No Such Thing

One common phrase used is – there is no such thing as a child prostitute.

I think this need unpacking, for it appears to have some dangerous assumptions.

It seemed to imply that prostitution is ok if the prostitute is over 16/18.

It is implied that prostitution is a norm, just nasty if innocent children are involved.

This is a dangerous belief on many levels.

It does not look in a serious way into the structure of prostitution. Rather it pretends prostitution can be tidied up if the bad apples are exposed.

To see prostitution as it is, not as many want it to be – we must see that many, if not the majority of adult prostitutes enter when they were under-aged.

So the reality of prostitution is most adult prostitutes have been trapped and damaged by many years of abuse.

Why do you care when she is 14 or 13, but when it decided she looks or acts 16 or 18 why do you turn your back on her?

The prostituted girl is still inside the prostituted woman – she is one and the same person.

Only the adult has to deadened all memory of being a child, memory of lost innocent, memory of thinking there could be an end to prostitution.

The damage and hate put into a child prostitute does not just disappear because others call her an adult prostitute.

No, it is just added to the layers of pain, fear and grief inside the adult prostitute.

But it is decided that once the prostitute is considered to be an adult, she has freely chosen to be inside the sex trade.

Well, I was that child prostitute who became an adult prostitute.

I became struck in that first moment of terror and despair of my 14-year-old being gang-raped into being the role of the prostitute.

Every time, a punter made the choice to consume me, I was frozen into that moment of not fighting back or remembering that I could have human rights.

The more violence and hate that was put into my prostituted body – the more I come not escape that trapped child.

Yes, I was an adult for most of my years inside prostitution, but I never understood what being an adult was.

So think when you say there is no such thing as a child prostitution – think of all the adult prostitutes being serially raped, being tortured, being mentally abused and being made into nothing.

The truth is there should no such thing as a prostitute anywhere or for any reason.

Drowning on Dry Land

To be exited is a long and often thankless role.

It is about finding who you are when just being human seems a mystery.

I write this blog to see and know what is human, what it is to with but beyond trauma.

To be exited with the knowledge of endless rapes, knowledge of how human can torture every part of an human mind and body, knowledge of what goes on in the sex trade is made nothing – so nothing can matter.

This is to drown on dry land.

How as an exited woman can I make sense of a world that refuses to allow the prostituted, exited or not, to be fully human?

How do I live in a world that constantly changes the rules of male violence to allow prostitution to be made normal?

I live in an environment that is Alice Through the Looking-Glass, where black is white, good is bad, and I know my head is going to explode.

In a world where the voices and demands of punters and sex trade profiteers are put on pedestal – and exited women are more than silenced, they are called mentally ill, made non-existed, and thrown away.

In a world where all male violence is a game, role-playing, harmless fun.

A world where being behind closed where many strange and entitled punters is safe.

A world where everything is the free choice of the prostituted and in many ways it is the punter who is oppressed.

This world does not exist, but constantly it is made to exist by the lies and brainwashing of the sex trade lobby.

What is so hard is how many, including some so-called allies, choose to believe their propaganda.

To believe the sex trade lobby – the authentic voices of sex trade profiteers and punters – is to think, know and say that the prostituted can never be made fully human.

Well, as an existed woman, I am bloody sick of being nice about you throwing away the prostituted.

What does being nice bring but pity, apathy and being patronised.

Instead, I want to question some common assumptions that are drowning me and my exited pals in this desert.

Why do you see limited choices for all oppressed groups except the prostituted?

Why do you think indoors prostitution is safer than street prostitution?

Why do you say the only push into prostitution that matters is poverty?

Why say it is S/M sex, boys being boys, or harmless fun when it called torture and rape in the world outside the sex trade?

Why do you say there no such thing as internal trafficking into prostitution?

How do you justify external sexual trafficking as economic migration?

How can you think that punters are a small minority when most long-term prostituted women have been consumed by hundreds of punters, most one time users?

How can prostitution ever be made safe – when the norm is serial rapes, all forms of mental/sexual/physical torture is common?

Do you really think this extreme violence is new – when it from all centuries and in most cultures?

Do you have serious and thoughtful answer to any of these points – or do you hide your head in the sand.

Answer me by seeing the prostituted as human – that is a good start.



