Pimp Words are Everywhere

I have been away from my blog, coz I have been facing the grief inside me.

I have been away staying as still as possible, allowing in me emotions to grow after the deadness of being prostituted.

It is hard to stop and grieve when all around the language of pimps dominate.

It is spoken in all the media, it is inside most TV dramas or films, it is heard when resting in coffee shops or just walking down the street.

Pimp language has come to be the acceptable language to speak by most of the liberal/leftist culture, which sadly includes too feminists as well.

It is a language that poisons all those who are lucky enough to survive the sex trade and strive to build real freedom for all the prostituted.


This has become the pc way to speech of all inside the sex trade.

It is spoken without thinking, it is spoken as if it the only good way to describe the prostituted.

It is spoken sending daggers into the hearts of all survivors of the sex trade, it is spoken and gags all our freedoms and ability to speak above pimp speech.

Sex work/worker is a term that was formed in New York by pimps in an attempt to say what they did was not just legitimate, but also harm-free.

It was formed to make all male violence invisible, to make all forms of profiteer’s control invisible, to make it that punters are just misunderstood or all gentlemen.

Sex work/worker is the language of hate and slavery.

But the Left and many liberal feminists took the terms and claim them as their own.

To do that they forget or choose to not remember it is terms owned by pimps.

Instead they make the false claim to be in sex work is to build an environment of safety for the prostituted class.

But this is huge and horrible lie.

When liberal feminists and the Left imagine a sex worker – it is always the old image of the Happy Hooker or courtesan, that age-old male fantasy that hides all male violence and hides the conditions of the prostituted class.

It is the image/fantasy of a middle-class or upper-class adult prostitute who enjoys her life.

It is the image/fantasy that is not just indoors prostitution, but always highly paid, always doing any sexual act with great joy.

It is the image/fantasy that these prostitutes just love doing sexual act or having sexual acts done to them, that good women will not do.

It is an image/fantasy that is allowing violence in indoors prostitution to happen all the time everywhere – but the Left and liberal feminists can turn their backs on it, imagining it is just a chosen lifestyle.

The vile language of sex work/worker reaches it peak when everywhere there – under aged sex workers, migrant sex workers, survival sex work and so many other terms of hate.

It is the language that George Orwell would recognise.


I cannot write in full coz grief is all round me.

What is Your Excuse

I am going to the London Stop Porn Culture conference this weekend, and I will try to focus through the heart of my trauma.

In this post, I want to look at the many excuses made for the continuing of the sex trade. All excuses start from not allowing that the prostituted class can be fully human.

That barring from humanity is how all the sex trade works, so as you make endless excuses know you are making conditions for slavery, conditions for the disappearances or deaths of too many of the prostituted.

If you an excuse to make the sex trade normal, you have blood on your hands.

I write this for I am sick and tired of hearing apparently good people saying prostitution or porn is not that bad – only problem is people like me ruining the fun of others.

So you begin your excuses by lying about who people like me are.

We are moralistic, we hate sex, we are too sheltered, we are mentally damaged, we have no sense of humour, we want the police in the bedroom.

Lordy, we are everything that can be ridicule or made small – anything not to listen and hear our words.

The excuses are made so you or your friends have full access to the sex trade preferably as private as possible.

It is this mentality that against all logic and the reality of male violence works, that pushes for indoors prostitution in the false claim that it safer that street-based prostitution.

No aspect of prostitution is safe, or can be safe enough to be allowed to continue.

Behind closed inside brothels, in flats and hotel rooms, in sex clubs, in the homes of the prostituted – violence continue without interference, without access to help, without the knowledge that any cares.

No, prostitution behind closed doors is open to torture, to gang-rapes, to murder – it is too common that the prostituted just disappear from indoors prostitution.

So dream on if you think escorting, brothel work, being in a sauna, being girlfriend material is safe, or surrounded by managers who care about your welfare as a prostitute.

And to any punter who may be reading this, saying I’m the good guy for using indoors prostitution – I would never ever exploit any prostitute I went with.

You are exploiting by buying her as your masturbatory goods, you are exploiting by even imaging you have the right to buy another human just so you can have an orgasm.

