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.

You Are No Man

This is post is addressed to all the men who make the choice to pay for sex, and imagined themselves to be good men – to even think they deserved the right to seen as men.

I speak from the position of being made sub-human, just because men like you made the choice to buy me for your living porn fantasy.

I am sick and tired off hearing punters/rapists – serial rapists mostly – saying they are not cruel, saying they respect the prostituted, saying they would never be those bad punters on the news or in TV police series.

My body knows each and every time a man makes the choice to buy a prostitute – he, for it well over 95%  men who make the choice to be violent to all the prostituted, be they women, girls, men or boys – he will be violent thinking too often he has done nothing of any importance.

No, you are not a man, not fully human if you make the choice to buy any type of prostitute.

I know and hear all around your excuses, your constant whining, your endless pleas that you are the real victim.

Yes I hear your noise, and know with every cell of my body that remembers that you are a liar.

You, the good punter, are a criminal.

You are a rapist – most of you have raped many prostitutes, and walk away as if nothing had happened.

You all have manipulated and mentally abused the prostituted.

You have feed her/him the lie that all the prostitute is worth is to be body parts to service your sexual greed.

You will constantly pushed the prostitute beyond their sexual, physical and mental levels, and then claim it was their choice or the prostitute has somehow manipulated the punter.

Always you are skilled at making the prostitute blame themselves for their own degradation and pain – always you use your charm and entitlement to say any harm done was some kind of accident.

Only all the good punters create these accidents over and over and over – until all that is left of the prostitute is an empty shell.

No, you are no man, certainly not a good man – for you move on to another prostitute and pour your lies and manipulation into him/her.

But, now some so-called good punters are writing about how persecuted they are, how it so unfair to have or even to think of laws that state clearly they are criminals.

They throw themselves down in a tantrum, smashing their fists on the floors, with fake tears -

“But we are the nice men, we are treat our whores with respect – it’s so unfair!!”

These punters print their whining on the net or the media, they shout it on radio phone-ins – and they even write to those who exited prostitution to express how much they are good men.

They do complain too much.

Well, lets at how good you really are.

First, the classic excuse will come charging in – men have to have sex by any and all means – so for men buying sex is a need and a human right.

So, I am to gather that if you the good punter don’t get sex on demand at all times and all places – that you penis will go green and drop off.

Sex is not a human right – yes equal and consensual sex can be wonderful – but it is a want not need.

A need is water, food and shelter. A need is vital to staying alive and having dignity.

Sex is great, but most of the time it is a form of leisure.

Sorry, Mr Good Punter, you will not die from lack of sex – by the way, have you not heard of masturbation?

But to use the feeble excuse of lack of sex to buy another human to be your sexual slave is unforgivable.

So good punter, you have brought the prostitute and now you own her for as long as your money will last.

Do you know or care that she/he is a full human.

Do you know anything of how the prostitute became prostituted?

Do you see bruises, cuts, track marks or dead eyes – do ignore that, do you pretend it is ok coz you never made those wounds – and do you just get your money worth and feel slight guilt after?

Do you see pimps, bodyguard, locks, more punters wanting for their fuck – and think not my problem?

Do feel a slither of sadness that your prostitute cannot speak the home language – but screw them anyhow?

And you still say you are the good punter – heck you don’t even know what being human is.

You should be in jail – you sadist, you serial rapist, you torturer – not going round justifying your hate and violence.

Just know the most hated punter of all – are the ones who think it was just harmless fun.

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.



No Football Today

I have been watching all the World Cup, as a reward to myself.

In this post, I am writing a record of where I am, and where I come from.

The only solid things in my life have been my love of music, my love of Hollywood era films, and my love of football.

Everything that happens to me, good or bad, were surrounded by those loves.

There were terrible times, when I only survived by attempting to block out those loves, but they were only hidden for later use.

I have no idea how I survived my teens and early 20’s – all I think was how random death was when I was prostituted.

I was nearly killed the minimum of three times, I attempted suicide several time – twice losing several days – and my body collapse on at least a couple of times.

I had no fear of, all I feared was yet more pain and that it would not be quick.

I was already dead each time a punter brought me; already dead as I travel blindly into prostitution; already dead from incest from a young child.

Now, I am coming into life as I listen to party music on Spotify, and wait to watch cricket and Orphan Black.

Now, I let music, sports, films and dramas belong to my growing into life.

Now, I learning to not even imagine waiting to die – heck I always want to watch Arsenal, always some classic film I have seen or want watch again, always another dark drama to enjoy, and always fun on Spotify.

I do not want or need an exciting life – been there and got the t-shirt.

No, I love an uninteresting life.

A life without always having on alert for danger.

A life where I can learn it is ok to trust, whilst still testing to see it is really safe.

A life where I grow into real friendships.

A life where I am stable enough to have a cat.

A life where I may learn to be inside my own skin.

I want a life where violence is just the past.

I want a life where I can think and say this is me – take it or leave it.

Heck, I love having a boring life – the alternative was hell.

Train Spotting

I sometimes wake into a nightmares with trains rattling past my window.

Trains came through my life when I was a prostituted.

I travelled on trains from one town to a city.

Train were outside my flat as punter sexually tortured me..

Trains was the background noise of my private hell.

But somehow, without reason, I always kept my love of trains.

I thought of trains taking me to Cornwall, into Scotland, or even to some airport.

I listen to Blues, country and rock songs of endless trains, taking the A-train into jazz.

I wanted electric train-sets, which were always the Royal Scot or the Orient Express.

I read of engineers and builders of railways.

I wanted trains to take me away into safety.

