that women inside the sex trade are at the minimum 12 times more likely to die a violent death that women of similar age and background – it may as much as 20 times more likely.

If it considered that women may dies at least 2 a week from domestic violence – then try to imagine 12-20 times that number.

But this genocide goes on, for the prostituted are never alone to be human enough for their lives to matter.

That means to murder a prostitute is made into a non-event – it becomes just the throwing away of the trash.

The deaths of the prostituted are mostly unreported. If reported, all too often she is made nameless.

If the murdered prostitute is allowed to have a name, her life is narrow down to “just another dead whore”.

The message is clear – we should not mourn the murdered prostituted, that grief should be for “real” women.

Death was the norm when we were inside prostitution.

We learnt that our lives meant nothing – so most of the prostituted grow hardened to the idea of death.

Sometimes the only reminder that we were alive, was finding we could still feel pain or get moments of grief – or even some connection to what it was to be happy.

To have emotions was terrifying – but they were vital to send signals that there more to life than being buried in the sex trade.

Emotions needed to be controlled – for all too often, sex trade profiteers and punters used any sign that we were still human against us.

To show fear encourage more violence.

To cry was to be laughed at, was to made to cry by yet more violence.

To laugh at the ridiculousness of it all was to be punished.

To be quiet was not to put the punter at the centre of everything.

To show anger was placed yourself in grave danger.

To want to protect yourself would make a danger to the sex trade, so you will be thrown away.

I always laugh with bitter tears remembering that deadening all emotions became the way I survived how bad it was.

Often the real meaning of “if it was so bad, how come you’re alive then?” is – why did you do nothing to run away, or report the violence.

Again this very hard to answer, yes there is a surface of easy answers of not knowing how to report, being taught to trust no-one outside the sex trade, not knowing anywhere was safe to run to – but the real answers are deeper and far more tragic.

Most of us who were trapped inside the sex trade have no clear answers is why we did not run – for to be honest, many of us did run away only to find we landed straight back into the hell of the sex trade.

Running away is very hard if you don’t where or who you are running – sometimes going back to what you think you might understand seems the only solution.

It must be been seen that the vast majority of those inside the sex trade comes from backgrounds or experiences that have taught them that they are less than human – and the skill of the sex trade and its profiteers to keep them as sub-human.

Look at the prostituted class and what do you see.

You will see the majority have experienced childhood abuse.

You will see that indigenous and ethnic minorities women overwhelm who is made into the prostituted.

You will see all man-made disasters – wars, famine, poverty etc – are used to recruit the prostituted.

You will see that the sex trade market is about young flesh – under-aged prostitution is the norm not some perversion.

And you will see that the sex trade will prey on all women and girls – for there a market for everything from posh white schoolgirl to Asians in saunas, from high-class escort to street-based prostitute.

The sex trade never will get tired of exploiting and oppressing the prostituted – and by ignoring their violence, you become part of the problem.

 

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.

 

 

 

 

I Can’t Cry

I want to cry so much.

My throat hurts so much coz it so blocked, my eyes are tired of being tired, my heart is in an agony where words disappear to.

I still can’t cry.

I wanted to cry when Lauren Bacall died, for she was my protector when all my world was being thrown to the wolves.

I remember as a 14-year-old wanting to be Lauren Bacall, wanting her presence by my side.

I stood by the bar in a sex club, and try hard to make it into “The Big Sleep”, and make reality disappear.

I imagined the dive I was in was a sophisticated nightclub – where I was wisecracking and keeping men at a distance.

I refuse to see the truth, that I had no voice, no safety, no access to dignity – I refuse to know I was nothing as I imagine I was strong as Lauren Bacall.

I want to cry so much for that lost teenager – but I can’t cry.

I want to cry at the careless use of language that destroyed my soul every day.

I want to cry every time I read, I hear and I come across someone I thought I could trust say “sex worker”.

I want to chop off their head, I want to smash my radio or TV up, I want to stab editors and academics that say those words.

All exited men and women I know, hate the term “sex worker”, and we say over and over and over why we want that language destroyed.

But instead, you listen and copy those who promote that term – do you not question why I and so many exited folks hate to be called sex workers.

It is a term invented and promoted by the sex trade and its allies to make invisible all the common male violence done to the prostituted.

Say prostitution is just work, maybe say it can hard and dangerous work, and it become about the individual prostitute – and never that it is a criminal structure that has the purpose of allowing men access to sadism.

To call it sex work is a terrible lie – said to bring the Left and liberal feminists in line with the sex trade.

I cannot believe how easy it for the Left and liberal feminists allow themselves to be manipulated and guilt-tripped by the sex trade.

I feel like slapping them for so naive/stupid, but i understand it is easier to think it just work and somehow can be made safe – then to know the brutal truth, that male violence is the life-blood of all aspects of prostitution.