Killing Time

I have been unable or unwilling to write for some time.

I will try to explore why, try to fight the trauma, try and see through fragmented memory.

To see into my prostitution years is so full of emptiness.

An emptiness of not knowing the structure of linear time, the emptiness of death surrounding all memory.

I have to live with that space where time is squeeze out, and all I have is some kind of emptiness.

A space where death appears to be a friend.

That is why is why I come to see my prostitution years as killing time.

With and through trauma, I am learning how to see and feel that time.

I do not yet know the language that speaks to that space.

The space inside my Self as a prostitute – what I was, how I had to lost thought, where did I place my feelings, and how I allow myself to lose time.

To be prostituted is to live in emptiness with death of feelings, death of hope, and death of time.

I need to force life back into that time.

Memory is my life-saver – even as it full of gaps and silences.

To see the hate and oppression that fuels all prostitution is vital – for it slows down self-hate and dissolves self-blame.

To connects with other exited is vital – for it stops the isolation and give some language to grief, pain and confusion.

This is the start of finding a language that fits that time.

Though words can never fully encase a time so full of holes.

Words do no justice to the depths of that grief.

Words cannot hold the amount of torture, amount of constant rapes, amount of men who choose to be punters.

All words can do is try to communicate a space that seems to say the horror, but does always feel that it just a surface.

I speak or write words, but always have a pit of rage, fear, and grief that so big it becomes an empty space.

I cope by killing feelings, killing memory, killing wanting too much.

I kill time to just live day to day.

That is some of what it is to live inside complex trauma.

Do say if makes any sense.

Yes We Hate You

This post is address to all men who are punters or want-to-be punters.

This is a post saying our hate, this is not a love letter.

I see you in all your cowardice, all your hatred of women, all wanting power without working for it.

I know you imagine you are a sex god, that your hands, your tongue, your penis is the source of all pleasure.

You are nothing to me.

I may of fake pleasure to keep safe.

I may of painted a smile on my face.

i may even of said you are the best.

Well, I was lying – inside I nothing but hate for you.

You thought you brought my soul, you nowhere near it.

However much you fuck me, however much you torture me, however you stripped of humanity – you never reach into my soul.

Yes, I was terrified often, yes I would cum even I knew I wanted to not know I existed.

But, you never knew me.

You saw a whore with no past and no future.

You saw a whore who only present was being fucked over and over and over.

You only saw a sex doll with no emotions who perform tricks for you.

Well this doll hate you with every cell of her body.

You paid to rape, you paid to torture – you are just scum, who should be in prison not free as a bird.

I hope you rot in your own poison.



I will try through and to my state of trauma.

I want to hide, I regret self-harming.

In the middle of trauma, suicide seems reasonable.

But my stubborn will means I carry on carrying on – but only with pain, with grief and with a fury.

I can not play nice inside this repetition of hell.

So in this post, I want to to speak to the many ways exited women are kept sub-human, and never allow truly back into society.

In this post, I will touch on what it means to survive internal trafficking.

And in this post, I speak to connecting with others who have known torture or being sub-human, and not limiting connections to simple Western views of politics.

Let me say, this will be written inside trauma, so I may go off track or even lose hope in how to express myself.

But I want to express from and with trauma, it is you as a reader who must slowly learn the the language and connections of the prostituted soul.

I usually write in a language that fits what I think is known of the prostituted, self-censoring the bleakness, the sick humour, the words that exited speak to each other in secret.

I self-censor my sense of abandonment from every side as an exited woman, and say thanks for the crumbs left over for us.

But why should exited women always play nice, as we see, hear and know that there so little being done to say we are fully human, worthy of of dignity and justice.

I speak her not to the sex work lobby – but to those who framed themselves as allies.

I speak to Abolitionists who view as pets who perform our “stories” of pain – but are close down if we speak to wanting justice, speak to our deep understanding of male power and violence, speak to ours lives outside the role of being exited.

You like us as victims, as warnings to other women, as brave witnesses – but you do not want us as full humans with dreams, hobbies, desires and a sexuality.

You want to stay in a state of trauma, so you dig into our pasts looking for proof of pain, looking for evidence that make you say prostitution is a bad thing.

You have no considerations that we don’t want to re-tell over and over, knowing each word that enters our past is another cut into our hearts.

