Thoughts from My Spirit

I am not religious, but I believe in metaphors to understand who and what I am.

I reach into my Self, and nine aspects or spirit forms.

They may be ways to dig deep and know the unknowable.

They may be real or part of my unconscious mind unpacking pain, grief and the fight  for justice.

I don’t know if it matters, for it part of healing and road to being fully alive


The baby is attempting to be happy despite neglect, being cold and sense of fear.

The baby wants to pleases, need to play – but has to do that alone.

The baby learns to stop crying, stop noise – in silence she may disappear.

Always without reason, the baby spirit want to believes in joy and hope.

The baby stay in her cot and then nothing matters.


The little girl is still wanting to play – but rage gets in the way.

Rage coz there is pain in between her legs.

Rage coz her mum is not listening, not interested in her existence.

Rage that her stepdad is still alive and still wanting her alone.

Rage that she knows no-one sees he is bad, that he should in prison or shot like a dog.

The little girl wants to like normal girls.

But always headaches, sick stomach, that pain in places without language gets in the way.

The headaches makes want death.

Death become her only friend, death seems so comforting.

The little girl starts running away, starts cutting, starts smoking and drinking.

She imagine she is tough – not scared, not hurting, certainly no victim.

She has the heart of a street child – reckless, going straight to danger, whilst always terrified and not knowing how to exist.

And always the little girl just wants to be happy.


The mermaid is the little girl’s friend.

The mermaid exist for she is the children that could live in a world of adult hate and violence.

The mermaid did not survive abuse, and now choosing to never know that life.

Her world is where no adults are allow, where no memories of them is let in.

It is playing, dressing up, dancing, playing records, watching TV – anything that closes out reality.

The mermaid will brush her hair with her mirror whenever emotions come too near.

Only no dancing, no swimming away, no music, no playing can stop grief, or the body memories.

The mermaid is broken, crying into water seems so pointless.


Speaking of grief, the dragon holds all that pain, grief and shock tightly in her cave.

The dragon hides in that cave, afraid to show her Self to the world.

The dragon has learnt through centuries of pain and ignorance, that her existence is never believed.

The dragon is wise – but knows all her knowledge will be dismissed.

So hidden in her cave, she see the violence and hate that men pours out on females.

She sees child abuse, she sees rape, she see domestic violence – and at the centre of all thatvhate and violence she see the sex trade poisoning the whole world.

The dragon howls, the dragon pours fire on fields – all that empty fury and grief goes unseen, unheard.

For men write history, and have long ago written out the truths of the dragon.


The teenager is refusing to remember that she is a human, she exists only air goes into her lungs.

The teenager is nothing outside the eyes of punters.

She exists to be hurt, she exists to please violent men.

The teenager sees hope and dignity as a train crashing into her.

The teenager decides she will be a Whore, for she has no worth, no wish to live, she is their sexual doll.

Only, deep in the teenager is wanting more, a secret whispering in her heart –

There is more to life than this hell, fight teenager fight to stay alive.

The teenager is raped close to death, she is destroy by porn dreams of endless punters.

But somehow she keeps living.

The teenager is placed into too many gang rapes, too many anal raping, too much deep throating, too many ways to torture every cell of her body.

But somehow she keeps living.

Somehow, she keeps private parts of her Self that no punter, no porn dreams can ever reach or destroy.

I would say my teenager is the bravest person I ever known.


The snake hold memories of what words cannot express.

The snake reach to visual art, to music, to dance, to a howling to say what we have no words for.

The snake knows beauty is vulnerable, that innocence is easily broken, that hope seems too far away.

So the snakes wraps her body round these treasures, keeping them safe and secret.


The horse always wants freedom, often running away to find it.

The horse is a loner, but on occasions want to be sociable.

The horse will never be fence in – all labels are refused for limiting her existence.

Her motto is – any club that wants me as a member, I don’t want to belong to.

The horse always sees beyond now and imagine it must be better anywhere but here.


The tiger is strong, the tiger is playful, the tiger is young.

The tiger is looking for a mother to love her unconditionally.

Only the mother rejects the tiger.

The tiger wanders through with a gap in her existence – so she plays harder, roars deeper to pretence it does not effect her.


The eagle is a clear sighted holder of truths.

The eagle sse who is the cause of all that pain, all the trauma.

The eagle sees punters, sees my stepdad, sees those who made money from my pain.

The eagle see it is male sexual greed, male hate, male need to dominate that is destroying the world.

The eagle will not see excuses, justifications,women-blaming in her eye-line for they are not her target.

For to destroy the sex trade, there must a clear understanding that the demand and supply are her prey.

The eagle knows to create abolition you only see the rabbit not the field.


I hope this gives you some insight.
