I know of no punter who is bother that a prostitute is injured, bother if she may be trafficked or not, bother if she is under-aged, bother if she out of it on drugs, bother if it clear she being intimidated by a pimp.

Most punters love the thrill that the prostituted is being exploited, love the power of being yet more poison to rip out her humanity.

Punters see no human, they see a living sex doll that has no rights to consent or freedom to be fully alive.

The only time I can imagine a punter caring about the prostitute as a human is if he about to be arrested.

Most punters see no crime in raping, torturing and murdering the prostituted – it just a small event that they can move away from and forget.

That is what you are allowing when you make the sex trade normal.

The excuses come from a place of refusal to have even the smallest piece of empathy for the prostituted.

This happens all the time everywhere – those outside the prostituted class that see we are fully human are rare and need to be hold onto for they are part of the road to freedom.

I am sick and tired of being in an environment of so-called allies who can speak openly about all forms of male violence against women and children – but speak tongue-tied when talking to the conditions of prostitution and porn.

Your constant excuse is it too terrible to be spoken of – but you speak to the reality of child rape, of mass rapes in war-zones, of domestic violence, and many other ways men torture women and children.

But when speaking on the sex trade – it is spoken with great detachment and wanting “proven” facts, it is spoken by saying there must two sides, it is wrapped in the language of sex work.

You language become more and more distant – anything not to see that the prostitute is a human being.

Is it that you truly believe that there are two sides to prostitution and porn – but not two sides to child rape, not two sides to domestic violence?

Why do cling on to the fantasy that some of the prostituted had free choice and so must be happy.

Do you not see most women inside domestic violence would say they chose to live with the person who abuses them?

That the majority of rapes are done by men who built a relationship with their victim.

Do you think it is normal for women and girls outside the sex trade to self-blame for the male violence done to them?

Yet you make the choice not to judge those women and girls, or think it is true that are to blame.

But every day in most environments, the prostituted class are taken at their word if they say what you want to hear – that is they are empowered and happy – and ignore if they say it is hell.

That choice to not listen is part of the genocide of the prostituted class.

I will end here for it too hard for my grieving soul to write anymore.

Climbing Back on My Horse

I have too full of trauma to write for a while.

I have let fear, exhaustion and a burning out of my brain stop me from coming to my work.

I have found it hard to feel solid when memories are drowning, making my choking so intense that sleep and breathing is the only issues that I can care about.

Today, I stare directly into my trauma and say enough – I will return to my work.

I will ride my bucking horse again – for deep inside I know only patience and love will tame it.

That is, I can learn to one with my past, my present and my future if I just hold on tight to my wild horse and learn it is just part of me.

Sound so simple, but it the hardest work I will ever do – the work to mend and really get to know my prostituted soul.

The heart of the matter – the heart that I run from but want to know so deeply – is to be one with who I had to be in my late teens and early twenties.

To know my terror then, to know how the pain was, to know it was never truly a world without  exits just it was kept blocked from me.

To know that I was isolated, to know each and every punter saw me as nothing, to know money went into hands that I never saw.

I need to know the heart of what I had to do to survived prostitution.

To know I hang on to some kind of pride by keeping reading even as punters and pimps laugh at the “reader-whore”, and would rip my books, or give me Lolita, de Sade and Anais Nin to read.

To know I hang on to knowing Arsenal were still in my heart, that I could love football – despite being rape or batter for knowing more than punters about the offside rule, or when they bore me thinking of footie results.

To know I hang on to my passion for Hollywood – despite punters using my love of films to put in the back row to suck their dick, so they put down in the crap on the floor and make me their trash.

I need to know it was impossible to be inside prostitution and stay a good person.

To know I reach for some kind of self-respect by stealing from punters – not coz I needed the money, but coz if they hurt or torture me I wanted to take something from them.

To know I learnt to make myself numb to my own reality by sleeping as little as possible, by drinking as much as possible, by smoking in order to die, by not eating good food, by forcing my brain to not know I had a body.

To know that I survive by not letting in the real world, not letting in hope, not letting that there were people and places that wanted me to live and thrive.

