Judge Not, Less You Want to be Judged

I am finding writing very hard.

It is too full of pain, memories are too raw, fear is too close to the surface.

I am a writer, so I will write however hard – and however much my body resist it.

I write with a warrior-spirit, I write as a witness to all I wish I had no knowledge of.

To be a true is not to be in a place of comfort or ease – to write to the centre of human cruelty is to write as if you are stabbing yourself.

In this post, I will to write about judgement on the major and minor levels as it may affect me and other exited folks.

Judgement comes from all angles – all beliefs and the non-believing, from all classes, from all types of political thinking, from all cultures.

To judge the prostituted is acceptable by nearly all people, going back to a time before human could leave a written record.

The classic judgement come from deep ignorance and the desire to express that the prostituted are sub-human, but in a nice polite way.

This is the old classic myth that all the prostituted have a sub-human sex drive.

This handy myth leads to judgement that the prostituted are sex-crazed, are dragging good men down into sin, are stealing men from decent women.

It is a myth that I detest, and will spend the rest of my life fighting against.

The prostituted class have never had the freedom to own and to control their own sexuality, or even to have the right to say yes or no to certain sexual practices.

The prostituted class are always owned and controlled by the men that buy them, and the profiteers that sell them.

It is the punters and profiteers that create the demand for dangerous sexual practices – and it the prostituted who have their bodies and minds destroyed by that demand.

This sick myth is used to say the victim – that is the prostituted – must be to blame for “forcing” punters to do unspeakable sexual acts – for it is claimed that the prostituted are all insatiable.

On a lighter note, there are the constant minor judgments placed on many exited women, especially if we show any interest in feminism.

We are meant to be perfect feminists or we are not allowed to count.

I am judged for watching sports – a male leisure, where many of the participants or supporters may be punters.

I would say I know that many men who support/play football/rugby/cricket will consume prostitutes.

But then so do male politicians, male actors, male musicians, males in all types of businesses, male students, male religious leaders, male writers, males artists, male comedians, male farmers, and all males in all spheres.

If I was to live in a world not polluted by punters – I would never watch films/TV, never read any books mentioning men, never listen to music, never buy anything in case a punter was part of making or selling it.

I may have to kill myself, if I truly never want to do anything that is contaminated by punters and sex trade profiteers.

Also, this ignorant judgement tends to work on the assumption that exited women are too unintelligent to watch sports/films/read books/listen to music/consume TV, without knowing it should be taken on face-value.

Maybe we do these things as escapism – knowing our extreme trauma may fade, but it will not disappear.

Escapism is not about losing intelligent, it is about resting, about giving yourself back some joy and comfort, about regaining pleasures that may have been stolen from.

All that is vital for all exited prostituted folks – and if you dare to judge our freedom to escape, then spend five minutes inside our trauma and then tell where we are going wrong.

Back to more serious ways the prostituted are continually judged.

We are judged for our lack of emotions, for being cold, being too tough, judge as being cruel or hard-hearted.

In this judgement come the constant that any real harm can be done to the prostituted – after all we are not crying, we do not complain, we took the money/gifts so it must be ok.

Only think about the degree of mental/physical/sexual torturing that is the norm for all the prostituted.

It is normal for a prostituted woman who has been in the sex trade for round three years, to have torture everywhere and to have piece of her body that is not polluted.

This prostituted woman has been raped by hundreds if not thousands of punters.

This prostituted woman is likely to be more round many aspects of the sex trade, usually to more violence and control.

This prostituted woman will live the mental violence of knowing at any time and any place, she could be murdered and her death will made to be invisible.

This prostituted woman will live with physical violence as a norm.

This prostituted woman will have all forms of tortures put into her mind and body – and it just called men having fun.

This is the norm of all aspects of prostitution – no wonder that the prostituted are closed to emotions and the language of saying I hate this.

Torture will silence most humans, but it does not destroy our souls.

It is normal to adapt to long-term torture, by acting as if it is nothing.

Acting tough, never crying, saying you do not need help, being numbed to most of the physical pain, cutting off from knowing your past and not believing you can have a future – all these are normal reactions to long-term torturing.

So instead of judging the prostituted for appearing emotionless – why not celebrate their amazing survival skills and ability to keep part of their humanity safe.

I will end here – exhausted zzzzzzzz


I have come back from my birth-town, the town of years between 12-27.

A place that should belong to me, but is only a place full of ghosts and body memories.

I went as a changed woman, but only to be haunted over and over by sense of being drag back to my private hell.

