How Come You Ain’t Dead?

My past is fragmented, my past is made of holes.

I touch the many years of being prostituted, and find only an open-mouthed silent grief.

I know prostitution has rip away my adolescent, made my twenties into a grave.

I am now into my 50’s, and have finally learnt to accept their will always large parts of my own existence I can never know or understand.

What hurts is that the good parts of my past have been wiped out too, I can pretend that I remember when surround by folks who were there.

But remembering is a performance, and all too often I trip up on the familiar details.

I want to design a brain that makes the hell of prostitution small, leaving enough to know it was bad, but not interfering with the day-to-day – leaving space for the good memories.

But that is not reality, that is a dream.

Instead, my brain hold onto the horror, the sense of being empty and lost, the physical pain that was the world of prostitution.

It is not in clear memories – not logical stories to hold and speak out, not in logical time and space.

I remember many rapes as a single rape.

I see no faces on the punters only a void as endless rapes, endless smashing up my body and mind.

I remember as my body has no escape – no part of body was not polluted by punters.

My ears had sperm planted into them, were hit when I did undress quite enough.

My head was always in pain as it tried to block all reality.

My mouth and throat forgot to eat as the taste of hate drown me.

My eyes refuse to make contact with any punters. To be seen, would be like killing myself.

My arm and hands perform whatever the punter demanded, as my robot heart played lies that I would be fine.

My stomach was sick, but learn to hold it in – knowing it would just make the punter laugh or go harder.

My legs and feet were useless – I could not run, I could kick him in the balls – I just perform when waiting to be gone.

My cunt carries all his hate, his violence – it was the place were my right to be fully human was buried.

That is a short version of what it was to be prostituted. Short version of body memories, short version of living inside complex trauma.

I write this blog, inside that pain, grief and confusion.

That is why I so pleased that some of you have sent me donations, it shows deep respect. Please continue to do so and ask around or others to donate.

Now to explain the title of the blog – it is a constant refrain said to many exited folks, especially exited women with fragmented memories who now are strong abolitionists.

If it was as bad as you claim – how come you ain’t dead.

This is a refrain that is used to silenced us, implying we are exaggerating or just plain old liars.

This refrain can on occasions come a place of deep ignorance, then with care it can spoken to and if heard, education can bring change.

An education to say the prostituted are tortured, are raped on industrial scale, are made sub-humans – but somehow, not all of the prostituted died.

Those of us who have exited are living proof of this – and our testimonies must be heard, and not lessen or see as rarities.

But many who say – why ain’t you dead yet? – do not do it from a place of ignorance, but from a place of wanting to control us and silenced the multiple voices of the exited.

It said by the sex trade lobby – which is mainly sex trade profiteers, punters, and their allies in the media and academia.

It is not an innocent or naive question when by said by the sex trade – it is a statement of fury that we dare to be alive and to remember.

For to keep the sex trade going, it is vital that the prostituted have no authentic voices just the voices of being controlled and owned.

To keep the sex trade going, it is vital that the prostituted are made to forget their own realities.

To keep the sex trade going, it is vital to allow the majority of the prostituted to disappeared, to fall into silence or to be dead – so there is a constant of fresh goods to control and owned.

The exited are not meant to exist, especially if they speak their own minds, especially if they speak to torture, rape and constant fear of death.

We are meant to be dead – so there be a complete silence about the conditions for the prostituted.

Our existence is a constant threat to status quo of the sex trade – for by remembering, we are carries of deep truths.

We speak out truth to power, and shake the roots of all the sex trade

Our voices once finding their authentic truths cannot ever forget – even as our memories are fragmented.

In remembering, we must fight for justice, for freedom and full humanity for all the prostituted – for all prostituted are connected by oppression and hate.

In remembering, we lose our individual stories and find connections with other exited folks – whether from the street, strippers, from brothels, escorts etc – we all have endless violence inside our minds and bodies.

No wonder the sex trade lobby hates us, and wishes we were dead – for we never one voice, we are the multiple voices from every continent and we connect to the oppressed prostituted in the past.

This blog is very personal, but it also calling for the revolution of the exited to be made real.

We are not dead – we are alive, wanting freedom and justice.

25 Years

I usually only notice anniversaries that I would like to celebrate or remember for personal reason.

I use my Facebook page as a playground for noting birthdays, death days, events in history and other ways to note high and low culture.

I note the anniversaries of film stars, architecture, visual arts, TV programmes and actors, times of revolution and wars, great events in abolitionist history, pop and classical music and so much more.