I could not know the real world until I hit rock bottom – and from deep inside me I made the choice that I wanted to be truly alive – and not the deadened porn-puppet the sex trade had made me.

It is through knowing what I had to be to somehow survive prostitution, that I have learnt to see through the lies of those who support the sex trade.

A classic is the old line, that the major issue for the prostituted is not male violence or being made into sexual goods – but that society will stigmatised the prostituted.

I believe that most so-called stigma was created by the sex trade to keep the prostituted in-line and as a slave-class.

Much of the stigma is about saying most outside the sex trade have no idea what it is to be prostituted – so it is invented that outsiders don’t care about the prostituted, that outsiders see all the prostituted as sub-human – and the only true care for the prostituted comes from the sex trade “family” that is pimps and some punters.

This is bullshit – it is pimps and punters that need and want the prostituted to be isolated, it is the pimps and punters that need and want to keep all the prostituted as sub-human sexual goods.

Of course pimps and punters will act the good guys, pretend to some kind of family, will drip-feed poison and say it is honey.

When I was prostituted, I was made to believe that all the violence was “accidental”, that the pimps were sorry I was hurt, that some punters are just bad but most just want simple sex.

When I was prostituted, I was made to believe that those who said they may help me were just do-gooders, religious freaks, were jealous coz they could get enough sex, were judging me but leaving to be trashed.

When I was prostituted, I was made to believe that if I just toughened up I would be fine. I would learn to adapt.

These vicious lies made it impossible to even imagine an escape, or  believe there could be a world where I would be human enough to have the right to safety.

I write this to give a reason to fight for full abolition of the sex trade.

To stop more girls and women going through what I did – we must not go for half-measures, please listen to exited women.


Ok, I am listening to late 50’s and early 60’s music – and the song “When” by Kalin Brothers is on, but when is my constant question.

As I let in cheerful music, I am in deep pain and needing friends so much.

When does trauma become a place that does not drain you to almost death?

That is question that is not meant to be written or said out loud.

I see no end to trauma for the individual exited woman or the prostituted, without full justice, without true freedom – all else is tinkering at the edges or false hope.

When will it been seen that just paying another human to be consumed as a sexual goods is an act of violence in and of itself?

There can be no middle ground for the prostituted – either it is known that there no safe place or safe aspect of prostitution whilst men have the entitlement to buy sexual good, or we may as well just be honest and say we don’t care what happens to the prostituted class for they are not human enough to have basic rights.

When will it be considered that the prostituted are human enough to gain the simple rights to freedom of movement, right to safety, right to not be killed, and right to dignity?

It that so much to demand – or must we invent a world where the prostituted are thrown away just so men have access to sex any time and any place?

Is that the world we are proud to invent?

My trauma is so awful today, I am not making the sense I want to make – it is more like a howling of knowing that for centuries this trashing of the prostituted are destroyed our access to hope.

No cheerful rock ‘n’ roll can erase that terrible truth.

I am very proud to be part of Survivors United, an international group of those who exited the sex trade, mainly prostitution – and feel some grains of hope and freedom through that connection and support.

It is a time where the multiple voices of those who have exited the sex trade are refusing to be trashed and silenced.

It is a time that our multiple and highly varied voices are showing we are not and never were sub-human – rather through our multiple experiences and speaking out we shown how deep our humanity.

When will it seen that we were damaged and made to act dead – but nothing stole our humanity?

When it be seen that the true fury of the pro-sex trade lobby is not that we speak out – no their fury is that we are not dead, not utterly destroyed – for by just being alive we prove we are more human than they could ever imagine.

To understand the sex trade, it must be seen and known that they want each and every prostitute to be destroyed enough that there can never be the spoken or written word from any person exploited by the sex trade.

We are meant to too ill to remember, too damaged to be believed, too brainwashed to speak out – darn it, we should be dead before 27  – we now are the true enemy of the sex trade and all its endless lies, those who did more than just exit but remember enough to be a clear and believable witnesses who will destroy the sex trade.

No wonder the venom, lies and simple hate from the sex trade lobby is focus on those who have exited and now are abolitionists.