I went back to Cambridge, and I spoke out.

Spoke out to a very close friend, spoke out to the buildings haunting me, spoke to the parks where I wanted death so, spoke out to a meeting.

My voice was cracking, my voice was waiting everything to go wrong.

But I spoke out about Cambridge in Cambridge.

And my prostituted soul felt a freedom it could not dare know existed.

When I arrived in Cambridge, I was mentally exhausted, but unable to rest without shaking or crying.

So, I went for a walk by myself. Thinking if I struck to the tourist parts of Cambridge, I would be fine.

I was wrong, coz there is no part of Cambridge that is not poisoned by my past.

My home-town is beautiful, is full of so many things I loved – but I knew its underbelly, and my trauma can never forget, only fight to make it smaller.

I was prostituted in a town that was in deep denial.

The image of Cambridge of beauty, intellect, and peace is kept, no nastiness is allowed to see, hear or talk about.

There could no prostitution in Cambridge – that belonged to real cities like London.

Only any man who wanted to buy sex in Cambridge had a variety of choices in just the small city centre.

Prostitution was hidden in plain sight – as the police ignored it, as the university ignored it, as the councilors ignore it, as Social Services ignores – all punters saw this availability.

This is what some would say is underground prostitution – only it is legal and vastly available.

This is the world I knew, the world that made my nightmares, made a life-time of body memories, made extreme trauma.

Hidden in plain view, I like far too many prostituted women and girls – was being mentally abused, tortured, put on the edge of death, rape beyond what the mind can handled.

This blood and sweat was pouring into the bricks of Cambridge, the silent screams of the prostituted were part of the haze round Cambridge.

Cambridge bears the hidden horrors of prostitution, and makes the terrible demand that it never to be spoken of or even acknowledged.

I was silent for many years, and it nearly killed me.

So, I am speaking out.

For Cambridge is typical of any tourist city that refuses to allow that it has a dark side.

I do not believe there is anything unique about my hell in Cambridge, and I break some of my silence to help other trapped in cities/towns/villages that refuse to believe that prostitution is part of them.

Living where the whole city deny your reality, that is a poison that can only lead to self-destruction.

I know this as I see the streets of Cambridge – see streets I lost any sense that I could be fully human.

It was on these streets I attempted suicide, these streets I got so drunk I thought I would forget.

It was on these streets, I was raped so often I could allow myself to care.

It was on these streets, I walked and walked and walked – hoping that walking would turn into a robot.

In my walk last week, I walked past many places and buildings that made me sick.

I had to walked through the subway where I was raped, to get back to my hotel.

I walked through town, past streets where I pushed friends to their limit.

Past that college where I was brought, and used like a rag-doll, as I to focus on the beauty of the architecture.

Into the market, where I hung out refusing to feel or know I was still alive. Hanging like a normal teenager, but knowing too much and having too many reasons to want to die.

Onto King’s College, where my mind was too dark to know the beauty.

Into more colleges where I was brought, and thrown away.

Down past a pub where in the back-room, old men brought young prostituted girls to have a torture-toy.

Into the parks, where I walked and walked and walked till I could switch some of my mind.

That is my Cambridge, I am so angry and saddened by that.

Confronting Cambridge

In my last post, I begun my journey to understanding my fear of Cambridge, but also my sense it belongs to me as I was born there.

I could never live in Cambridge again, all my roots have been ripped out long ago.

This saddened me deeply. My mother’s family had live there since the 1930’s – and had quite an impact on the city.

My grandfather was an architect, and designed many fine buildings in Cambridge. My grandmother run Cambridge Ballet Workshop.

I am proud of that side of Cambridge, I can fit into that world whilst always having to be apart from it.

I cannot live in Cambridge, coz I would go mad if I went back for more that one night.

The dark side of my Cambridge is too loud, too demanding, too attached to my essence to stay there too long.

I, like MR James, see only evil seething into every inch of Cambridge. Not demons, but normal men acting with hardened hearts.

Only MR James was creating fiction and shocks for a good read.

My memories of what evil was and is – that is real, being real it is very mundane and made normal.

The worse evil is in the ordinary, in events that are so normal that it becomes invisible. After the best trick of the devil, was to make it that it does exist.

That is how the sex trade works in tourist cities, in provincial city – it makes itself invisible whilst being everywhere.

I can imagine giving an alternative tour of Cambridge –

This is the pub where men queue to pay for rape by the beer barrels.