The Market

In this post, I want to speak what is provided by the sex trade to punters.

I write to confront a few lies and myths that is stated by the sex work lobby and their allies.

A major myth is that only poverty or times of economic downfall is there an increase    in forced prostitution.

Another myth is connected to that there is a difference forced prostitution/trafficking and real chosen prostitution.

The sex work lobby claims poverty is the unwanted push into prostitution.

That somehow this is a new phenomenon- in my country poverty is just the fault of the Tories.

This is nonsense, for the sex trade thrives in all economic environments.

Yes, many poor women are forced into the sex trade – but it far more complex than just lack of money.

The vast majority of females pushed into prostitution have multiple vulnerabilities.

It is rare that a poor who is stable and self-confident enters the sex trade, and more rare that in there long-term.

We need see beyond just poverty, see the full woman with all her history.

We should look for previous abuse whether in the family, close friends or acquaintances or strangers.

We should see her childhood – was she beaten? Was she neglected by those who should of been her carers? Had she been in care? Had she been sexually abused on a regular basis?

We should see with a clear eye the influences that may of made prostitution appears attractive. See a media that promotes sex as sellable, disposable and without human connection.

See all the messages of almost every societies that portrayed females as nothing but sex goods for male to owned and controlled – that to be female is not have access to true humanity in the eyes of male supremacy.

All that mould all vulnerable females into prostitution – what we should look for is not why there is prostitution – but why so females refuse this role and fight for more than being a sex object.

But back to the market that is prostitution.

The sex trade wants and preys on all vulnerable female – whatever their class, whatever their ethnicity, and what the state of economics is.

It most stated loud and clear, that the targeting of Asian females, Eastern European females, African females, Indigenous females, Black females and females who have raped as children is the largest part of this market.

The sex trade is racism in the raw – for most prostituted females who not white are placed with the most sadist punters, and most likely to disappear or be murdered.

This is females from all classes that feed the market.

I will speak to some of the demand, or how it described with sold.

There is a market to grind white rich girls into the ground.

A market to fuck women and girls in disaster areas for the money is better than charity.

A market to destroy Indigenous females as yet more colonialism.

A market to fuck women in late pregnancies.

A market for gang-raping, especially if the prostitute is under-aged and/or drugged up.

A market to do any form of torture without consequences.

This a tiny picture of what prostitution is and always has been in every economic environment.

To say it just poverty that forces women into prostitution, is a deep betrayal of the may prostituted women who enter for other vulnerabilities.

We mustn’t leave those women behind.









To all my Exited Sisters and Brothers.


To be a survivor of prostitution is to hold tight a warrior spirit.

We have known war, known despair, known hope draining from us – known what it is to forget how to be human.

But beyond reason, we fought to to live, fought to have a better future, fought to say our truths to erase prostitution from all societies.

We were and are warriors.

Warriors do not seek danger, but as it crawls into every corner of their existence, they stand firm and reach into the depths of their souls for courage and determination.

Warriors have Hell forced into every cell of their bodies and minds – and they remember how and why it is happening, to tell to the world and bring about real change and justice.

See what it is to have the warrior spirit.

It is not carrying guns, it is not burning cities to the ground.

It is not blaming or killing bystanders or the ignorant – it is targeting those guilty of being violent, profiteering or justifying the stripping of all human rights of the prostituted.

To be a warrior is to still enough to let the past in to build a better future, while enjoying being alive in the present.

Warriors are deeply wounded in their bodies, minds and souls.

Our wounds are invisible, our wounds are inside our sexual organs, our wounds hide in deadness.

We are scarred, we have known how men can torture till you lose the will to live, we have wounds that may never mend only become shadows as we strive to go forward.

To be a warrior, is to know and carry these wounds with pride and as a form of being a witness to the evil than men can do.

Warriors known and are not afraid of deep grief.

The grief of losing the person you were before prostitution, the grief of knowing the scale of the violence to the prostituted, the grief of understanding how organised and pre-planned that violence is.

Warriors come alive by grieving and expressing what words cannot say.

Warriors scream, draw, put to music, hit out and rage all that stolen from them, all the injustices they known, all the lost prostituted brothers and sisters we have known.

To be exited from prostitution, is to have seen and known too many missing or dead prostituted friends.

Every time our warriors speak out for justice and radical change – we hold our lost friends in our hearts.




Otis Musings

All my life, Otis Redding has let me feel what I try not to know.

In many way, his voice allows me to live, to hope and to dream.

I would say Otis is a guardian angel for my prostituted soul.

I played Memphis soul to soothe my soul, Stax was by my side as I try to know I was still human.

I could not bear reggae, Barry White and other soul made to drown the constant rapes and torturing that was my norm.

No, to get life back into the rawness of Otis, and the deep emotions that brought me back to reality.