We should be feared – for we know the true nature of the beast.

Body Map

I on occasions map how my past affects my body.

I use my body as a forensic example of how deep prostitution is the cause of trauma inside exited women.

I write to my body for there is nothing unique – all my trauma, all my body memories and all the embedded is part of the norm for all exited women.

The horror of the sex trade is that so many women, girls and some men carry these body memories without their pain being seen.

We have learnt to make our trauma invisible, for we have been hurt, destroyed and push down for centuries – we have learnt to pretend we are fine when every cell in our body is searching for help and to be believed.

I write to show a brief picture of the edges of that trauma – I write as much as I take, I write as much as I think you can contain, I get from a place of chaos in order to make some kind of order.

I write whilst knowing all the time I am just giving you a surface view of what it is to in indoors prostitution.

All I know hell is unreachable – my words will always be inadequate for what my body had to endure, no human language will ever fully describe what my mind wants to close down.

All I and other exited women can do is give some insights into the physical, mental, spiritual impact of being embedded in hell – all we can do is hope our words give enough anger and grief to fight for the human of all the prostituted still in that hell.

That is why I write and re-write to my past, write and re-write against stereotyping, write and re-write to oppose the sex trade lobby – all coz my body memories know the war cannot end until abolition is not just a dream.

I have no choice for my prostituted soul, no choice for the prostituted class in all time and all cultures – but to fight for simple human dignity, human rights and deep sense of pride for all the prostituted.

I have no choice as always I hold that so many of the prostituted could never speak out as they never were alive to stay alive.

Abolition is built on those memories, abolition knows each and every murdered prostituted woman, girl, boy or man – they are the backbone of why we fight so hard.

Now I will speak to my body – speak to say some of the unsayable.

I start at the top.

I even have fear when I remember my hair – even that was made not mine.

I know the common pulling and ripping at my hair as punters put me into my place.

The place of the whore who must do blow-jobs, the place of control if I was not quick enough or in the right position.

My hair got used to sperm being rubbed in it – I learnt not to care, learnt it was easier if I acted like it was fun just a game.

I thought of the money, thought of it will be over some time christ knows when – but nothing lasts forever except death.

I cut my hair so short – but it did not. give me back dignity, did not stopped punters forced my head down on them.

I could control anything except that I could think beyond what was happening to my body.

Yes, I somehow stay hold of my mind – keep hold of some tiny sense that if I held back thoughts or keep some small pieces of imagination I may keep some part of being a human.

I keep reading novels, I keep going to the cinema, I keep looking for birds and trees, I keep looking for football results, I keep dreaming of getting to America.

All this give some idea that I was not nothing – that I was more than a fuck-machine.

I had kept all my thoughts hidden – any indication that I was an individual with hopes and dreams was smashed into the ground.

My love of the films was used by punters to fuck me or feel me up in a public arena – knowing I would say nothing.

My love of books lead to many being ripped up, or punters getting me “novels” that were porn as payment.

My love of football made punters violent for I knew the offside rule.

My love of nature meant nothing as more and more I stopped seeing the outside.

As for going to America – punters laugh that I could work in Nevada.

My mind learnt to be closed – and I survived by choosing to pretend that did not matter.

My eyes have seen the unseeable – my eyes go blind when remembering beyond being in endless rooms with countless punters.

My eyes have seen and known the dead eyes of hate that most punters have – that hate where all hope is pointless.

It is a hate that is cold, a hate of calm control, a hate of utter entitlement – the hate of the punter is a hate that drowns out all life from the prostitute.

It is those eyes that enter my nightmares, those eyes that are in every moment of sickness due to trauma.

It is those eyes that taught me to know there was no escape, those eyes that made know I must do whatever a punter said or to do whatever he wants before he has spoken.

And in the eyes of all punters I saw that I was nothing to them – I was never a human – I was just goods that they would fucked over.

My eyes saw the deep centre of prostitution – and had to go blind to survive.

My mouth was stuffed full of penises – I was told that was whore-sex.

I was told I was good at blow-jobs – like it was like winning an Oscar or something.

I was not – it meant nothing to me.