This street has many flats where under-aged prostitutes were gang-raped, tortured and groomed to be silent and still.

This building is where I was anally till I lost consciousness and ended up in hospital.

This graveyard was a regular place for cheap prostitution.

This college was full of rich foreign students having “parties” with whores with no voice, no human rights – only a desire not to die.

This street is where I failed to kill myself.

This West Indian pub had the upper room for punters to dance and rape under-aged prostitutes.

Not a fun tour, but my tour of Cambridge.

I could call it a ghost tour, call tour of the underbelly of Cambridge – all trendy ways to hide my terror and sickness.

What it too hard to state, to remember, to know in every cell of my body – is that tour would just the beginning of my horror of living in Cambridge.

Now, with great distance and years gone past – I am ready to confront Cambridge, ready to look beyond the tourist image and see into the shadows.

I can see how lost I was, how much I wanted to invisible, to be dead.

I also see I was desperate for real help or even for the world to stop long to hear my pain.

I had been abused since before i could remember, I could not imagine a life where I mattered or where there no pain.

My life in Cambridge was waiting for death, but feeling too much of a coward to kill myself.

I had no hope – without hope, life is just breathing.

I was nothing – so if men raped/tortured/killed me, it meant nothing.

I was there to have men pour all their sick porn dreams into – I was not alive enough to make it matter.

Only I could not stopped having emotions, feeling pain, knowing something was going wrong.

I could not be a robot – my humanity keeps coming into me.

There is nothing worse in prostitution then being conscious of what is happening to your body and mind.

Knowing that prostitution is rape is unbearable when there many punters waiting for their term.

Feeling what is to be tortured in every cell, and not fainting or blocking it out – that is unbearable.

Being send close to death, feeling some relief that at least it is some end – only to find a punter laughing at you, saying “don’t fucking die on me, bitch!” – that is unbearable.

To survive prostitution, learning to be dead is a vital skill.

So, that is why I must confront Cambridge – for the major ghost that haunts me, is my prostituted self.

I want to give back the streets, the colleges, the parks, the river, the flats, and other buildings.

I want to walk through Cambridge as a ghost carrying all that pain and degradation.

I want to get back my birth-town, and to feel freedom there.

Going Home

Next week I am going to a short conference to the town where I was born, the town where I was abused by the my mum and stepdad – and the town where the vast of my violent experiences of prostitution occurred.

I am going back to that town that is full of ghosts and body memories.

I thought if I wrote a post it would make some of those ghosts pipe down.

I am going to a radical feminist day conference in memory of Andrea Dworkin.

Maybe being with women who did not know those ghosts, did not see my past self at its worse places/emotions/times – then maybe with luck and determination, I will get sick when I go home.

I thought if I wrote to those streets, buildings and rooms – maybe then the ghosts will calm down and leave me aloud.

I could speak of nearly being gang-raped in a crowded as tourists and locals walked past doing nothing.

I could speak of many flats in residential area where sadist punters torture, gang-rape and serially raped under-aged prostitutes.

I could speak of Irish pubs where I was paid to be fucked up against a wall or in a toilet.

I could speak to student’s flats where was brought in like smuggled goods, used up, and thrown onto the streets.

I could speak to top rooms of pubs where old punters danced and finger-fucked young prostituted girls.

That I could speak to – only it is a tourist town, a town of the middle-class status, a town where all prostitution is made to disappear.

But when I return, all I see/hear/smell is the shadows of prostitution.

It is on every street, in every college, part of the pub culture, part of being near airbases, part of the silence of small town life.

I see a town, like so many other towns all over the world – where the prostituted are more than made invisible, they are told it cannot happen in this town.

It becomes that prostitution is just a London’s problem, small towns have no real prostitution.

This strangled any voice/s that the prostituted may have.

This denial gives too much power to sex trade profiteers and punters.

It said nothing is happening to nothing – so why make a fuss.

Well, Cambridge – I remember the poison you wanted me to forget, I remember each and every form of torture I was not meant to survive, I remember the hate that allows men to make me into their living porn doll.

So Cambridge, I see your beauty, I am proud of being third generation in your city, I will cheer on your rugby team – but I never forget why so many ghosts haunt me.

I cannot think of an area of Cambridge not poisoned by the violence of prostitution.

I tried to walk away from it, only to bang into yet more men wanting to pay me to hurt me all over again.

I meet men who know all about condoms, and would treat their women with respect – who brought the prostituted for the fun of unsafe sex, to beat and mentally torture the prostitute if she dare show she was still human.