Otis give me a voice, give me tears, give a will to stay alive.

Music was everywhere in my prostituted existence.

I closed out music as much as I could.

Reggae was in the room above the pub, where I dance as punters fingered, pawed and took me to private rooms to be fucked into being nothing.

Barry White was played by punters who called themselves gentlemen, as they kill all my will to live.

Irish music drowned out my pain and terror as in an Irish pub, I was fucked in the toilet or by the bins.

I grow to hate music – but never Stax, gospel, Northern Soul or jazz.

I stopped listening to the top hits or watching Tops of the Pops, I could let in Motown or pop from 60’s to my time.

I throw away my love of musicals, ballet music and Mozart.

I could bear “cheerful” music, it was too painful.

I grow to know the Blues, understand the depths of raw soul music, and to let be-bop ease my fear and agony.

Charlie Parker give a will to find some way out, John Lee Hooker allow pain and grief space to breathe, and Otis soothe me back to the time when I was never prostituted.

Now, I love most music. Now I not afraid to feel or be alive.

I still find reggae and Barry White unbearable – but then there so much other music for me to listen to that is of no matter.

I am fully alive, and that is wonderful.


The Shootist

I have been feeling blocked and silenced recently.

This is partly coz a sex work lobbyist insisting that the source of “evils” done to the prostituted is the fault of the individual choices of the prostituted, not the violence and entitlement of the sex trade profiteers and punters.

She used a metaphor to explain why I was wrong or misguided.

Imagine you have been shot.

You (the prostituted) are not to blame for that pain of being shot. From the viewpoint of the sex work lobby, the shootist is the limited choices that have placed the prostituted into the sex trade. That is it the circumstances that are to blame, never the male entitlement and violence.

In this scenario, the sex trade profiteer and punter are the bullet, so are blameless.

I pointed out that in my opinion, that the sex trade profiteers and punters were both the bullet and the shootist.

These men are fully aware as they target and leave the prostituted with a lifetime of wounds and trauma.

These men are a poisoned bullet that cannot be erase without justice and liberty for the prostituted.

The wound is made of nightmares, body memories, lack of access to real justice, and the constant terror of being made subhuman again.

All sex trade profiteers and punters are the shootist.

All fully loaded and aimed at the prostituted, conscious of deep damage that they are causing.

There is no thing as an innocent sex trade profiteer or punter – only that majority hide behind the mask of being a legitimate businessman or the cloak of being the good guy.

But if we stick to this metaphor, these men are cold hearted assassins.

They know their greed for money, their placing of the male orgasm above humans rights, their sense of entitlement, their desire to as sadist as possible is destroying the prostituted every moment of every day.

They see the prostituted with a clear eye of the assassin – they see the underaged, they see the trafficked, they see the bruises and cuts on our bodies, they see the money being held back from the prostituted.

They see sex tourists as it is them, they see stags does as the destruction that it they are, they see they exchange of the prostituted to oil a business or political deal, they see the prostituted move from man to man, street to street, city to city, country to country.

They see the whole structure of the sex trade is designed to make all the prostituted subhuman, and made into throwaway sexual goods.

The shootist is the sex trade profiteer or punter has not barrier to torture, mental violence, using rape as a means of control, and murder – in order to keep all the prostituted down.

I write this coz I cannot understand why anyone has to pity or can justify sex trade profiteers and punters.

All that wasted sympathy for the shootist is an excuse to do nothing for the prostituted.

Instead of seeing the shootist for the entitled bastard that he is, was and always will be – the sex work lobby shifts the debate to saying – look at the individual choices of the prostituted.

Well, no sex trade profiteer or punter give a damn how or why his prostitute came to be his sexual goods – all he sees or cares about is his profit, his orgasm, his use of control and power, and his access to sadism without consequences.

Yes, we must heal the wounds of all the prostituted – but for fundamental justice we must stop that bullet reaching the prostituted by targeting the shootist instead.

A Letter to All my Readers

Dear Everyone

Thanks for your support and solid belief in me.

I have writing this blog since 2008, been writing and campaigning for that long.

Now, I want to reach deeper and go to the guts and blood of being prostituted.

I struggle with this, and this letter is small cry for support and some spiritual strength from my loyal readers.

I am struggling on many levels.

I am struggling with isolation, feeling all my work is screaming into the wind.

I need the connection of other exited women, I need the connection of my fellow Abolitionists.

Please write to me or speak with me.

I know this blog is powerful and bring about change, it would lovely if you can to write or message me how and why this blog may of impacted on your life.

I have heard often that this blog is used as a teaching prop, it would wonderful if I could make a record of when and why it has been used.

One thing that I always stunned by is where my readers come from, every continent and so many countries, some I had to look up. Please if you want say where from, especially if it a long way from England and Devon.