I was good at not being sick, I was good at learning how to breathe without choking, I was good at not thinking I was drowning.

I was good at smiling through the pain, good at swallowing when I wanted to bite off their penis, good at letting my mind go blank at that penis went too deep for me not to faint.

So I suppose I was a good whore for I could do whore-sex on demand.

I would say my throat will never forget or forgive that deep-throating.

It still has the pain and terror of those penises going so deep my body got heart-attacks or just fainted, I can be sick enough to get rid of those memories.

It affects my eating, my swallowing, my deep breathing and my sleep – so how can I ever not want all those punters punish.

I had to use my throat but it carries all that hate and degradation – it wants to cry, but always just gets blocked.

My arms and hands were made attached from who I wanted to be.

My hands were used to pleasure men who had nothing but contempt for me, my hands would perform acts that my mind would refuse to know – whilst my arms seemed to comfort who could kill me at any time.

My chest is exploding with carrying the grief of who I had to be to survive being inside the sex trade.

If I had a heart I had to force it into deep freeze, there was no place in the sex trade for emotions or sentiment.

I held inside my chest all that could be shown – all the sense that I was worth than this living death, all those dreams of a real life or freedom, and feelings that it was painful or just so sad.

I held all this hidden, and pretended nothing mattered.

My stomach now allows to sick up all the pain, the grief, the confusion, and the lack of hope that was my existence then.

My stomach is dragging me back into life by allowing the truths to be known and felt.

My vagina and anus know the unknowable – they know that the human will to live is so darned strong that unnameable tortures can repeated in the prostitute’s body and somehow she lives – but it also know and grieves so many die, or the damage remains till death arrives.

My anus may never fully forget the tortures it had to live – I still get afraid on the toilet, though I do not faint any more.

Anal rapes remain in you however good life treat after – especially when it was done on a regular basis and done to maximum pain.

My legs and feet ache to run away, but are learning life is safe now so have calmed a little.

But I always need to know I can run if needed, I cannot let myself too attach to places or most people – I still need to be alert, and not show my vulnerability too much.

That is my body map for now.


Deep Screaming

I have been still inside deep trauma – been in a place where I know, see and feel why I have fought so hard for abolition.

I want to write to the screaming that makes me go forward, write to the grief that shows truth from lies.

I want to write without the simple control of “logical” sense – but write to empty broken spaces that is the trauma of prostituted class.

To write in order, to write with only clean logic is fine – but can never fit the distorted and fragmented memories that is the norm for all who have the sex trade.

It is the control of the sex trade and its allies that demands that exited women remember to their idea of “facts”, that we supply all with clear evidence, witnesses and details of place and.

The sex trade lobby know, for they have created it – that deep trauma destroys memory, and makes facts unreachable.

They know and don’t care – for they use our broken memories and lost time to control us, and to keep us sub-human.

Remember the sex trade is made up mainly of pimps and punters, and with their supporters having pimp-brains – so never think they care about the welfare of exited women.

Know they think we should be dead, too mentally damaged to speak out or so afraid that we cannot speak out.

To the sex trade lobby, there should be such thing as an exited woman, especially an exited woman who the courage and determination to be an abolitionist.

We exist despite their determination to wipe off this earth; we speak out despite their constant threats, ridicule and lies about us; we keep on keeping on even the sex trade lobby say we have no right to be human.

No wonder inside an exited woman is an avalanche of screaming.

We scream for we have known and been inside all forms of sexual, physical and mental torture that males can invent.

We scream as we see and know our tortures are dismissed as the sex trade lobby spread propaganda that we made to tortured, that it cannot classed as real violence but a chosen job.

We scream as we remember and know that each punter that makes the choice to pay to rape.

We scream as we hear the sex trade say it cannot be rape, for money equals full consent – it can only classed as rape in the sex trade if the prostitute is close to death, but even then the sex trade lobby say it just a game or fun.

We scream as we hear the sex trade lobby demand how often were you raped, when were ever tortured, where did this so-called happened – just to trip us up if we cannot remember or get confused.

Inside our screaming all the rapes, all the torturing, all the deaths we have known, all lack of hope is there – but it was repeated so often, that the mind protect all exited women by only showing the few events.