I enjoy having a magpie attitude to culture, to history, to social events. I hate for my taste to be too predictable.

Anniversaries should fun trivial.

But this year, is an anniversary I cannot be light-heartened about, I cannot celebrate – just wait till the noise dies down.

This year it is 25 since the film of “Pretty Woman” was made.

I enjoy Cinderella, I am a sucker for a fairy tale.

I am not that keen on rom-coms, unless they mainly comedies, especially the older films with their fast-talking banter.

I see as film-buff that “Pretty Woman” is attempting to be a rom-com Cinderella story, that it is pure fantasy.

But as an exited woman, who did mostly escorting and girlfriend experience – I hate the film, and cannot forgive those who made.

The fantasy of “Pretty Woman” is on too many lies and stereotypes about the world of indoors prostitution.

Too many lies and stereotypes who the punters really are.

Punters are not Richard Gere. Escorts are not Julia Roberts.

This should not need to be said, if the film was just escapism fantasy – there would be no need to say.

But too many promoters of the sex trade want the Richard Gere punter to be the norm – at least when speaking or writing in the public arena.

The promoters of the sex trade used the image of the Julia Roberts escort to recruit – as in they have the image of whore-goddess, the image of the courtesan, the image of the high-class hooker to pull the vulnerable in.

These promoters know it all a lie, know it just used to hide the violence and degradation.

The sex trade love “Pretty Woman”, and have used it place prostitution in the centre of pop culture, and even getting acclaimed as art.

But to watch “Pretty Woman”, is to be place back into a world of pain, a world without hope – a world that planted complex trauma into me.

“Pretty Woman” has the evil lie, the lie that destroys the prostituted everyday – the lie that there is such a thing as a punter who will rescue the prostituted.

First, there is no such thing as a nice punter.

I do not care if he does choose not to rape.

I do not care if he does not beat up the prostitute.

I do not care if is just a talker.

I do not care if he has respect.

No man has the right to buy another human for his sexual greed and entitlement.

So it is impossible for a punter to rescue the prostituted, with the punter still having control and power over the prostituted.

The nice punter is just bullshit.

But the message of “Pretty Woman” plants poison into many who are embedded inside the sex trade.

It gives hope that a punter will somehow get a conscious, and see that his prostitute is a full human being – then he will become the white knight.

This never happens – but many of the prostituted cling hold to the illusion.

It is part of the trap keeping the prostituted unable to exit, unable to reach for real help, and unable to know their own inner strength.

It allows the ordinary male violence that is prostitution to continue, as the prostitute hopes beyond hope that the next punter is Richard Gere.

It allows the sex trade profiteers to say that indoors prostitution is safe – for after punters who consume escorts or girlfriend are gentlemen like Richard Gere.

This lie is driving the prostituted to suicide, this lie is allowing punters to be sadists, this lie is hiding the murders that is common in indoors prostitution, this lie is allowing the sex trade to become normal.

It is a giant lie that carries the screams, the blood, the bones and the tears of all the prostituted who thought that a punter could be made to give a damn about their welfare.

 

 

Do Not Go Quiet

The sex trade lobby is constantly inventing to new words to silence exited women (and some exited men).

The latest one is SWERF – which something like sex workers excluded by radical feminists – or such-like nonsense.

This made-up word is used to stop all discussion, all interchange of ideas or attempts to forge bridges.

This made-up is used word is used to stop any mention of the Nordic Approach, to say abolitionists all know nothing about being prostituted and just are in ivory towers.

And this made-up word is liberally used to shut down and shut up all exited women who speak to human rights, who speak for abolition, and speak to and with awareness that all the prostituted are interconnected.

We are called haters of the prostituted, we are told we are responsible for the violence done to the prostituted by just wanting human rights.

We are told, usually outside the public gaze, that we are traitors, that we have become murderers of the prostituted.

We are SWERFs, so must be silenced.

For it made clear, our words are meaningless, for it said we speak of a place of self-hate, a place of fragmented memory, a place where the sex trade demands facts ignoring our trauma.

Facts become a huge silencing weapon.

For to be part of the sex trade lobby, you must decide there can be no trauma after exiting the sex trade.

This is partly because to back the sex trade, you must think exiting is no big deal, especially as most of the prostituted choose to stay inside the industry.

Those who choose to exit must be to mentally weak to cope, so their word can be dismissed.

To prove their mental weakness – the sex trade lobby bombard the exited with endless questions on “facts”.