I meet men who know it was rape, but did not care for it was decided it is impossible to rape a whore.

I meet men who loved taking me to the brink of death, only to laugh and say it was only a game.

I meet men who spoke of burying me alive, spoke of chopping me up, spoke with a calm directness of how easy it would to murder a prostitution – coz after all that real humans, so nothing criminal had happened.

These men were African, European, American, Latin American, Arabic – it was a United Nations of sadists.

These men were working-class, middle-class and upper-class.

These men were from their early 20’s to late 80’s.

They were rapists one by one, rapists who thought they were doing non-violent sex, rapists who enjoy torture, rapists who did it in gangs, rapists who watch, rapists who talked.

For every punter is paying to rape without consequences.

Nothing is happening to nothing.

That is what I remember when I think of home – so I learnt too young never to get attached to any place.

So I am going home next week – god-damned I have the spirit of Andrea Dworkin spitting at those ghosts.

Maybe that will help.

Sad and Happy at Same Time

I know many expected me to have returned from Stockholm full of joy and optimism.

I had to stop writing, for I had too many confused emotions. I was on the edge of losing my sense of self.

I stopped writing coz I was scared to express myself. Afraid my expression would be let-down to my readers.

But now, with workmen in and outside my house, with Spotify on loud – I may be able to write to my confusion.

All I know is that the Nordic Approach is a very good beginning – but that is the point it is a beginning, it not the end, it is not the full answer, and it does have some flaws.

But the best thing about the Nordic Approach is that is makes a line in the sand – saying punters should be made accountable for their actions.

This is huge, and I saw in Stockholm how in a short ten years that simple statement is changing attitudes and making real change.

I saw the change to a society that questions why we thought prostitution could be made acceptable.

Of course, there is still prostitution, there is still exploitation – but the Nordic Approach is building a society that is saying punters makes a conscious choice to buy another human for sexual greed/want.

It makes the act of making that choice a criminal act – that is massive, and is the beginning of giving back human rights and dignity to all the prostituted.

The Nordic Approach is not perfect.

It was formed for the interests of all women and men in Sweden – but it was not formed to place the human rights of the prostituted as the priority.

Like too much in the abolitionist movement, the prostituted class were placed as an afterthought – it was more about equality for non-prostituted females and males.

This is shown by the punishment for the punters – which is a flat fine whatever the wages the punters makes.

Only two punters have gone to jail in ten years.

This is crazy, and keeps the prostituted as sub-human – saying it not real crimes done to the prostituted, so a simple fine is ok.

But, most punters are serial criminals, most punters commit severe crimes.

Punters are not just criminals, they are sadists and usually feel no remorse.

Punters are serial rapists, punters use all forms of tortures on a regular basic, punters are murderers, punters are batterers.

We cannot just use fines – we must put these sadists in prison.

We should build a society that see the grievous crimes done to the prostituted class, not a society that turns away saying it no-crime if there is an exchange of money/goods or sex.

We should stop saying there is one law for the non-prostituted and another for the prostituted.

There will never be full justice for all if we abandoned the prostituted class.

This how I returned from Stockholm.

Football, Films, and Music

This is dedicated to my fellow Gooners – Yodet, Denise and Fiona.

This is dedicated to those who have highly eclectic tastes in music – especially Confetta, Kelly and Sarah.

This is dedicated to lovers of classic Hollywood – Nic, Gabrielle and Lise.

I have no idea how I survived prostitution.

I have no idea why I am alive and with a degree of sanity, when so many of the prostituted have been thrown away.

All I know, is that football, films and music give me some order in a world of utter chaos.

All I know, is that there was always some football, films and music I had not seen or heard – so I always had a reason not to die.

I had no interest in politics – why care when politicians did nothing to stop the hell I was living in.

I cut myself off from family or real friends – I could be with people who wanted to be a whole person, and not a role to pleased them.

I would think that I had a past, and could not imagine any kind of a future.

No, to be prostituted is be struck in a terrible present – where hate, pain and confusion seems to have no end.

But somehow I held on tight to football, films and music.

I made myself stay alive by waiting for the footie results, waiting to know what was number one in the music charts, by discovering new old films.

I kept alive by reading of lives of films stars especially from Hollywood’s Golden Age, I collected photos and books of American films from 1920’s-1940’s.

I kept some part of mind still working by watching film noir, Westerns, European films, musicals and always silent movies.