For inside our screaming, we reach the centre of the terrible truths that when torture is repeated till it become your norm, the brain cannot hold each and every event.

To live inside torture is to lose time and space – it not to live, it is to exist.

I know after reading Primo Levi speak of his time inside a concentration camp, he wrote of losing time for every day was the same, and without hope tracking time becomes pointless.

That is how to be inside the sex trade, it just about livable if you lose sense of time, place or that you are human.

That is what the sex trade lobby are so determined to silence – the fact that to be inside the sex trade long-term is such extreme torture that to breathe all the prostituted must give up on hope and learn that they are nothing but goods.

So never believe the sex trade lobby, for they are silencing and making sub-human all the prostituted class.


Business as Usual

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

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

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

I let in joy.

I let in tears.

I let in my loved ones.

I let Christmas telly.

I let in eating and drinking.

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

It is my present to her for somehow staying alive.

Present to her or somehow keeping her sanity.

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

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

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

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

I had no idea how to reach.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So Christmas is spread out as she is dying.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Now I am alive enough to love Christmas.

Christmas is now inside my heart.

Open Your Heart to Open the Door

I have to play the Blues, play deep soul, play the music of the heart that has lost words to come close to what I need to write in this post.

It is a post about opening the door to indoors prostitution, open the door to who I had to be to be that “whore” who was in endless rooms with endless beds.

I was inside a world where language is stolen, a world that is upside-down and inside-out.

It was a world where all that humans have decided is wrong is made out to be right but good and the only way to exist.

The world of indoors prostitution is a world where pain, confusion, lies, lack of control and lost of humanity are the rules to live by –  that is blood and breath of  the prostitute woman/girls in that environment.

In order to understand the reality of indoors, try to open up your heart – do not all back into logic and statistics, do disappear into detachment.

Open your heart, learn to be silent enough to hear the unspoken truths of exited women.

Open your heart, and think in a clear mind where and when is there an environment where any female is safer on the streets than behind closed doors.

Open your heart and place your body in that room – a room where many strange men owned you and demand all porn-fuelled sex from you.

Just open your heart, let your mind feel that pain, that grief and be in that confusion, let your body know it cannot stop it only try to stay alive.

Open your heart to knowing you may be alive, but life has no meaning except to obey what punters and sex trade profiteers demand of you – your existence is to be goods or a living sex-doll.

I know many reading this may close their hearts to that reality, and want to believe the lies that the sex trade promotes about indoors.

The myths spread about indoors are made so there can no empathy to the prostituted who are trapped in indoors prostitution, so they be thrown away and no-one will even notice.

A classic myth, a myth that goes back many centuries and cuts across most cultures – is the myth that indoors is empowering and a money-spinner.

This myth is founded on the lie that anything is better than street prostitution, and as prostitution “will always be with us”, it is kinder to place it indoors.

This myth comes from the roots of making the prostituted into goddesses, calling those “goddesses” courtesans, geishas, escorts or the Happy Hooker.

The invention of goddesses is so convenient for men – a goddess has no human emotions, a goddess is remove from human pain or grief, a goddess will and can do endless sadist sex with many men.

In other word, the invention of goddesses in most societies was just the commercialisation of the sex trade.

But so quick this goddess-prostitute was framed in so-called empowering language.

Instead of stating the truth that goddess-prostituted women were just females who were endlessly raped, tortured and thrown away – it became she had a strong libido, that she would love sadist sex for she is not feeling it as “real” women would.

It become made true the lie that to do indoors prostitution is high-class, is to control the men and it may the only way women can gain power.

This lie is embedded in nearly every country, every culture, every city and inside the hearts of the vast majority of men.

It is embedded in every culture that uses warfare to capture women and girls only to force into brothels, and slowly brainwash them to forget a life outside the brothel walls.

It is embedded in all cultures who encourage and condone men and boys to lose their “virginity” to any prostitute, only make it nice by having a bed and walls round him.

It is embedded every time a man uses a computer to buy an escort, girlfriend experience – he is paying to be indoors so all his control, hate and violence will be made invisible.