You frame us as brave – but that is the language of being Othered.

We are not brave, we just are witnesses to events and horrors that we should of never known – and now we fight so it is eliminated from this earth.

I try to speak my memories of being internally trafficked.

I was groomed into indoors prostitution from when I was 14,

So young, but after too many years of sexual and mental abuse at home – so thinking I knew it all, so wanting to hard, so thinking nothing mattered.

I like many vulnerable girls who are trapped in the sex trade, thought I could never hurt any more than I already, I thought I was at the bottom of self-hate.

I had a tough naivety.

I had no idea that prostitution would put into pain, terror and hopelessness that made incest seemed like a rehearsal.

Internal trafficking is all about wearing vulnerable girls down until they forget what it is to be human, forget that anyone cares about them, forget that they can be young and know hope.

That is evil, and is done everywhere where prostitution is the norm.

Punters want young flesh, many punters like to fuck away innocence, fuck away childhood or teenage dreams.

Punters will pay for the the lie that his whore is flesh, is a virgin, that he possesses her even whilst knowing hundreds of other punters are and will consume her.

Internal trafficking is just the face of supplying this market.

To be that whore is suicide in slow motion.

To survive that is great – but it is not the end, survival and exiting after being internally trafficked is just the beginning of another hell.

I was in indoors prostitution in and out, from 14 till I was 27.

That is my adolescence and time of growth, time of finding what make a person, time that I should I made mistakes that I laugh at.

That time was lost to me, I never was safe or still enough to become human.

Instead in my growing years, I was an sex object that was turn off and on depending on the wills of punters.

My norm was a world of violence, a world where women and girls disappeared, a world where punters could do all harms that humans can invent with no consequences.

And now, as an exited woman, I am meant to just get over all that.

Well, I was tortured, serially raped, gang-raped, had sperm put all over my skin and hair, was orally and anally raped, was strangled, was drown, was beaten up, was close to death several times – and that just the tip of the ice-berg.

I don’t just get over that.

Would think a man torture in prison should just get over it.

Do you  say to a friend who experience rape or domestic violence – just get over it.

But prostituted women are expected to not complain too much, or speak to what punters do to them.

W must not upset others, we must act nice – for as sub-human we are not allowed to feel pain, want justice or even say our experiences are an outrage.

This so hard to write, so I finish for a while.

Please response if you can.



How Do I Grieve

I am in deep trauma, been there too many times, but this need to faced with the will of a tiger.

I want to write to my memories of only true friend and lover.

She died from an OD when I was 17, when she was also 17.

We were soulmates, we were in and out of each of madness and war to survive.

But I don’t know how to grieve.

I start by speaking to who she was to me, although it mostly full of silences where my mind cannot show our deep love for each other.

I don’t remember or know how we meet, only know in a flash we could not be torn apart – only all the time prostitution and drugs was ripping us apart.

I was deep in sadistic indoors prostitution, at the beck and call of any punter who wanted to do torture with no consequences.

She was on heroin, trying to come out that life – with predators knocking at her door to sell her more.

We were a dangerous couple, both on the edge of death, both beyond caring what the outside world thought of us.

But somehow, from some deep place we found we could love.

We decided we could sleep together, but no sex coz we had too much anger and violence in us.

We had had brief moments of being lovers – but our deep love became hugs and quiet crying.

We were wild, we had no interest in people pleasing.

Our pain, our anger, our frustration went into drink, into refusing to sleep, into being a general pain in the neck.

But our pain was ignored, was made to our fault – so how could we care what others thought as they did nothing as our lives were running out.

All they saw was a drug addict and a prostitute.

They refuse to see why we drown ourselves in heroin and violent sex.

I knew she was escaping violent sexual abuse from her father, and the memories she did not want to know.

I try so hard to stop the predators selling her drugs.

I would refuse to let them in the flat, but I had no power or energy to save her.

I help her when she try so hard to come off drugs.

I held her in bed as she screamed at me.

I yell back at her when she thought I was her father about to rape her yet again.

I was there as she cried, sweated till I thought she may melt.

I was there, coz no-one else cared if she lived or died.

I was there coz that was I knew love was.

But still she died.

How do I grieve?

She died because her father found her, and rape her back to the place with no hope, no exit and no love.