Only now I can face the nightmare of trains that still invade me.

How do I describe the travelling on trains down to yet another punter.

There are few words that reach into creeping deadness, that deep sense of self-hate and blame.

As I sat in the train, I would close down all emotions, I would train my body to be a block of ice.

I made myself not care.

Not care that I was going badly hurt.

Not care that I could be killed.

Not care about the scenery.

Not care about the small part of my mind telling me to get off the train.

I became bravado, devil-may-care, don’t mess with me.

I was falling into the role of the whore who was worth nothing.

In a journey often of just 40 minutes, I had lost all that mattered to being fully human.

I still get nightmares of slow death as I sat on trains.

I still find I cannot make a particular journey, without thoughts of suicide.

The worse memory of trains was the flat I had backed up to a train station.

Most of the time, I would find the noise of trains relaxing and one way to escape reality.

I, like the Railway Children, would dream where the passengers were going or why they stop in my town.

But my flat was just the space I existed in, it was also a place where too many punters came and polluted the air.

I would focus hard on the noises of trains to block out as much as I could.

I would pretend I was travelling to anywhere as far as possible – as the punters penetrated me, made my body into their personal sadist porn playground, and be careless whether I live or died.

I would try to remember as many songs about trains as possible, try to name each station I could remember, list famous trains – anything to not be in the moment.

For those moments with those punters seemed to have no end or beginning, just a constant middle.

A middle of hell, as every cell is pushed beyond pain, as the small part of my mind is screaming just stop now and pleading for real help.

That middle when the light at the end of the tunnel was always a fast train.

I know I was somehow alive if I could still hear the trains.

I have rebuilt my life, and now travel a lot by train.

Now I am pretty chilled on train.

But I honoured the bravery of the other part of me that clings to trains in order to know I am alive.

Long Road

Being an abolitionist is never easy.

Being an abolitionist and an exited woman is terrifying.

But it is a long hard road where freedom could some reward.

I am writing in sound-bite coz my trauma is so bad that I have re-learn how to write, re-learn to connect my typing to my heart.

I am in pain from old body memories, I having my sleep pattern is all over the place, and I feel like a zombie.

But I try to write in and through trauma – find a place where my words can have some meaning.

Trauma is huge push to being an abolitionist – trauma goes to heart of the unspoken, unknowable hell that is the everyday of prostitution.

Recently, there have brief reports of prostitutes being murdered.

These reports only appear if the media have a way to be sensational – it is reported if there racist or anti-Muslim angle, it is reported if the murdered prostitute is famous or not the type of girl who do such a thing, it is reported if it may be a serial killer.

But the ordinary common mass murders of the prostituted go unreported.

It is too normal that prostitute is murdered, so there is no news in that.

It is through the lens of extreme trauma, I remember and see the truth of the constant murdering of the prostituted.

Trauma remembers that murder was always round the corner in all aspects of prostitution.

Trauma knows that any punter of any belief system, any class, any ethnicity, any culture can at any time and in any place make the choice to just kill the prostitute.

He may kill because he “accidentally” forget about checking if the prostitute is still breathing.

He may kill the prostitute to “release” his guilt, or tell himself he is killing the evil.

He may kill coz he just love the ultimate power of snuffing out life.

He may kill to get rid of the dirt on him.

Or he may just kill in order not to pay and throw the goods that are used.

All I know that the prostituted more often murdered in domestic violence or men in wars.

There is a genocide of the prostituted – and it is allowed to go unnoticed as the vast majority of murders of the prostituted are made invisible and not even made into statistics.

No, we have allowed the sex trade profiteers and punters to make the prostituted just disappear, without any record of their lives or even their names.

There must be trauma for those lucky enough to exit the sex trade – for we all have the empty spaces of the nameless, of those we wanted to love but were too damaged to be fully there.

Each and every person I know who has exited the sex trade, knew that murder was random.

If a prostitute disappear, each and every other prostitute would close down knowing if it is murder, it was never personal, just ridding the world of a whore or throwing away used goods.

I know I was almost murdered three times, and those are just the event that I can remember – but each punter was not murdering me as a human, just killing some random whore.

How do you feel about murder being just throwing out the trash – does it not remind you of any other genocide?

I have learned to forgive myself for the coldness I had when the prostituted disappeared round – I had to be hard for it was just random, and death hang over me every moment I was inside the sex trade.

Trauma is that grief I had to destroy.

It is a grief, that cannot see an end without full justice – a justice that makes each and every murder or disappearance of the prostituted a matter of deep importance.

It is a crisis what is done to the prostituted – but we are told it can wait, it is a small matter for it is decided that the prostituted must have chosen their lifestyle, so should just deal with the consequences.

That is said as the bodies of the prostituted pile high in all cities of the world.

We refuse to see these murders, for we refuse to see how ordinary the murderers are.

We want to believe the murders of the prostituted is done by lunatics or fanatics.

Some may be, but the majority of murders are done by ordinary men who hold down a job, have friends, have a relationship – just a man who think of buying the prostitute in the same as buying a burger.

The punters and sex trade profiteers who were violent to me were from England, Europe, America, Middle East and Africa.

They were white, Asian, Black,

They were atheist, Christians, Muslim, Buddhist.

They were rich and they were poor.

They were just everyman.

The only thing they had in common was that they never saw the prostitute as human.

All I remember there no class of a punter that I would trust, for at any moment he could and would become a sadist, and leave me just remembering to breathe.

I was never safe even though I was always indoors, in the so-called safe aspects of prostitution.

Trauma is natural after that – but it is a long bloody hard road.