Prostitution can never be made safe – for every time a punter makes the choice to buy another human, he is making the choice to own the prostitute body and soul.

That is not work, that is not sex – that is slavery.

Once you have been brought or sold – you know you have no rights to safety, no access to language that others will hear, no access to know consent.

Once you have been brought or sold – you learn to not know rape for it happens too regular for the human mind to comprehend.

Once you have been brought or sold – you teach your body to block out pain from endless tortures of mind, body and soul. You learn as quick as possible how to be alive, but empty of hope, emotions and sense of purpose.

You learn to be a husk.

I want to cry for that empty soul – cry for the endless hate, anger and pain that all the prostituted have forced into them.

I want to cry so, but only my choking and sickness comes.

I want to cry when I hear feminists say it about all women – as yet another of placing the prostituted as an afterthought, hopefully push far enough away to be made invisible.

Yes all women can be on the receiving end of male violence – but it about scale and what it means to belong to the prostituted class.

All women and girls could be raped in their lifetime – but it would considered terrible if a non-prostituted woman is raped in more than 5 separate occasions.

Most of the prostituted are raped in their hundreds, thousands, and in industrialised brothels numbers beyond human comprehension.

Rape is so normal to the prostituted, it become nothing, a non-event.

The prostituted are raped beyond knowing and naming it as rape.

We need another language for that scale of rape, another way of seeing and knowing that reality.

We need the language of extreme torture, the language of numbness and alienation, a language of human rights, a language that reaches into the centuries of silence that built the prostituted class.

I gleaned some language from reading classic horror such as MR James and Edgar Allen Poe.

I gleaned language from reading letters and memoirs from soldiers on the Western Front, in the American Civil War.

I gleaned language from diaries of slaves, from words of twentieth century genocides and civil wars.

Language need to look directly into the void that is prostitution – not turn away to other aspects of male violence, just to abandon yet again the prostituted class.

The men that rape, torture and murder the prostituted on a mass scale – are given permission by making their violence unspeakable – or just unhearable.

We must struggle to find a language that fits that scale – we must face without fear the terror, the agony and the depths of grief that give some meaning to what it is to be prostituted.

And not silenced those who speak out by saying it about all women.

Learn to hear the differences, learn to be quiet and wait for spaces to open for you to talk.

I wish I could cry – i wish so much.

Let My Mind Flow

I have put on 60’s girls groups and as the Dixie Cups sing innocent and light songs, I will try to reach into the parts of my mind that has been giving me insomnia.

I find I can face the dark if I play cheerful music.

It may not make sense – it may be that it my way of detaching myself from my own words.

All I know is I write to the parts of me that were crushed or made sub-human, I write and maybe some of the music reaches those parts.

I will try to mend some of that past, I will try to give it a voice, I will try to hold the wounded warrior that cries inside me.

I cannot get images of my broken past, only if I let my mind flow I can feel enough to come to terms with it.

I can learn deep forgiveness for that I could stop what happened to me.

I can feel grief, even if I cannot cry or show sorrow.

I am learning not to deadened myself by vanishing into my TV, not to deadened myself by making sick jokes and acting as if nothing can or would hurt me.

I am learning it is ok to be vulnerable, ok to trust others, ok to say in a clear voice yes it is still hurting – and that hurt is going around for a long time.

By saying that I am finally my true strength and courage – not the fake bravery that claims nothing can ever hurt, the fake power of saying I coped with being inside prostitution.

Let me make it clear – no human can truly cope with being prostituted with deep trauma, without needing to deaden yourself to just stay alive.

There is no such thing as an undamaged prostitute – but all the damage is placed into the prostitute, it is never the fault or some weakness of any prostitute.

It is easier to blame the prostitute – then see the cold hate that create the sex industry that feeds on male violence to the whole prostituted class – be that female, male or children.

All I know is one to survive prostitution is not know the reality of the world you are in.

It is world that is organised, but pretends to be chaotic and run by individuals.

It is a world where the prostituted are pass around, and place into many aspects of the sex trade.

I was as an example was move to several cities, I was placed in flats, in hotels, in clubs, pick up on the street, pick up in pubs.

All this done to confused and mentally abused the prostitute – often making her feel is disgusting for she “chooses” to go to multiple places.

There is always control over the prostituted – the best control is made invisible to the prostitute, so her self-hate and sense of shame will keep her trapped.

It is natural in the situation where you have no control, no access to an exit – it is natural to turn the world of the sex trade upside-down.

It is normal when embedded in prostitution to say that it is empowering, that it was freely chosen, that of the prostitution is fun.

To survive prostitution with some degree of sanity, it is normal to close down the reality of violence, close down the fear that is so deep that most prostitute cannot feel it.

That fear, pain and confusion is always there, only to survive the prostituted learn to firmly not know it part of their reality.