I disappear into the America of those films, allowing my soul some freedom, imaging having the strength of Bette Davis/Lauren Bacall/Marlene Dietrich.

I could for a short forget I was a sex doll – and imagine I would shot down punters like Barbara Stanwyck or Louise Brooks.

I would stay alive enough to follow Arsenal – however dead my body, whatever injuries punters/profiteers had force into me – I always know how my team was doing.

I always allow footballers to be the only men I would admire – though I had no interest in their private lives, my only interest was on the pitch or on TV.

I held Pele, Liam Brady, Pat Jennings – as well as other teams such Ajax, Juventus, Republic of Ireland, Scotland, Argentina and Real Madrid close to my heart.

I used football to know politics, social history, geography, human prejudices.

Football was my beating heart when death was all around me.

To love or have a passion when prostituted is dangerous – it can make you too vulnerable.

Punters hated that I understood and loved football.

It is was much deeper than girls shouldn’t like or know about so-called boy’s games – it was hate that I had a mind of my own and reminded them that I was still clinging on to being a human.

I learnt to kill my passion – but always I found out the football results.

Music was a vital reminder that whatever the sex trade did to me, I would stubbornly cling hold to my humanity.

I was constantly battered, sadistically raped and made close to death – for the simple act of singing along if there was music in the background.

I was not placing the punter as the centre of the universe – I was not playing the good whore.

I would hear music if was playing in any situation.

Music would block out what was my reality, and allow my mind to pretend everything was safe and cosy.

Apart from stadium rock or sopranos in opera – most music was ok with me, it could allow some small escape and I could imagine peace.

But the music of my soul was jazz, Soul, gospel, traditional country, Mozart, Bach, and New York punk.

That music give me strength to imagine that living was worth-while.

That music made want to live to discover more Black American music, to know many genres of Cajun/country music, to know more about classical music – to go into 60’s pop, and the r’n’b and rockabilly of the 50’s.

In other words, music made me want to live for there always more and more music to hear.

Music made me discover that joy was still inside me – that all violence, hate and mental abuse that is prostitution had not destroyed completely.

So football, films and music keep me alive – and now I will keep discovering more about them from a place of calmness, safety and independent.

That is as close to freedom as I can know.

Ain’t no Numbers, Ain’t No Reliable Statistics.

I want to say to truly understand prostitution, please do not be over-reliant on facts and statistics.Know that most so-called facts round prostitution are propaganda from sex trade profiteers and their allies.

Statistics are often owned and controlled by that sex trade lobby.

That is why this blog will rarely speak to such simplistic language.

Another, and very important reason, to not use “facts” is to speak close to the language of extreme and long-term trauma. To the language of fragmented memories, the language where so much violence turns into small moments.

No, to understand prostitution from the centre of its rotten heart, we need to deeper than mere facts and statistics.

We need to know there are numbers and facts that all the exited know, but dare not speak out loud.

Those are the words that the sex trade lobby fear the most – for if even a tiny percentage of exited folks spoke to the scale of male violence that is prostitution – if they were even believed by only a few. That would the seed that would pull all the roots of the sex trade and it non-stop lies.

Say I, as a small example, was to speak out about numbers and facts – those that I scared to say out loud or write in plain speech.

Say I use this post to break a silence of fear of being turned away, fear of not being believed, fear of not remember in any clear way.

I know I was raped – raped so often that it cannot be named as rape, raped until my skin cease to protect me, rape until I thought I was a robot.

But I can never know how many punters rape.

I know when I hear other exited folks say they were by hundreds or thousands of punters, I am deeply saddened but never shocked or even surprised.

All I know is that my experiences of indoors prostitution, is that the vast majority pay to rape, usually I would rather name it as sexual torture.

I know I was gang-raped, I was raped in so-called normal sex, I was anally raped, I was raped to make porn, I was orally raped, I was raped and beaten up,

I know I was raped in flats, I was raped in clubs, I was raped in my own room, I was raped in a subway, I was raped in graveyard, I was raped in punter’s homes, I was raped in public toilets, I was raped behind pubs, I was raped in a haystack.

Those just the sexual acts and places that my mind allows me to remember.

So much is forgotten, or just kept locked away.

I know I raped until I was unconscious, I know I was raped so often in so many repetitive ways that many acts of violent fade into one.

I also know the human mind can only remember so much torture, until it to survive and still healthy must close.

So when I asked how many punters raped me – I have no answer, only the empty scream of the trauma of knowing what it to be raped beyond the language of rape.

This just a short post.