These so-called facts are never about the everyday violence of punters, or the structure of the sex trade that makes all the prostituted sub-human.

Facts to the sex trade lobby are just another to trip up the exited, and to make look like liars or too ill to remember/know their reality.

“Where actually did the so-called violence happened?

How old were you?

Was it in a legal establishment?

If it was so bad, how come you stayed/are still alive?

Why did you not buy your way out?

Where is the injuries, there no outward signs you were hurt.

You should have done self-defence.

Why did you not report it/tell someone?

Why did you take the money?

Aren’t you pass that now?”

The sex trade lobby has no interest in answers or debate – just to grind the exited until they become sub-human again.

For we are considered to be the property of the sex trade, and we have broken out. We must be broken down so we can be their property again.

It is that evil, that cruel – it is no simple name-calling or game-playing. It is part of the  genocide of the prostituted.

For genocide is fueled by the silencing of the oppressed, making their truths only be spoken or written down by their oppressors.

The prostituted have never had an authentic voice – slowly at the end of the twentieth century to now, there is a growth in exited prostituted women and a few men reaching out to discover their authentic voices.

We cannot have the history of the prostituted class written and spoken only by the sex trade lobby.

That is never the multiple voices of the prostituted, it is always the voices of the static quo, the voices of profiteers and punters.

To be called SWERF by the sex trade lobby is a back-handed compliment – for that ridiculous word shows a fear of the power of the exited to speak truth to power, and to force real revolution and gain full human rights for all the prostituted.

 

Back Now

I want to thank each and everyone who has made donations to my blog, it is vital for I cannot write without stability.

I cannot write to the heart of why I am abolitionist when I am too triggered or hungry.

Now, with your support, I can see into the future and have the strength to know how my past is part of forming it.

So now, as I listen to special Spotify mixture of jazz, blues, Cajun, oldies soul, Blondie, JJ Cale, Bluegrass and rock ‘n’ roll – I will try to do my blog.

It is hard, for I feel like I have been detached when I was worried about my money situation.

I was detached to force my mind not to think about prostitution – the so-called easy way to make money.

Money is like poison – but without money the will to live fades away.

That is the trap that many exited folks have to live with.

When I was prostituted, I hated money.

I would only spend it on trash food and drink – forgetting that money can be used for fun, for education, for climbing away from hell.

I would throw my “earnings” away on one-arm bandits, on drowning in alcohol, giving it away to people who were using me, throwing into the river.

The money of punters was acid – I had to get rid of it.

I became used to living with little money – but knowing men may buy me anything – as long as I could care if I was alive or dead.

It was a world where detachment was survival, where not thinking further than half an hour at the time was essential.

A world where forgetting was the only way to somehow place one foot in front of another.

The world of being prostituted has no good sides – only to survive almost all the prostituted will say or shout they are fine.

The noise of the prostituted saying that it must be empowering, that it was always their choice, that they know they can deal with the “rare” male violence is loud because that is what outsiders want to hear.

That noise is also loud because it shut out for the prostituted their own reality.

A reality where there is no place or type of prostitution that can be made safe or be empowering.

Not when the purpose of prostitution is to make each and every member of the prostituted class is sub-human disposable sexual goods.

Not when each and every punter has the entitlement to do as whatever he wants to the prostituted without interference, without any sanctions, and with the knowledge his mess will be clean up until it becomes invisible.

Not when each and every one of the prostituted know in their hearts, that torture, rape and murder is normal – so no wonder they proclaim they are fine, as their lives are slowly being made nothing.

The concept of the contented prostitute is the one that the mainstream desire.

If the prostitute is happy or at the least able to deal with the life – then we don’t have to worry that our male relations, our male work colleagues, our male partners are raping, torturing or killing the prostituted class.

If we just focus on the individual prostitute and her choices, her empowerment, her conditions – we are consciously ignoring the elephant in the room.

That the violence, the fear and dehumanising are all the foundations of all aspects of prostitution.

That it is male entitlement that forms the prostituted class.

That male entitlement will leave no place or aspect of prostitution safe or empowering to what they have invented as sexual goods.

There is nothing personal when punters are violent to the prostituted, it is just the normal exchange of goods.

So it normal for the prostituted to block out that reality – and speak the language of the sex trade that they are doing well.

I am drained now.

Donations

I now, finally, have a donations page – it is at the top by Home.

I would very happy and honoured if my loyal readers, and new readers, could give weekly or monthly regular donations.

