Time Out of Time

To be prostituted is to have no sense of linear time.

Every moment is the present with no past or future.

Every moment is dragged out or just disappears in nothingness.

How can I remember when time is full of gaps.

Into that silence, my blog is attempting to find words that hold that time.

I see, I know the brief facts that I was in and out, out and in prostitution from aged 14 to 27.

I see, I know the brief facts that I did indoors prostitution – I was brought from pub, taken to flats or hotels, made to dance at club.

But this all in small memories, memories in my body forcing back the fear, grief and confusion.

I cannot place an age on these events.

I cannot see individual rooms, pubs or hotels.

I cannot see faces of punters.

All that is lost in time.

To be prostituted, is to know hell, but then each day the evidence is stripped from you.

It see the more you are raped, the more you endured torture, the more you live on the edge of death – the less memory can hold.

So don’t ask an exited woman for evidence.

Don’t ask how many punters?

How often were you raped?

What age were you?

Where did it take place?

Just don’t ask, for that is just another silencing tactic.

Let us speaking our own pace and in our own words.

Allow there to be many gaps and silences – that is normal when the torturing is so commonplace is becomes part of your skin.

 

Screaming into the Pillow

How do write when thinking is deaden?

I have away from this blog coz I cannot think, don’t want to feel – coz knowing my prostituted years is to know the inside of torture.

I have been writing to this blog for nine years, and still prostitution is very low on the list of human rights abuses.

Still, the prostituted are made to wait for justice, to be given a loud and uncensored voice, to know the true sense of dignity.

I suppose it has been about 3-4 thousand years of not having these simple rights – so it may appear ok to keep the prostituted on hold.

To not see this human rights emergency, is to give permission the punters and sex trade profiteers to continue the largest and longest genocide on earth.

Yes, I call the torture, serial rapes, mental abuse, suicides, drug addiction, self-harming, murders, and lack of access to being fully human a genocide.

That the reality of what it is to be prostituted now, throughout all known history, in every continent and part of most human cultures.

We have spent many centuries making this genocide invisible.

In the written word, the voices and knowledge of the prostituted is censored, or simply wipe away.

Most written word is the language of the abuser – the voices of punters, the voices of sex trade producers and profiteers, the voices of governments normalising prostitution, the voices of academia justifying men rights to destroy the prostituted.

There is a written silence that the prostituted are raped, are murdered – that it can framed as wrong, let alone evil.

In this silence, the genocide of the prostituted is made nothing.

The modern written word has made an art form of ignoring this genocide.

The language that I have to constantly is the words of labour rights framed by individual free choice.

It is a surreal Alice Through the Looking-Glass language.

For exited women, this language is a rope round our throats.

I am see language speaking to free choice connected to prostitution – the language that poison my heart, and cuts out my tongue.

Where is free choice for the prostituted?

Is it in the moment a woman is threaten with eviction, or has too many unpaid bills – and she think prostitution may be easy money?

Is it as the runaway girl is befriended by an older man and told if she loves him, she must make money by being nice to his male friends?

Is it after being surrounded by ads, photos, articles glamourise indoors prostitution, when a student enters escorting or a sex club?

If there is such a thing as free choice in prostitution is belongs to the punters and sex trade profiteers, not the prostituted.

All men can make the free choice never to buy another human for his sexual greed and wants.

Each man who makes that choice to consume the prostituted should be stigmatised – he should be classed as a violent criminal, known as a rapist/serial rapist, seen as a torturer, and too often is a murderer.

Stigma should never be placed onto the prostituted – always it belongs to anyone who buys, sells and consume the prostituted

Sex trade profiteers, whether male or female, should all be classed as criminals and should if sentenced get minimum of twenty years in prison.

Personally, I would give them all life without parole – only a small piece of justice for creating and profiteering from the genocide of the prostituted.

Yes, I am furious, even on occasions bitter – that the punters and sex trade profiteers are mainly allowed to continue their hate and violence with little or no interference.

Men are made invisible when it comes to prostitution.

But these men who make the choice to consume, buy and sell the prostituted are 100% of the cause of the violence done to the prostituted – they are fully responsible for this genocide.

But most societies make the choice to ignore this male violence, and say it all the fault of endless generations of dirty whores.

I would laugh at this upside-down view, if wasn’t murdering my prostituted Sisters everywhere and always.

Instead I cry tears of blood and sweat, at how I live knowing of a genocide – and scream into my pillow.

Only to be told, don’t worry so much, we get to the prostituted after we dealt with more important issues.

Not Your Girlfriend

I was a pretend girlfriend, a girlfriend that was paid for.

I did Girlfriend Experience, and everyday trauma reminds me of that time.

In many ways, it was the worse times that I had endured in prostitution.

But now, it is viewed as romantic, as a new thing, as respectful.

All that is bullshit, all that is said to hide the power and control of the punters who pay for Girlfriend Experience.

Hidden is the mental torture, hidden is the physical torture, hidden isthe degradation, and hidden is murdering of the prostitute’s sense of Self.

to write to Girldfriend Experience, I need to add some context.

It is not new, punters have always wanted full control of the mind, body and spirit of the prostituted.

It is just a new label for an old concept – it could known as courtesan, as a geisha, a an long-term escort.

Rich punters have for centuries owned the prostituted for days, for weeks, for months and for years.

In this ownership, punters will delude themselves that is not dirty prostitution – no she is his mistress, his company or his girlfriend who just happens to gets gifts and money, and never turns his want for sex away.

I know my trauma, my pain and my deep grief is not unique, it an ancient from the centuries of rich punters consuming and destroying the prostituted.

To be inside Girlfriend Experience, is to only survive by losing any sense of Self.

To have a Self in that situation, can be too painful, can put you on the edge of madness, and often lead to suicide or self-harm.

To know at the time, that you all your human stripped from you is too much to bear.

To be in a situation of luxury, or a situation where money wipe out all that may be happening – and know it a situation of total torture with no exit.

That is impossible to know, it is too surreal, too cruel, too terrifying for the conscious mind to compute.

So the truth of oppression, truth of pain beyond language, truth of being a slave even with his gifts and his money – those truths are stored in the subconscious only to come back as complex trauma.

I had no power in Girlfriend Experience, I was enslaved but had to imagine I had free choice.

All that time, I had to be alert.

Alert enough to act the perfect girlfriend in public.

A girlfriend who the punter could show off to his family, his friends and his business partners.

I was shown off at parties, in pubs, at family occasions – shown off but always reminded by mental or physical violence that I was nothing but his Whore.

No gifts, no praising and no amount of money could stop the violence or his hate.

Many punters would frame their need to be violent as a punishment for not being his perfect girlfriend.

I was punished for not knowing his family and their background.

I was punish for sleeping when being of sleep for days.

I was punish for laughing.

I was punish for reminding him that I was still human not his sex doll.

So to survive I had to be alert to his moods.

It was exhausting being Girlfriend Experience.

It is still exhausting as it sits in my trauma.

 

 

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.

 

Aftermath

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.