No culture, belief system or society is innocent of the destruction of the prostituted class – all have enjoyed having a class of women and girls that are made into sex-dolls and will be thrown away.

Some may have given up that way of living, and we should look deep into how they choose to see the prostituted as full human and not goods.

But for most of human history, and in almost all human societies – it is the norm not just to have the prostituted class, but for it to be so embedded that nearly every country has many levels and categories of what it is to be a prostitute.

Men of all cultures and times in human history have enjoyed making a fake science of what it is to be a prostitute.

The simplest is the classic concept that street prostitution is bad and highly dangerous, so indoors prostitution must be good and safe or safe enough that men don’t have to worry too much.

But use your heart to think – how is it possible that prostitution behind closed doors can be made safe.

Do you not see or feel the reality that those doors are firmly closed to make invisible all tortures, all the sadist sexual practices, all the hate punters bring into that room.

Why do know it is common that non-prostituted women and girls are beaten up, rape and murdered mainly behind closed doors – but then decide to turn it inside-out to say the prostituted must be safer indoors.

I am sickened when you believe such nonsense.

Maybe I too sickened any more.

International Day of the Elimination of Violence Against Women

Today the UN has stated to be International Day of the Elimination of Violence Against Women – but as I am in the middle of sending a petition to stop the UN from decriminalising all of prostitution – I would question their commitment to ending all male violence to all women.

This saddened me to the roots of my being – I was brought up to respect the UN and to think it upheld human rights for all.

I was wrong, and I cry as I see my dreams smashed into the ground.

Human rights are not for the prostituted class – the prostituted class do not have the right to be fully human, so why waste human rights on them.

I fully support all women and girls that are covered by this day – all I asked is that the prostituted class are included.

How can it be possible to even dream of eliminating male violence to women and girls, if we decide to exclude the prostituted class?

This is not possible when the prostituted class is in the front-line of all violence done to all women and girls.

The sex trade provide a training ground for men to learn how to mentally, physically and sexually torture women and girls – a training ground made invisible.

How can we eliminate male violence to females, if we make the conscious choice to ignore the torturing of the prostituted class?

Until we state in a clear voice, that to be inside any part of the sex trade is to be living inside extreme violence.

We must say that prostitution is of itself violence that being inside porn is violence, to be in a sex club is violence.

We cannot look for the “good” in the sex trade, for it just betrayed the prostituted class, leaving them abandoned as you debate good/bad prostitution.

There is no good punter, there is no sex trade profiteer who can be good, no porn can be made good, stripping cannot be made good, phone sex is not good, indoors prostitution is not good.

It all lies, the language that claim porn/prostitution can be made safe or good – lies that are destroying millions of prostituted women and girls all the time everywhere.

It is an international crisis – the prostituted class are dying, being tortured, getting raped and mentally abused on a scale that blow up my mind.

It is the longest, most effective and most invisible genocide in all human history.

For as long as prostitution has been a norm in most cultures and societies, it has work by destroying the prostituted and throwing them away, only to replace with more vulnerable or captured women and girls.

That is genocide, only it is made nothing for the prostituted are not considered human enough to be murdered or to know pain.

The prostituted class are made goods, as goods they no access to human pain or grief, no access to fear, no access to human justice – and certainly no access to basic human rights.

By discounting the prostituted class – all debate or discussion about violence against the prostituted, becomes quickly focus on the rights of punters and sex trade profiteers.

It become the answer to any violence done to the prostituted must be to place all prostitution indoors and make it fully legal.

That is great for punters, great for more profit for the sex trade – but it is death for the prostituted class.

Place prostitution behind closed doors, and you are giving full permission to all punters to be as violent as they wish without sanctions, you are encouraging sex trade profiteers to provide sadistic sex as extras.

By placing prostitution indoors, you are stating that the prostituted are too sub-human to worry about – just make it clean for punters, say there are condoms are provided and call it sex work – then you can turn your back on the prostituted class.

I am deeply angered and full of despair that one way the UN is pushing the legislation of prostitution is by claiming it may lower the rates of HIV.

This is bullshit, and deeply hurtful for it implies that it is the prostituted who are spreading sexual diseases, and implying that the prostituted are too weak to use protection.