This blog is very hard for me, but I am extremely proud of it.

It is a campaigning blog, as well as an exploration of extreme PTSD, and a piece of witness writing.

It is not a personal blog – for all that I write here is part of the common experience of all the prostituted class.

Therefore, I do not feel it right that I do this without some funds – for I want this blog to form political action.

ADDITIONAL WORDS

I wish to state here where your donations will go, and how they will used, and why it needs to be on-going.

The money is needed because this blog is hard to do for free, and giving talks without pay is very draining.

It is also about my mental and physical welfare.

I have very little money, and donations would with my day-to-day living.

So, your donations will go to my food bill, to bills that are connected to my work eg electric bills and if needed computer repairs, stationary and travel costs.

All leftover money will go directly into my bank account.

I would very grateful if this could become a long-term thing, for it really done help my mental welfare and gives me the inner strength to continue my vital.

 

Setting Up as a Business

I am trying to be self-employed, but it is very scary and I not sure how to do it.

I am writing to my readers for practical help, and emotional back-up.

I am completely broke until the 23rd of this month, so I could really do with advice how to make this blog a permanent earner.

I hate writing this – but I feel I more than emotional support from my readers.

I have many long-term readers who have seen my determination, my ups and downs, my resistance to the sex trade lobby.

I know many of loyal readers have seen I do my work through and with complex PTSD.

One factor of my PTSD is when I have no money, or running out of food – I become extremely triggered.

I am used to dealing, with acting like I am fine when my world is crashing in on me.

I put on my Survivor’s face, and become an island.

But no-one can live as an island, especially when not understanding the rules of asking for help or support.

Prostitution is a cruel teacher, and some of its useless lessons are not obvious to many outsiders.

The harsh lesson of being prostituted is to assume you cannot ask for help or expect others to care.

Through this blog and its outreach, I am slowly learning that is a lie, a lie which is one way that the sex trade still destroy the prostituted whether they are exited or embedded in prostitution.

I am now reaching out, and asking if anyone respect and honour my work if we could set a long-term way of making some cash.

I was thinking if loyal readers give through PayPal the minimum of £1 a week, or £3 a month to make some kind of business.

I am new to all this, and don’t want to guilt-trip or put pressure on anyone.

To be honest, the most helpful thing that could be done is to have advice of how to get permanent contributions for my work.

This blog is making me poor, so it would heartening if that was not so.

Listening to Blondie

Blondie, my lust object, my dreams that crashes through many years of nightmares.

I would imagine Debbie Harry smashing down punters, blowing up the flats where torture was my norm, killing those who made money out of my hell.

I imagine hard in order not to see/know/feel my reality.

I needed Debbie Harry to rescue me.

Instead I carry her fierceness inside, hidden from punters, hidden from sex trade profiteers.

I played Blondie loudly as I was raped, played Blondie over crashed over words of hate, words making me dead.

I played Blondie loudly as I was moved from flat to sex club to hotel rooms to toilets to back-alley to my own room to under a subway.

I played Blondie loudly as students, politicians, artists, businessmen raped me.

I played Blondie as a United Nations of men raped and tortured.

I played Blondie as I was gang-raped, as I was almost drown, as I was being strangled, as all my skin was polluted.

Only I played in silence, for there no way I would let punters have that much of myself.

Blondie was my privacy, Blondie was my small moments of happiness – Blondie was the warrior no punter could destroy.

Blondie stood for a sexuality that could be free, could be joyful.

A sexuality with laughter, with exchange of power with a good heart – a sexuality that was a gift to others, but also wild enough to be liberated.

For my prostituted Self, Blondie was my dream of sex with freedom, sex without fear, control and pain.

I held Debbie Harry in my heart as an example of a world outside the sex trade.

I had to hold on tight to her to believe I was more than a whore, more than holes for endless men to fuck, more than a sex doll.

I put up posters of Blondie above my bed, making a small space private.

In times when I could rest enough to have peace – I prayed to Debbie Harry to rescue me, I prayed for her strength.

I was more than in lust with Debbie Harry, I put all I had left of knowing love into her.

I knew there was no god/goddesses/spiritual beings to save me – so I put all my desperation into Debbie Harry.

But in reality, it was never Debbie Harry I was praying to – it was always just speaking to myself, reminding my Self of my own inner strength, pushing myself to know there was a world outside of prostitution.

I will always celebrate my love of Blondie – for it give me the will never to be made sub-human.