This is for my ego, and coz this work need to be seen as the power force it has become.

I am struggling financially which is stopping my ability to write.

This blog is unpaid, but you can make donations, especially if you used my words to further your work.

I find it hard that exited women who do all the ground work that fuels the Abolitionist movement are mainly living in poverty.

This needs to change, exited women should pay for their blogs, their speeches, their education of others, their constant building up of real exiting programmes, their networking that feeds your work.

If you used my work or think my work has made become an Abolitionist – think hard about making a donation, especially if you not living on the breadline.

In this struggle, I am still going to write – all I want is the knowledge that it matters.

In Memoria (to Kate RIP)

Every Exited prostituted person I have known or been in contact have known to be still alive is just pure luck.

We have the ghosts of lost, disappeared, murdered, made to kill themselves, unable to go on living of the prostituted we may of known.

Most we push as far back to depths of our subconscious as we can – but always these spirits feed our desire for full abolition.

But we known close friends, relatives or lovers that the sex trade destroyed.

We all have ache of deep grief for them behind our courage, our stubborn will to bring justice for all the prostituted and our no going back to hell attitude.

I write to one woman, who I will call Kate – my true love, my sister in hell, my kick-ass best mate.

She killed herself when in the midst of indoors prostitution, in the midst of drug addiction, in the midst of trying to escape her abusive father.

She killed herself – but it was murder by stealth by the violence of men, the sex trade and living in a culture that ignores that amount of pain.

She and I were 17 when she died – it was about 40 years ago, but she is always in my heart – and will not forgive those who push her to death till there is justice and full abolition.

Her death give me both good and bad ways of being.

Let me speak to her life, to the good she give me.

I meet her as we waited for punters in some pub.

I survived by drinking spirits, imaging that stop pain and memory.

Kate was drinking and high. But there was an immediate attraction, of feeling I though I had lost – a sense of two rebellious spirits meeting.

Kate give me back that desperate wildness of those who do not know if tomorrow will ever come, and if there is to be a tomorrow will just yet another time to block away.

We would laugh darkly at the realities our bodies and minds had to absolved

We spoke about punters alone with contempt and finding our way into fury.

We smashed up a sex shop in a drunken spree, only to chase by its owner with a baseball bat – we laughed like hyenas.

We lived on the edge – it most alive I have ever been.

But our laughter, our force of life, our rebelling did nothing to stop punters raping, torturing and playing with our minds.

We had huge inner strength – but we still had the bruises, the cuts, the terror, and the     emptiness of those abused into a living death.

All we could do was love each other, hold each other as our world folded in on us.

We lost words, we lost any path to life – but we could love and laugh.

Only it was a love in a world determined to kill us.

How can there be a will to live when rape is repeated daily.

How can you want to live when everyone is stating you are not fully human and so can abuse by any means at any time or place.

In that environment, would you not use drugs or be an alcoholic.

We fall into drugs and drink – as our bodies were sold to more and more sadist punters.

Inside drunken or drugged states nothing could matter, we could pretend our pain was not important, we could imagine we were in control and somehow happy.

We were dying, but pretending to happy whores, we defended our choices by saying it was freedom and empowering.

Only look deep into our eyes – see our deadness, see our flashes of deep terror, see our child-like pleas for help and some kind of an escape.

Yes, child-like for Kate and I both entered prostitution via abuse by a father or a stepfather – we always carried that scared and broken child with every time we were brought and sold.

Every a punter made the choice to buy he brought back to that child who could know there was such a thing as NO.

To that place of pain, that place of being frozen, that place of losing hope.

We were outwardly young adults, but every punter made us a terrified child again.

That is rape, that is torture – on an industrial scale.

Going into drink and drugs is one way to keep on going when living in that hell.

It is not a life – not even an existence, only at best survival.

But Kate and I had love, which somehow made us remember our humanity.

Kate took an OD when her father found her, and rape her for the last time.

Her universal had no meaning.

I was away as she died – away with some rich bastard of a punter for a weekend of rape of torture.

I came back, and found Kate dead.

My love, my sense of freedom, my way into laughter, my criminal ally was dead.

I thought our love would save us – but how when our enemies was the sex trade, was drugs dealers, was living in a society that refuse to see we were human, and the endless lines of punters paying to murder our souls.

I could not believe she was dead – so for a few hours of denial I just held and spoke to her.

But then coldness landed in my heart, a coldness that still holds me.

I could never allow myself to love so fully ever again, I could love and have it ripped away by hate and violence.

Kate was my only true love – so I will honour her life.

She was the human person I have ever meet – even as the world claimed her life was nothing.

She is a tiny example of the millions of prostituted women and girls who lost to us.

They were the braver humans that ever lived.