I was away for that weekend, and came back to find her body in our bed.

I went numb – I refused to believe she could be dead.

So for that night, I lay by her till I could accept the truth.

After that, I have many blocks and silences.

I know I drunk heavier, I know I a huge anger  – I know I did not know how to say goodbye or cry.

I had to hear women who could of supported me say – it is you who should be dead, she was so much stronger than you.

I know I was banned from her funeral for being drunk and screaming –

Fuck you – none of you did anything for her when she was alive!

I knew she would be proud of me speaking for her, and not going with their fake grief.

But then, we were crazy, we were beyond the acceptable.

Like when we got drunk and smashed up a sex shop.

We did this out of fury, but also coz we sick of the constant chat and no action about how awful the sex shop was for women.

Our action was unwise – we were chased away by the shop owner with a machete, and only made safe by being pick up by the police.

I cannot much time where we were sober, where we were not in a pause between prostitution or drugs – but our love was real.

This post is written from that love.


Exit to What

Dedicated to Jennifer Kempton, and all other exited folks who left us too early.


I am writing this in a shock, deep grief and complex trauma.

Last week, I heard about the terrible early death of Jennifer Kempton, who as an exited woman founded Survivor’s Ink.

She was a great warrior, who give back dignity and hope to so many exited folks.

I hardly knew except through the network of exited women and their allies, but her death has pull out all my buried grief.

I want to write to one of the most important reason so many exited folks die young or before they can reach a place of peace.

This is the almost total lack of proper exiting programmes anywhere.

When the prostituted exit for the most part, they are left to fend for themselves.

They may receive coffee and condoms.

If very lucky they may get short-term generalised counselling, may get help with re-housing or finding a job.

But it is usual that any decent help is formed and provided by mainly exited women who have no proper funds and do their work whilst living with extreme trauma.

Even in countries with the Nordic Model, there are no real long-term specialist exiting programmes for the prostituted.

This is killing us everyday – we may commit suicide, we can be murdered by pimps and their followers, may die from lack of knowing how to fend for ourselves.

Our deaths is a constant reminder to all who say they back the Nordic Model to do much much more.

I cannot live with the constant grief of the prostituted who manage to exit being abandoned.

When we exit prostitution, that is just beginning of a long struggle back to personhood, back to dignity, back to self-respect and back to a life that can made safe.

It is a rebirth, and like a new-born we do not know or understand the rules of the “real” world.

I remember not knowing how to shop, for punters brought so much.

I had no idea how to pay bills, how to look for somewhere safe to , look for work.

I had no idea how to be an adult, as I still carried my damaged child and teenager in me.

I was drowning, but I received no help, no support – I had to fight every inch of the way to get back some kind of real life.

This is not good enough.

We have to fight even as we carry millions of demons reminding how pimps and punters made us sub- human.

We have known torture, we have known serial rapes, we have known imprisonment, we have known too many disappearances and deaths.

But when we exit, we are meant to just get on with it and not make too many demands.

At the same time, if we choose to be open about our past – there is the constant demand that we tell our stories over and over and over – with no interest that it may send us back into hell every time you ask that.

Worse is the demand that we give evidence that you choose whether to believe or not.

This is done with no knowledge of how extreme trauma can lead to fragmented memory, or how we survive by blocking out.

Our words come out non-linear with many gaps and silences.

Our words are the words that you want to know.

So as we speak, our words are only heard for what you already think – not the depths of the truths we try to express.

My grief is making this very hard to write, coz so much of my soul wants to deaden what I feel and think.

I just know I want exiting to be taken seriously.

We need specialist long-term for exited people.

Not counselling for eight weeks, then everything is somehow fixed.

Not counselling that is just connected harm reduction, but keeping the prostituted trapped.

No, there should be training to how the prostituted react to extreme complex trauma, training in disassociation, and training in listening to the gaps and silences.

This need to be offered whenever the exited person ask for it. It can be several years till trauma becomes something that need to be tackled.

I cannot write much more, just leave you with this.

Know those of us who have exited the sex trade are strong, grateful to be alive, truth-tellers and have an evil sense of humour.

But we still live with extreme trauma, demons that follow us and confusion.

Do not take us for granted, if you really care fight for long-term specialist exiting programmes everywhere.