It make the punters and sex trade profiteers invisible, for they have full responsibility for any HIV or other sexual diseases that the prostituted have.

The UN seemed to believe all the prostituted need is a constant supply of condoms and control of indoors prostitution and then there be no HIV.

Condoms are great if you not dealing with punter mentality.

Punters buy the prostituted not for sex, but to have complete control and power over the prostitute who has no rights and cannot say no.

In that environment, it is next to impossible to get a punter to use a condom or any form of protection if he decide not to.

Remember to a prostitute is to be in the position of a slave – a slave cannot make demands, cannot say it is unsafe, cannot give orders to the master.

I know that to even suggest to a punter who refuses protection is to be beaten up, is to be sexually torture for longer – and I have known prostitutes murdered or standing up for the simple human right of being safe and healthy.

It is the punters who are spreading sexual diseases, where is the condemnation and sanctions or those men?

And where is the fury that the sex trade profiteers will encourage to not use condoms.

It is made cheaper, it is provided with more privacy and longer times.

Using condoms is made to appear square and unacceptable in the sex trade.

What does it matter if the individual prostitute gets pregnant or get a life-threatening disease – just throw her away and replace her with any other prostitute.

We are interchangeable and disposable.

Please signed my petition, if you have not already – or spread it around as far as you can.


Coldness is My Heart

When you have somehow exited prostitution – the biggest unanswerable question is How come I not dead?

There is no answer, only more questions, only a background of survivor guilt, only a hole that never be filled.

One reason I may have survived, one reason many exited women may have survived is that we built a heart of ice.

You may call that detachment, you may say it was protection from madness of self-destruction – all I know is now I am safe and stable, the ice is still there on too many occasions.

I can find I view the world with a wall of ice between me and feelings, ice between me and knowing too much reality.

Like the Ice Queen, I hug ice to my heart refusing to know my own pain, refusing to cry, refusing to know deep inside my soul that prostitution is inside my skin.

I can write and speak out about prostitution, I can speak to close friends of some of the horrors – but I cannot let too much inside me.

What terrified is how I speak/write out, but as soon as I am alone I can make into nothing, make out it cannot truly hurt or formed me.

I place the world of my prostitution into an ice chamber, hoping it will die from neglect –  only to find my mind “forgets” but my body is sick with deep memories demanding attention.

I want to be the Ice Queen and never feel again, I want sometimes to return the world of losing my humanity and ability to know my own hell.

I want to live numb to all my past, numb to knowing torture is still inside my body, numb to knowing that all that happen to me is now happening to millions of the prostituted.

I want to an Ice Queen and forget how to care – for caring is too painful, caring bring a huge grief to the surface, caring make living whilst dreaming of dying.

But I know I am no Ice Queen, I know my heart is not frozen – I know my fear of being alive is a natural reaction to never being allowed to know what being alive is.

I know as I defrost that pain is re-birth or just a simple learning that I breathe without punishment or hate stopping me.

I was never the Ice Queen, I was Kaye the child trapped by the Ice Queen, who having no escape lost hope and adapted, adapted so well he claim he was happy.

I adapted to prostitution, I adapted to being used for “amateur” porn – I adapted and painted on the smile of the deaden Whore.

I adapted by losing all connections to feelings, all connections to hope, all connections to a world that may care – I adapted to the ice palace I was living in.

For much of my years of prostitution, the shell I was living inside appear comfortable and even relatively high-class.

I was always indoors, I had a bed or beds, I was only by up to 10 or 12 men at the most in one night, I was safer than the streets or some kind illegal brothel.

I was lucky, that was what I told myself.

I made myself lucky by locking away how often I was tortured, how common gang rape was, how often I thought I was going to be murdered – that was shut down in my ice chamber.

I made myself the Happy Hooker, smiling and laughing as each day I was amazed I was still existing.

Now my question to you – is how to live with that much ice in your heart, how in living can the prostituted learn to connect to the world beyond prostitution?

I have no answers, only the hope that as exited women bring their truths to the surface there is some true connection.

I know there will be, just is a long and hard road.