The voices of the “Happy Hookers” are voices of deep damage.

They are voices that cannot think back to how and why they enter the sex trade.

They cannot see or know when they could still be terrified, when they could wordlessly know they were being raped and/or tortured.

They are the voices that cannot see the hurts and pushes that place into the role of the prostitute – for they have to believe it was just their choice to somehow make sense of the insanity they are existing in.

We should not be angry at these voices – we should have deep compassion for their pain, grief, fear and confusion.

We should not hate the Happy Hooker for she/he is being manipulated by the sex trade profiteers and their cynical allies.

Of course, the sex trade has the intelligence to push the voices of these damaged mainly women forward, and for punters and sex trade profiteers to feed them what to say as they hide.

I have written enough for now.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Get My Mojo Going

For too long now, my trauma has been horrific.

It is body memories, it is apathy, it is exhaustion, it is feeling dead to emotions, it is wanting to cry or scream, it all that and more that I have no human words for.

I need to move it, I need to get my mojo working.

I do this best by confronting where the pain comes, confronting my truths that I am afraid to know.

I do this best by confronting the hate-speech of pro-sex trade lobby that is pouring trauma into my essence, and blocking my future.

I get my mojo back with courage, with allowing in my vulnerability, with a fierce warrior soul.

I write as one way to get my mojo going.

Where do I begin, when trauma is all round me and suffocating me.

I can write, and hope my choking keeps it distance.

I will write even as sitting on my anus as it screams into memories.

I will write, and try to ignore my exhaustion that is just a blocking mechanism.

Writing is my road to freedom, writing is my way to speak to the truth.

But where do I start?

I suppose I could start with the words of hate that the sex trade lobby send my way all the time, or send to all other exited women who speak out.

It is easier to start with outside forces, and more into my essence.

Words are –

Sex work, underaged-sex worker, choice, forced prostitution, trafficking vs prostitution, clients, businessmen, harm reduction, made safer, indoors prostitution vs outdoors, underground – and such like “friendly” words.

These words are used to make the sex trade appear welcoming, clean and safe – words that implies all so-called bad aspects of the sex trade can and will be dealt with in-house.

These words are used to push prostitution indoors, and less likely to have outside interference or any consideration of the welfare of the prostituted.

Words like harm reduction and made safer are used to say – yeah sure, there is violence in all aspects of the sex trade, but let’s make it the fault of the individual prostitute, say she is weak or incapable to care her own safety.

Just don’t mention that it may be the punter who is the cause and reason that there is violence against the prostituted.

Just don’t mention that the major profit in the sex trade is when punters are allowed to be as violent as they can imagine – those punters spend more and more likely to return.

Just ignore that it is impossible to know when a punter may be a sadist – just ignore that paying for sex is an act of violence in and of itself.

But what is this harm reduction – is it not a method to patch up the prostituted with condoms, a short talk, and some coffee – then send her back into the line of danger.

Harm reduction is about the endless flow of the prostituted, with a small rest to pretend to care.

I do not want the harm to be reduced, I do not want the prostituted to comforted and then throw back into the fire – that is just a slow death – and it is cowardly and irresponsible of those who use harm reduction as a route to keep the sex trade going.

I wish to speak to my trauma, to my pain, to my grief.

I want to dig deep, if I can without my normal blocking.

I feel my PTSD has been bad off and on since January.

This has meant writing has been very hard.

Yes, I have run away into sports on TV, but it does not make my trauma disappear, just numbs it for short periods.

Now, I am using this post as a start to confront why this trauma is so awful.

I am knowing the pain, the sense of despair, the terror that was being prostituted.

I am coming to terms, beginning to come to terms, with the facts that I was tortured when I was prostituted.

I am coming some kind of terms of how many lies keep me in prostitution, how I was brainwashed to think I was worthless.

I am accepting that I was raped in the thousands, that I was raped by punters of all classes/ethnicities/beliefs.

That is some of the source of my trauma.

To be prostituted is to have no hold on how often you were abused, to have no hold on memory as it fractures with too much torture and hate.

I believe the prostituted need only remember enough to know that the torture really happened, and to believe in their heart and soul that they were never to blame.

It is impossible to remember with full knowledge when raped in the thousands.

It is impossible to have a sense of linear time when so much of the violence is repeated over and over and over inside your body.

It is impossible to know the faces of the punters as they merge into one long horror.

It is normal to have fractured memory after prostitution.

Instead of interrogating those of us who have been lucky enough to exit – with questions like –

Where did it happen? How many men exactly? What age were you? Why did you not just walk out? Why did you take the money if it was so bad?

Forget those blaming questions, and think deeper and with real compassion.

Like the exited explore their past at their own pace, learn to accept the holes and silences in their memory, listen without speaking over.